Статті в журналах з теми "Beverley North"

John Beverley’s Subalternity and Representation is an impressive work of synthesis that maps the contours of the last twenty years of Latin American literary and cultural criticism in unusually lucid prose. Through a wide-ranging discussion of history, political economy, literature, and mass culture in the Americas (North and South), Beverley identifies the stakes in contemporary Latin Americanist theoretical debates by situating these debates in sociohistorical context while also engaging, from a Latin Americanist perspective, current trends in cultural theory in the North American academy. The essays that make up Subalternity and Representation are organically linked to a degree unusual in a collection of what is, for the most part, previously published work. Moreover, Beverley tackles a host of complex issues with a level of clarity admirable in a field cluttered with an arcane jargon it generates at several times the rate it produces genuinely new ideas. His central theme is the problematic relationship of the progressive academic to the oppressed peoples about and on behalf of whom she or he writes. If academic knowledge, he argues, “is a practice that actively produces subalternity … in the act of representing it” (Subalternity 2), how can the politically committed scholar represent the subaltern within the academy without being complicit in the reproduction of the very relations of domination and subordination such representations are meant to oppose? Because Beverley’s attempt to address this question engages in an ongoing set of debates, some definitions and unpackings of key concepts are in order, beginning with those that appear in the title itself.

Ligictaluridus Beverley-Burton, 1984 has been proposed for ancyrocephalid monogeneans found on North American catfishes (Siluriformes: Ictaluridae). The genus is characterized by the following: penis curved, sclerotized, tubular; accessory piece with proximally articulating base and distally projecting limb of varying size and shape; dorsal and ventral hamuli with slender, curving shaft, dorsal hamuli smaller than ventral; dorsal and ventral transverse bars bowed with flange projecting medianly; larval hooks of variable size and shape. The type species, Ligictaluridus pricei (Mueller, 1936) Beverley-Burton, 1984, together with L. monticellii (Cognetti de Martiis, 1924) n. comb., L. floridanus (Mueller, 1936) Beverley-Burton, 1984, and L. mirabilis (Mueller, 1937) n. comb., is redescribed. The finding of L. monticellii on Ictalurus nebulosus taken in Lake Erie, Ontario, is a new record for North America. All the above species, as well as L. bychowskyi (Price and Mura, 1969) n. comb., are transferred from Cleidodiscus Mueller, 1934. The effects of variable cover-slip pressure and different preservation techniques on the morphology of some of the sclerotized structures are discussed.

The dusky hopping mouse (Notomys fuscus) is present in the arid areas of South Australian, north-west New South Wales and south-west Queensland. In October-November 2007 during the seventh year of annual fauna monitoring on the Beverley mine lease, north of Lake Frome, 4 animals were detected. The closest known population is 70 km north-east. Heavy rainfall earlier in the year may have contributed to their presence.

The ancyrocephalids (Monogenea) parasitizing the temperate basses (Percichthyidae) of North America are reviewed. Onchocleidus mimus Mueller, 1936 is redescribed from material found on the gills of Morone chrysops (white bass) taken in Ontario. Onchocleidus rogersi (Hanek and Fernando, 1972) Beverley-Burton, 1984 is declared a synonym of O. mimus. Onchocleidus interruptus Mizelle, 1936 is redescribed from paratype material (14 specimens) found on M. mississippiensis (yellow bass) taken in Illinois. Additional morphometric and morphologic data for O. chrysops (Mizelle and Klucka, 1953) Beverley-Burton, 1984 are provided. Cleidodiscus sp. of S. Tedla and C. H. Fernando and "Tetraonchinae" of C. J. Sindermann are considered to be referrable to the genus Onchocleidus sensu Beverley-Burton. Following a study of type specimens of Aristocleidus hastatus Mueller, 1936 from M. saxatilis (striped bass) taken in Florida, the genus and species are recognised as valid. However, there is need for a revision of the generic diagnosis when new material becomes available as the morphology of the male copulatory complex appears to be distinctive and of a "type" as yet undescribed. Urocleidus nactus Mayes and Johnson, 1975 found on M. americana (white perch) taken in coastal waters of North Carolina is transferred to Pterocleidus Mueller, 1937 as Pterocleidus nactus (Mayes and Johnson, 1975) n. comb. The possibility that ancyrocephalids found on M. americana taken in estuarine waters of the Hudson River by V. M. Liguori and identified as U. biramosus (Mueller, 1937) are conspecific with P. nactus is discussed. Ancyrocephalids possessing the spiral filament penis type occur almost exclusively on fishes of the Percoidae. Possible evolutionary pathways involving ancestral dactylogyridans (sensu Beverley-Burton) parasitizing estuarine Percichthyidae or freshwater Centrarchidae are presented with particular reference to the ancryrocephalids found on Morone spp.

Salsuginus Beverley-Burton, 1984 has been proposed for ancyrocephalid monogeneans found on North American Cyprinodontoidei (Atheriniformes). The genus is distinguished by the following characteristics: penis sclerotized, tubular, spiralling to form single coil; accessory piece with median groove to accommodate shaft of penis, distal point heavily sclerotized; dorsal and ventral hamuli similar in shape with distinct superficial and deep roots and curved blade; dorsal and ventral transverse bars bandlike, bowed posteriorly with posterior notch at extremities of each: larval hooks of similar shape and size with well-developed sickle bearing thumblike projection. Salsuginus angularis (Mueller, 1934) Beverley-Burton, 1984, the type species, is redescribed from the present material found on Fundulus diaphanus (Lesueur) in Ontario. Salsuginus umbraensis (Mizelle, 1938) n. comb., S. funudulus (Mizelle, 1940) Beverley-Burton. 1984. S. seculus (Mizelle and Arcadi, 1945) n. comb. and S. bahamianus (Hanek and Fernando, 1972) n. comb. are transferred from Urocleidus Mueller, 1934; S. spirae (Williams, 1980) n. comb. is transferred from Ancyrocephalus Creplin, 1839. Material found on F. heteroclitus taken in New Brunswick is described as S. heterocliti n. sp. Evolutionary aspects of Salsuginus spp. are briefly discussed and notes on the identification of species parasitizing Fundulus spp. are presented. Previous records of Salsuginus spp. are listed.

Political and media interest in adoption in the last few years in Britain coincided with a research project set up jointly by the North-West Group of Voluntary Adoption Agencies and Liverpool John Moores University. The origins of the research lie in the concerns of the voluntary adoption agencies about the use of their services by local authorities in the light of their own records, which indicated very variable patterns of use. The aim of the research was to investigate these apparent anomalies in the use of adoption services and explore the reasons for the differences. A large range of possible factors was involved — structural, political and organisational, as well as professional and personal issues. In this paper Derek Clifford, with support from Beverley Burke, Norman Goodwin, Lindsay Amuzu and Simon Ward, reflects on barriers to the use of adoptive placements by local authorities, with particular but not exclusive reference to the north-west.

Richard Boyle, third Earl of Burlington (1694–1753), was a Yorkshireman, and his role in the north of England was significant, both as a designer and as an authoritative arbiter of taste. His position as Lord Lieutenant of both East and West Ridings of Yorkshire paralleled his land holdings at Londesborough near Beverley, the location of his family seat, and at Bolton Abbey, in Wharfedale. Significantly, his acceptance of a commission to supply the Corporation of the City of York, the social capital of the north, with a design for the new Assembly Rooms resulted in one of his most radical works. Burlington’s authorship of the Assembly Rooms is established, but less well known is how he also worked collaboratively in the county, alongside a group of craftsmen and gentlemen amateurs. One of these collaborators, James Moyser, can now be shown to have been responsible for the execution of Wandesford Hospital in York (Fig. 1).

Crop rows oriented at a right angle to sunlight direction (i.e., east–west within the winter cropping system in Western Australia) may suppress weed growth through greater shading of weeds in the interrow spaces. This was investigated in the districts of Merredin and Beverley, Western Australian (latitudes of 31° and 32°S) from 2002 to 2005 (four trials). Winter grain crops (wheat, barley, canola, lupines, and field peas) were sown in an east–west or north–south orientation. Within wheat and barley crops oriented east–west, weed biomass (averaged throughout all trials) was reduced by 51 and 37%, and grain yield increased by 24 and 26% (compared with crops oriented north–south). This reduction in weed biomass and increase in crop yield likely resulted from the increased light (photosynthetically active radiation) interception by crops oriented east–west (i.e., light interception by the crop canopy as opposed to the weed canopy was 28 and 18% greater in wheat and barley crops oriented east–west, compared with north–south crops). There was no consistent effect of crop row orientation in the canola, field pea, and lupine crops. It appears that manipulation of crop row orientation in wheat and barley is a useful weed-control technique that has few negative effects on the farming system (i.e., does not cost anything to implement and is more environmentally friendly than chemical weed control).

China became the world’s largest market for industrial robots in 2013. The robotic revolution gained pace and occurred after the 2008 financial crisis as many export-oriented firms coped with dwindling orders, rising labour costs and growing concerns over occupational safety. Unlike workers in the Global North who experienced automation in the 1960s and 1970s against a backdrop of strong union activism, whether semi-proletarian peasant-workers in China ultimately enjoy the ‘beneficial’ effects of industrial upgrading is questionable. However, very little social science research has investigated how automation, in light of the negative consequences of unemployment and deskilling, can continue to be advanced. Drawing on Beverley Silver’s concept of workers’ power, this article explores how workers’ marketplace and workplace bargaining power interfaces with technological change. The Chinese case may offer important lessons to those in the under-technologized South seeking to conceptualize strategies for social change in the context of industrial upgrading.

The present paper concerns digeneans of the subfamilies Odhneriellinae Yamaguti, 1958 and Orthosplanchninae Yamaguti, 1958, family Campulidae Odhner, 1926, and is based mainly on specimens collected since 1949 from marine mammals from seas bordering Alaska. Odhneriella rossica Skriabin, 1915, type species of the subfamily Odhneriellinae, is transferred to the genus Orthosplanchnus Odhner, 1905. Odhneriellinae thus becomes a synonym of Orthosplanchninae, which includes three genera: Orthosplanchnus Odhner, 1905 (syn. Odhneriella Skriabin, 1915); Hadwenius Price, 1932 (syn. Leucasiella Krotov and Deliamure, 1952); and Oschmarinella Skriabin, 1947. Seven species are retained in Orthosplanchnus: O. arcticus Odhner, 1905; O. fraterculus Odhner, 1905; Orthosplanchnus rossicus (Skriabin, 1915) n.comb. (syn. Odhneriella rossica Skriabin, 1915); O. pygmaeus Iurakhno, 1967; O. albamarinus Treshchev, 1968; O. oculatus Iurakhno, 1969; and O. antarcticus Kurochkin and Nikol'skii, 1972 (syn. O. weddelli Beverley-Burton, 1972). Orthosplanchnus elongatus Ozaki, 1935 is transferred to the genus Hadwenius, as is Odhneriella subtilus (A. S. Skriabin, 1959); O. sudarikovi Treshchev, 1966, excluded from Orthosplanchnus, is of uncertain generic allocation. Orthosplanchnus rossicus is redescribed, and descriptions are provided for the other species recognized in the genus. Variation in O. arcticus from various hosts is considered; in bearded seals, Erignathus barbatus (Erxleben), clinal variation was apparent in O. arcticus, with body size increasing from north to south.

The inception of American regionalism is routinely identified by scholars in either Robert Beverley or William Byrd II, both native Virginians who wrote intensely local works (The History and Present State of Virginia, 1705 ; The History of the Dividing Line Betwixt Virginia and North Carolina, Run in the Year of Our Lord 1728) which are amongst the enduring literary products of colonial America. The regional base of both works is immediately apparent in their subjects and setting; but to stop here is to leave critical questions unanswered, questions which have in recent years begun to be addressed by ethnographers and historians such as David Bertelson, Michael Zuckerman and Kenneth Lockridge. In particular, Lockridge's study, meshing biography, history and social psychology, has proposed an illuminating “reconstruction of Byrd's personality” from his writings, an account which stresses Byrd's cultural predicament as a provincial Virginian who strove to be an English gentleman. My purpose in this paper is not to challenge such an interpretation, nor to propose an alternative historical viewpoint, but rather to add the perspective of literary criticism to our reading of Byrd's prose itself. I shall argue that the “ southernness” of Byrd's writing is a characteristic less of his subject matter — his Virginian material — or of his biographical limitations, than of his style, and that the History of the Dividing Line charts enduring preoccupations of Byrd's writing career which reached perfectly self-conscious apotheosis in this, his most carefully composed and corrected work.

The Beverly herd was one of the first large migratory herds of barren-ground caribou (Rangifer tarandus groenlandicus) defined in northern Canada on the basis of annual return of breeding females to traditional calving grounds near Beverly Lake in Nunavut. In 1994, herd size was estimated at 276 000 ± 106 600 (SE) adult caribou, but monitoring was minimal from 1994 to 2007. The next calving ground survey in 2002 revealed that caribou densities had dropped by more than half since 1994; annual surveys following from 2007 to 2009 demonstrated an extreme decline in numbers of calving cows, and by 2011, no newborn calves were seen there. We examine two possible explanations for the declining use of the traditional Beverly calving grounds from 1994 until their abandonment by 2011. One explanation is that a true numerical decline in herd size occurred, driven in at least the later stages by low cow survival and poor calf productivity, which led the remaining Beverly cows to switch to the neighbouring Ahiak calving ground 250 km to the north in 2007 – 09 and join that herd. An alternative explanation is that the decline on the traditional Beverly calving grounds was largely due to a distributional shift to the north of the Beverly herd that may have begun in the mid-1990s. We suggest that the former explanation is the more likely and that the Beverly herd no longer exists as a distinct herd. We acknowledge that gaps in monitoring of Beverly and Ahiak caribou hamper definitive evaluation of the Beverly herd’s fate. The large size sometimes achieved by barren-ground caribou herds is not a guarantee of persistence; monitoring shortfalls may hamper management actions to address declines.

A fire suppression model was developed for forested winter range of the Beverly and Qamanirjuaq (formerly Kaminuriak) herds of barren-ground caribou (Rangifer tarandus groenlandicus) in north-central Canada. The model is a balance between total protection, as voiced by some aboriginal people, and a let-burn policy for natural fires advocated by some ecologists. Elements in the model were caribou ecology, lichen recovery after fire, burn history, community priorities for caribou hunting, and fire cycle lengths. The percent ratio of current productive caribou habitat to the goal for that habitat determines whether fire should be suppressed in a specific area. The goals for productive caribou habitat, defined as forests older than 50 years, were scaled by fire cycle length and community priority ranking. Thus, the model is an example of co-management: traditional knowledge combined with science in a joint forum, the Beverly and Qamanirjuaq Caribou Management Board.

The response was prepared on behalf of the British Psychological Society by Sandra Dunsmuir, Tiny Arora, David Farrington, Norah Frederickson, Beverley Graham, Jey Monsen, Ian Rivers, Kevin Rowland and Liz Simmonds.The editors have selected parts of this impressive and important contribution to the Education and Skills Select Committee Inquiry into Bullying for publishing inDebate.The full submission and references (21 pages) can be located on the British Psychological Society’s website (www.bps.org.uk). There are eight pages of references which are very comprehensive and would be an extremely useful database for services, trainee EPs and others interested in this area.

A survivorship curve and cohort-specific life table were developed for female barren-ground caribou (Rangifer tarandus groenlandicus) sampled from the Beverly herd from 1980 through 1987. Significant (P~< 0.05)differences among yearly samples in the age distributions of females>2.5 years old were attributed to sampling error and real cohort size fluctuations caused by variations in productivity. Pooled data overcame much of that variation and the resultant quadratic-fit curve and life table are believed to yield about average survival/mortality statistics over the 8-year sampling period. Mortality rates increased progressively from 10.6% between age 2 and 3 years to 22.4% between age 10 and 11 years and accelerated thereafter.

There are few data on the prevalence and infection intensity of parasites in large samples of caribou (Rangifer tarandus). Therefore, differences related to sex, age, and season are unknown. The effect of parasites on the health and condition of caribou also is poorly known. From 1980 through 1987, 1258 barren-ground caribou (R.t. groenlandicus) were collected from the Beverly herd in north-central Canada. The prevalence in lungs of cysts of the hydatid tapeworm (Echinococcus granulosus) increased significantly with age of caribou. Prevalence in females was 2% in the 2-5 year class and 8% in older individuals. Cysts were more prevalent in young females compared with young males. Reductions in physical condition and fecundity were not statistically significant. The prevalence of Taenia hydatigena cysts in livers increased significantly with age of host but not with sex and condition of the hosts. The use of parasite prevalence as an index of predation rate is discussed.

Woodland (Rangifer tarandus caribou) and barren ground (R. t. groenlandicum) caribou are reported for the first time as hosts of Parelaphostrongylus andersoni, greatly extending the known geographic range of this muscle nematode. Up to 56% of caribou in the Beverly herd, central Northwest Territories, passed dorsal-spined first-stage larvae in their feces. Animals less than 3 years old were more frequently infected and passed greater numbers of larvae than older animals. Larval output in winter and spring did not differ. Adults of the four elaphostrongyline nematodes known to occur in caribou are distinguished by their location in the host, the size of the worms, and the size and morphology of the male copulatory structures. There is an urgent need for tested and improved methods of differentiating larvae of P. andersoni and other elaphostrongyline nematodes from those of P. tenuis that cause neurologic disease in various North American cervids. Demonstration of the occurrence of P. andersoni in Rangifer sp. in North America raises the possibility that it originated in Eurasian cervids and may still occur in the Old World.

Large herds of caribou (Rangifer tarandus) in Canada, Alaska, and Russia that winter in northern coniferous forests and summer in tundra of the Arctic have provided a sustainable source of meat and other products for indigenous peoples for thousands of years. Several different administrative structures for management of large caribou herds have emerged throughout the circumpolar North. In Russia under the previous Soviet government, the herd of the Taimyr Region, numbering around 500 000 caribou, was managed under a harvest quota system for both subsistence use by indigenous people and commercial sale of meat and skins. In North America, as indigenous peoples have gained increasing political empowerment, systems for caribou management have been undergoing change. Establishment of the Beverly and Qamanirjuaq Caribou Management Board in Canada, with majority representation from users of the resource, provides a model and a test of the effectiveness of a comanagement system. The Western Arctic Herd in northwestern Alaska, numbering close to 500 000 caribou, has been managed under the traditional American system of game management, with user advisory groups, but with management decisions resting with a statewide Board of Game, whose major representation is from sport-hunting interests. The Porcupine Caribou Herd, which is shared by the United States and Canada, is the focus of an international agreement, in principle designed to assure its continued productivity and well-being. The diversity of systems for caribou management in the circumpolar North provides an opportunity for comparing their effectiveness.

Crabapples (Malus spp.) are popular ornamental trees in the commercial and residential landscape. Over a 33-year period at the Secrest Arboretum, Wooster, OH, 287 accessions of ornamental crabapple were evaluated for their resistance to apple scab caused by the fungus Venturia inaequalis. Of these 287 accessions, 31 had no symptoms of scab for longer than a 10-year period and were identified as resistant to the disease. Of these 31 resistant accessions, 14 eventually displayed symptoms, presumably as a result of infection by one or more newly present races of the pathogen in the trial plot. Notable resistance breakdowns in accessions previously classified as resistant include the development of scab on M. × ‘Prairifire’, M. × ‘Bob White’, M. × ‘Red Jewel’, and M. floribunda. Corresponding to these changes of resistance is the putative development of new V. inaequalis races in North America: Race 5, possessing virulence to the Vm gene in ‘Prairifire’; Race 3 that infects M. × ‘Geneva’ but not M. baccata ‘Dolgo’; and the first identification and report of scab on a M. floribunda population that was reported as resistant even before the first 25 years of the evaluation. The detection of scab on this species suggests the presence of Race 7 in North America for the first time. Five named accessions remained free from scab for the entire 33-year trial: M. sargentii ‘Sargent’, M. baccata ‘Jackii’, M. × ‘Beverly’, M. × ‘Silver Moon’, and M. × ‘White Angel’ and may serve as sources of durable resistance in crabapple and commercial apple breeding in the Midwest.

Nordengland ist anders: darauf machte bereits William of Malmesbury im 12. Jahrhundert aufmerksam, als er auf die ,,nichtverständliche“ Sprache verwies, in der man in diesen Landesteilen zu kommunizieren pflegte. Wer heute durch Städte wie Durham und York wandert oder gar der Ruinenromantik zisterziensischer Großabteien wie Fountains oder Rievaulx erliegt, spürt, über welchen kulturellen Reichtum der Norden Englands verfügte und noch immer verfügt. Teil dieses kulturellen Erbes sind die Heiligen. Ab dem 7. und 8. Jahrhundert entstanden einflussreiche Heiligenkulte in Northumbria. Oswald, Aidan, Hilda, Aebbe, Cuthbert, John of Beverly, Wilfrid, und wie sie alle heißen mögen, hielten ihre schützende Hand über den Norden und prägten die lokalen Identitäten entscheidend mit, kein Kult aber war einflussreicher als derjenige des Hl. Cuthbert. Um 634 wurde er geboren und nach einem heiligmäßigen Leben als Asket und Einsiedler zum Bischof von Lindisfarne erhoben. Er starb 687 als Eremit im Ruch der Heiligkeit. Heilungswunder an seinem Grab ereigneten sich unmittelbar nach seiner Beisetzung. 995 fand er seine endgültige Ruhestätte in Durham, die Translation in die neu erbaute Kathedrale erfolgte 1104. Doch auch wenn Cuthbert die Heiligenszene dominierte, pflegte man in sanctis keinen ausschließlichen Blick auf die Vergangenheit. Neue Kulte kamen im 12. Jahrhundert hinzu, darunter diejenigen des Godric von Finchale, Bartholomäus von Farne oder Waldef von Melrose, wobei sich die jeweilige Kultpraxis stark dem Vorbild des Hl. Cuthbert verbunden zeigte.

We needed data on temporal changes in caribou forages after fire and relative use of age-classes of forests by caribou to help devise a fire suppression priority strategy for caribou winter range in north-central Canada. Consequently, from 1983 through 1986, we estimated the abundance of vegetation and relative use by caribou at 197 sites in western and eastern study areas on the winter range of the Beverly herd of caribou {Rangifer tarandus). Species of lichens attained peak biomass at different periods after fire - as early as 40-60 years for Cladonia spp. to > 150 years for Cladina rangiferina and Cetraria nivalis. Biomass of the primary "caribou lichen", Cladina mitis, increased rapidly from 21-30 years after fire to 41-50 years and attained maximum biomass at 81-90 yeats in the west and 41-60 years in the east. However, total lichen biomass increased with age of forest to 100-150 years because biomass of Stereocaulon spp. did not peak until after 100 years. The biomass of "caribou lichens" {Cladina spp. and Cetraria nivalis) stabilized after 61-80 years in the west and 41-60 years in the east. The biomass of terrestrial lichen species can be predicted from their cover. Caribou lichen abundance apparently was only one of several factors that caused caribou to use stands 151-250 years after fire more than othet age classes.

"Strengthening Our Voices" was a fitting topic for the most recent CanadianCouncil of Muslim Women (CCMW) conference held on September 13-15,2002, at the Bank of Montreal Learning Institute, Markham, Ontario,Canada. This national organization, with chapters across Canada, wasfounded in 1982 when Muslim women from across Canada attended thefounding conference in Winnipeg, Manitoba. This year's conference celebrated20 years of leadership and "working towards equity, equality, andempowerment." Lila Falhman, a founding member and now 78 years old,was on hand to commemorate the event. Other founding members, currentCCMW president Barbara Siddiqui, and many local chapter leaders alsowere present. The Bank of Montreal Learning Institute in Markham was theperfect venue, for it allowed almost 300 people to hear the keynote speakers.Tables were set up for silent auction and sales of the latest books byFarid £sack, Sadia Zaman, and Khaled Abou El Fad!.The invited keynote speaker, Beverly Amina McCloud, professor at DePaul University, (Chicago, IL) unfortunately could not attend. Graciouslytaking her place, however, was Sheila McDonough, professor of religion atConcordia University (Montreal, Quebec, Canada) and author of therecently released The Muslim Veil in North America: Issues and Debates(University of Toronto Press: 2002.) She engaged the audience in a livelydiscussion of the philosophical question "Can a Muslim Woman Think?"She logically argued that genetics are evenly distributed to offspring, so thatwomen receive intellect from both parents; that children think as they learn;and that, in general, all homo sapiens are thinking creatures. She used severalQur'anic verses to demonstrate that God addresses women as a groupseparately from men and also stressed that everyone is responsible for hisor her own actions on the Day of Judgment ...

Single layer centrifugation (SLC) with Bovicoll is a technique to enhance sperm quality. The purpose of this study was to investigate the effect of SLC before cryopreservation on bull sperm quality after thawing. Semen was collected from 8 bulls (American Brahman, n = 5 and Sahiwal, n = 3) at the North Eastern Bull Centre (KhonKaen, Thailand). The ejaculate was split: one part was prepared following the standard procedure at the bull centre (n = 88) as control. The other part was used for SLC with Bovicoll-B (Johannisson et al. 2016 Theriogenology 86, 140). The SLC-selected sperm samples were frozen using the same protocol as control (n = 88). After thawing at 37°C for 12 s, motility analysis was performed using the CEROS II® (Hamilton Thorne, Beverly, MA, USA); sperm chromatin structure, mitochondrial membrane potential, and sperm viability were assessed using a FC500 flow cytometer (Beckman Coulter, Brea, CA, USA). Treatment means were compared using the linear mixed model (Proc MIXED, SAS®, 9.3, SAS Institute Inc., Cary, NC, USA). Results are reported as least-squares means ± standard error. The sperm kinematics for SLC samples were higher than controls for progressive motility (26.37 ± 1.59%, 19.56 ± 1.59%), Linearity (LIN) (52.80 ± 0.87%, 44.94 ± 0.87%), Straightness (STR) (83.06% ± 0.59, 76.20 ± 0.59%), beat cross frequency (BCF) (29.25 ± 0.50 Hz, 24.35 ± 0.50 Hz) and wobble (WOB) (61.78 ± 0.63%, 57.40 ± 0.63%) (all P < 0.0001) respectively, whereas SLC-selected samples were lower than controls for slow motility (13.61 ± 0.71%, 15.56 ± 0.71%; P < 0.05), Amplitude of lateral head displacement (ALH) (4.88 ± 0.18 μm, 6.67 ± 0.18 μm), velocity average path, (VAP) (61.17 ± 1.93μ/s, 67.88 ± 1.93μ/s), and curvilinear velocity (VCL) (99.78 ± 3.77 μ/s, 122.91 ± 3.77 μ/s) (all P < 0.0001), respectively. Other parameters of sperm quality were not different between treatments, although there was considerable variation among individual bulls in sperm chromatin structure assay, mitochondrial membrane potential, and sperm viability. These results suggest that SLC can be used before cryopreservation to improve the kinematics of thawed bull sperm samples without adversely affecting other parameters of sperm quality.

-Edward L. Cox, Judith A. Carney, Black rice: The African origin of rice cultivation in the Americas. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2001. xiv + 240 pp.-David Barry Gaspar, Brian Dyde, A history of Antigua: The unsuspected Isle. Oxford: Macmillan Education, 2000. xi + 320 pp.-Carolyn E. Fick, Stewart R. King, Blue coat or powdered wig: Free people of color in pre-revolutionary Saint Domingue. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2001. xxvi + 328 pp.-César J. Ayala, Birgit Sonesson, Puerto Rico's commerce, 1765-1865: From regional to worldwide market relations. Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center Publications, 200. xiii + 338 pp.-Nadine Lefaucheur, Bernard Moitt, Women and slavery in the French Antilles, 1635-1848. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001. xviii + 217 pp.-Edward L. Cox, Roderick A. McDonald, Between slavery and freedom: Special magistrate John Anderson's journal of St. Vincent during the apprenticeship. Jamaica: University of the West Indies Press, 2001. xviii + 309 pp.-Jaap Jacobs, Benjamin Schmidt, Innocence abroad: The Dutch imagination and the new world, 1570-1670. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. xxviii + 450 pp.-Wim Klooster, Johanna C. Prins ,The Low countries and the New World(s): Travel, Discovery, Early Relations. Lanham NY: University Press of America, 2000. 226 pp., Bettina Brandt, Timothy Stevens (eds)-Wouter Gortzak, Gert Oostindie ,Knellende koninkrijksbanden: Het Nederlandse dekolonisatiebeleid in de Caraïben, 1940-2000. Volume 1, 1940-1954; Volume 2, 1954-1975; Volume 3, 1975-2000. 668 pp. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2001., Inge Klinkers (eds)-Richard Price, Ellen-Rose Kambel, Resource conflicts, gender and indigenous rights in Suriname: Local, national and global perspectives. Leiden, The Netherlands: self-published, 2002, iii + 266.-Peter Redfield, Richard Price ,Les Marrons. Châteauneuf-le-Rouge: Vents d'ailleurs, 2003. 127 pp., Sally Price (eds)-Mary Chamberlain, Glenford D. Howe ,The empowering impulse: The nationalist tradition of Barbados. Kingston: Canoe Press, 2001. xiii + 354 pp., Don D. Marshall (eds)-Jean Stubbs, Alejandro de la Fuente, A Nation for All: Race, Inequality, and Politics in Twentieth-Century Cuba. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001. xiv + 449 pp.-Sheryl L. Lutjens, Susan Kaufman Purcell ,Cuba: The contours of Change. Boulder CO: Lynne Rienner, 2000. ix + 155 pp., David J. Rothkopf (eds)-Jean-Germain Gros, Robert Fatton Jr., Haiti's predatory republic: The unending transition to democracy. Boulder CO: Lynn Rienner, 2002. xvi + 237 pp.-Elizabeth McAlister, Beverly Bell, Walking on fire: Haitian Women's Stories of Survival and Resistance. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. xx + 253 pp.-Gérard Collomb, Peter Hulme, Remnants of conquest: The island Caribs and their visitors, 1877-1998. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. 371 pp.-Chris Bongie, Jeannie Suk, Postcolonial paradoxes in French Caribbean Writing: Césaire, Glissant, Condé. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. 216 pp.-Marie-Hélène Laforest, Caroline Rody, The Daughter's return: African-American and Caribbean Women's fictions of history. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. x + 267 pp.-Marie-Hélène Laforest, Isabel Hoving, In praise of new travelers: Reading Caribbean migrant women's writing. Stanford CA: Stanford University Press, 2001. ix + 374 pp.-Catherine Benoît, Franck Degoul, Le commerce diabolique: Une exploration de l'imaginaire du pacte maléfique en Martinique. Petit-Bourg, Guadeloupe: Ibis Rouge, 2000. 207 pp.-Catherine Benoît, Margarite Fernández Olmos ,Healing cultures: Art and religion as curative practices in the Caribbean and its diaspora. New York: Palgrave, 2001. xxi + 236 pp., Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert (eds)-Jorge Pérez Rolón, Charley Gerard, Music from Cuba: Mongo Santamaría, Chocolate Armenteros and Cuban musicians in the United States. Westport CT: Praeger, 2001. xi + 155 pp.-Ivelaw L. Griffith, Anthony Payne ,Charting Caribbean Development. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2001. xi + 284 pp., Paul Sutton (eds)-Ransford W. Palmer, Irma T. Alonso, Caribbean economies in the twenty-first century. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2002. 232 pp.-Glenn R. Smucker, Jennie Marcelle Smith, When the hands are many: Community organization and social change in rural Haiti. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. xii + 229 pp.-Kevin Birth, Nancy Foner, Islands in the city: West Indian migration to New York. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001. viii + 304 pp.-Joy Mahabir, Viranjini Munasinghe, Callaloo or tossed salad? East Indians and the cultural politics of identity in Trinidad. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 2001. xv + 315 pp.-Stéphane Goyette, Robert Chaudenson, Creolization of language and culture. Revised in collaboration with Salikoko S. Mufwene. London: Routledge, 2001. xxi + 340 pp.

In the last three years a new filthy vocabulary of social class has emerged in Britain. The word “chav”, and its various synonyms and regional variations, has become a ubiquitous term of abuse for white working class subjects. An entire slang vocabulary has emerged around chav. Acronyms, such as “Council Housed and Vile” have sprung up to explain the term. Folk etymologies and some scholarly sources suggest that the term chav might derive from a distortion of a Romany word for a child, while others suggests it is a derivative of the term charver, long used in the North East of England to describe the disenfranchised white poor (see Nayak). In current parlance, the term chav is aligned “with stereotypical notions of lower-class” and is above all “a term of intense class-based abhorrence” (Haywood and Yar 16). Routinely demonized within news media, television comedy programmes, and internet sites (such as the chavscum) the level of disgust mobilized by the figure of the chav is suggestive of a heightened class antagonism that marks a new episode of class struggle in Britain. Social class is often represented through highly caricatured figures—the toff, the chav—figures that are referred to in highly emotive terms. One of the ways in which social class is emotionally mediated is through repeated expressions of disgust at the habits and behaviour of those deemed to belong to a lower social class. An everyday definition of disgust would be: an emotion experienced and expressed as a sickening feeling of revulsion, loathing, or nausea. The physicality of disgust reactions means that the communication of disgust draws heavily on metaphors of sensation. As William Miller notes, disgust “needs images of bad taste, foul smells, creepy touchings, ugly sights, bodily secretions and excretions to articulate the judgments it asserts” (218). Our disgust reactions are often revealing of wider social power relations. As Sara Ahmed notes: When thinking about how bodies become objects of disgust, we can see that disgust is crucial to power relations. … Disgust at “that which is below” functions to maintain the power relations between above and below, through which “aboveness” and “belowness” become properties of particular bodies, objects and spaces (89). Ahmed’s account of the connection between disgust and power relations echoes Beverly Skeggs’ influential account of “class making”. As Skeggs suggests, class as a concept, and as a process of classification and social positioning, is not pre-given but is always in production and is continually re-figured (3). Social class virtually disappeared as a central site of analysis within cultural and media studies in the late 1980s, a disappearance that was mirrored by a similar retreat from the taxonomy of class within wider social and political discourse (Skeggs 45). This is not to say that class distinctions, however we measure them, have been eroded or are in decline. On the contrary, class disappeared as a central site of analysis at precisely the same time that “economic polarization” reached “unparalleled depths” in Britain (ibid.). As the term “working class” has been incrementally emptied of meaning, teaching and researching issues of class inequality is now often seen as “paranoid” and felt to be embarrassing and shameful (see Sayer). (Roland Barthes uses the concept of ‘ex-nomination’ to explain how (and why) social class is emptied of meaning in this way. According to Barthes, this process is one of the central mechanisms through which dominant classes naturalise their values.) In the last two decades academics from working class backgrounds and, perhaps most perversely, those who work within disciplines that were founded upon research on class, have increasingly experienced their own class origins as a “filthy secret”. If social class “directly articulated” and as “the object of analysis, has largely disappeared” (Skeggs 46) within the academy and within wider social and political discourses, portrayals of class differences have nevertheless persisted within popular media. In particular, the emergence of the grotesque and comic figure of the chav within a range of contemporary British media, primarily television comedy, reality-genre television, Internet forums and newspapers, has made class differences and antagonisms explicitly visible in contemporary Britain. Class-based discrimination and open snobbery is made socially acceptable through claims that this vicious name-calling has a ‘satirical’ function. Laughing at something is “an act of expulsion” that closely resembles the rejecting movement of disgust reactions (Menninghaus 11). In the case of laughter at those of a lower class, laughter is boundary-forming; it creates a distance between “them” and “us”, and asserts moral judgments and a higher class position. Laughter at chavs is a way of managing and authorizing class disgust, contempt, and anxiety. Popular media can be effective means of communicating class disgust and in so doing, work to produce ‘class communities’ in material, political and affective senses. In the online vocabulary of chav hate, we can further discern the ways in which class disgust is performed in ways that are community-forming. The web site, urbandictionary.com is an online slang dictionary that functions as an unofficial online authority on English language slang. Urbandictionary.com is modelled on an internet forum in which (unregistered) users post definitions of new or existing slang terms, which are then reviewed by volunteer editors. Users vote on definitions by clicking a thumb up or thumb down icon and posts are then ranked according to the votes they have accrued. Urbandictionary currently hosts 300,000 definitions of slang terms and is ranked as one of the 2000 highest web traffic sites in the world. There were 368 definitions of the term chav posted on the site at the time of writing and I have extracted below a small number of indicative phrases taken from some of the most highly ranked posts. all chavs are filth chavs …. the cancer of the United Kingdom filthy, disgusting, dirty, loud, ugly, stupid arseholes that threaten, fight, cause trouble, impregnate 14 year olds, ask for money, ask for fags, ….steal your phones, wear crap sports wear, drink cheap cider and generally spread their hate. A social underclass par excellence. The absolute dregs of modern civilization The only good chav is dead one. The only thing better than that is a mass grave full of dead chavs and a 24 hour work crew making way for more… This disgust speech generates a set of effects, which adhere to and produce the filthy figure and qualities of chav. The dictionary format is significant here because, like the accompanying veneer of irony, it grants a strange authority to the dehumanising bigotry of the posts. Urbandictionary illustrates how class disgust is actively made through repetition. Through the repetition of disgust reactions, the negative properties attributed to chav make this figure materialize as representative of a group who embodies those disgusting qualities – a group who are “lower than human or civil life” (Ahmed 97). As users add to and build the definition of “the chav” within the urban dictionary site, they interact with one another and a conversational environment emerges. The voting system works on this site as a form of peer authorization that encourages users to invoke more and more intense and affective disgust reactions. As Ngai suggests, disgust involves an expectation of concurrence, and disgust reactions seek “to include or draw others into its exclusion of its object, enabling a strange kind of sociability” (336). This sociability has a particular specificity within online communities in which anonymity gives community members license to express their disgust in extreme and virulent ways. The interactivity of these internet forums, and the real and illusory immediacy they transmit, makes online forums intensely affective communal spaces/places within which disgust reactions can be rapidly shared and accrued. As the web becomes more “writable”, through the development and dissemination of shared annotation software, web users are moving from consuming content to creating it ‘in the form of discussion boards, weblogs, wikis, and other collaborative and conversational media” (Golder 2). Within new media spaces such as urbandictionary, we are not only viewers but active users who can go into, enter and affect representational spaces and places. In the case of chavs, users can not only read about them, but have the power to produce the chav as a knowable figure. The chav thread on urbandictionary and similar chav hate forums work to constitute materially the exaggerated excessive corporeality of the chav figure. These are spaces/places in which class disgust is actively generated – class live. With each new post, there is an accruement of disgust. Each post breathes life into the squalid and thrillingly affective imaginary body of the filthy chav. Class disgust is intimately tied to issues of racial difference. These figures constitute an unclean “sullied urban “underclass”“, “forever placed at the borders of whiteness as the socially excluded, the economically redundant” (Nayak 82, 102-3). Whilst the term chav is a term of abuse directed almost exclusively towards the white poor, chavs are not invisible normative whites, but rather hypervisible “filthy whites”. In a way that bears striking similarities to US white trash figure, and the Australian figure of the Bogan, the chav figure foregrounds a dirty whiteness – a whiteness contaminated with poverty. This borderline whiteness is evidenced through claims that chavs appropriate black American popular culture through their clothing, music, and forms of speech, and have geographical, familial and sexual intimacy with working class blacks and Asians. This intimacy is represented by the areas in which chavs live and their illegitimate mixed race children as well as, more complexly, by their filthy white racism. Metaphors of disease, invasion and excessive breeding that are often invoked within white racist responses to immigrants and ethnic minorities are mobilized by the white middle-class in order to differentiate their “respectable whiteness” from the whiteness of the lower class chavs (see Nayak 84). The process of making white lower class identity filthy is an attempt to differentiate between respectable and non-respectable forms of whiteness (and an attempt to abject the white poor from spheres of white privilege). Disgust reactions work not only to give meaning to the figure of the chav but, more complicatedly, constitute a category of being – chav being. So whilst the figures of the chav and chavette have a virtual existence within newspapers, Internet forums and television shows, the chav nevertheless takes symbolic shape in ways that have felt material and physical effects upon those interpellated as “chav”. We can think here of the way in which” signs of chavness”, such as the wearing of certain items or brands of clothing have been increasingly used to police access to public spaces, such as nightclubs and shopping centres since 2003. The figure of the chav becomes a body imbued with negative affect. This affect travels, it circulates and leaks out into public space and shapes everyday perceptual practices. The social policing of chavs foregrounds the disturbing ease with which imagined “emotional qualities slide into corporeal qualities” (Ngai 573). Chav disgust is felt and lived. Experiencing the frisson of acting like a chav has become a major leisure occupation in Britain where middle class students now regularly hold “chav nites”, in which they dress up as chavs and chavettes. These students dress as chavs, carry plastic bags from the cut-price food superstores, drink cider and listen to ‘chav music’, in order to enjoy the affect of being an imaginary chav. In April 2006 the front page of The Sun featured Prince William dressed up as a chav with the headline, “Future Bling of England”, The story details how the future king: “joined in the fun as his platoon donned chav-themed fancy dress to mark the completion of their first term” at Sandhurst military academy. William, we were told, “went to a lot of trouble thinking up what to wear” (white baseball cap, sweatshirt, two gold chains), and was challenged to “put on a chavvy accent and stop speaking like a royal”. These examples of ironic class–passing represent a new era of ‘slumming it’ that recalls the 19th century Victorian slummers, who descended on the East End of London in their many thousands, in pursuit of abject encounters – touristic tastes of the illicit pleasures associated with the immoral, urban poor. This new chav ‘slumming it’ makes no pretence at any moral imperative, it doesn’t pretend to be sociological, there is no “field work”, no ethnography, no gathering of knowledge about the poor, no charity, no reaching out to touch, and no liberal guilt, there is nothing but ‘filthy pleasure’. The cumulative effect of disgust at chavs is the blocking of the disenfranchised white poor from view; they are rendered invisible and incomprehensible. Nevertheless, chav has become an increasingly complex identity category and some of those interpellated as filthy chavs have now reclaimed the term as an affirmative sub-cultural identity. This trans-coding of chav is visible within popular music acts, such as white teenage rapper Lady Sovereign and the acclaimed pop icon and urban poet Mike Skinner (who releases records as The Streets). Journalist Julie Burchill has repeatedly attempted both to defend, and claim for herself, a chav identity and in 2005, the tabloid newspaper The Sun, a propagator of chav hate, ran a ‘Proud to be Chav’ campaign. Nevertheless, this ‘chav pride’ is deceptive, for like the US term ‘white trash’ – now widely adopted within celebrity culture – this ‘pride’ works as an enabling identity category only for those who have acquired enough cultural capital and social mobility to ‘rise above the filth’. Since the publication in English of Julia Kristeva’s Power’s of Horror: An Essay on Abjection in 1982, an entire theoretical paradigm has emerged that celebrates the ‘transgressive’ potential of encounters with filth. Such theoretical ‘abject encounters’ are rarely subversive but are on the contrary an increasingly normative and problematic feature of a media and cultural studies devoid of political direction. Instead of assuming that confrontations with ‘filth’ are ‘necessarily subversive and disruptive’ we need to rethink abjection as a violent exclusionary social force. As Miller notes, ‘disgust does not so much solve the dilemma of social powerlessness as diagnose it powerfully’ (353). Theoretical accounts of media and culture that invoke ‘the transformative potential of filth’ too often marginalize the real dirty politics of inequality. References Ahmed, Sara. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP and New York: Routledge, 2004. Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. Trans. Annette Lavers. New York: Hill and Wang, 1972 [1949]. Birchill, Julie. “Yeah But, No But, Why I’m Proud to Be a Chav.” The Times 18 Feb. 2005. Chav Scum. 31 Oct. 2006 http://www.chavscum.co.uk>. Golder, Scott. “Webbed Footnotes: Collaborative Annotation on the Web.” MA Thesis 2003. 31 Oct. 2006 http://web.media.mit.edu/~golder/projects/webbedfootnotes/ golder-thesis-2005.pdf>. Hayward, Keith, and Majid Yar. “The ‘Chav’ Phenomenon: Consumption, Media and the Construction of a New Underclass.” Crime, Media, Culture 2.1 (2006): 9-28. Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. Trans. Leon Roudiez. New York: Columbia UP, 1982. Larcombe, Duncan. “Future Bling of England.” The Sun 10 April 2006. Menninghaus, Winfried. Disgust: Theory and History of a Strong Sensation. Trans. Howard Eiland and Joel Golb. State University of New York Press, 2003. Miller, William. The Anatomy of Disgust. Harvard UP, 1998. Nayak, Anoop. Race, Place and Globalization: Youth Cultures in a Changing World. Oxford: Berg, 2003. Ngai, Sianne. Ugly Feelings: Literature, Affect, and Ideology. Harvard UP, Cambridge, 2005. “Proud to be Chav.” The Sun. 31 Oct. 2006 http://www.thesun.co.uk>. Sayer, Andrew. “What Are You Worth? Why Class Is an Embarrassing Subject.” Sociological Research Online 7.3 (2002). 31 Oct. 2006 http://www.socresonline.org.uk/7/3/sayer.html>. Skeggs, Beverly. Class, Self and Culture. London. Routledge, 2005. Urbandictionary. “Chav.” 31 Oct. 2006 http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=chav>. Wray, Matt, and Annalee Newitz, eds. White Trash: Race and Class in America. London: Routledge, 1997. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Tyler, Imogen. "Chav Scum: The Filthy Politics of Social Class in Contemporary Britain." M/C Journal 9.5 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/09-tyler.php>. APA Style Tyler, I. (Nov. 2006) "Chav Scum: The Filthy Politics of Social Class in Contemporary Britain," M/C Journal, 9(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/09-tyler.php>.

If the home is traditionally considered to be a space of safety associated with the warm and cosy feeling of the familial hearth, it is also continuously portrayed as a space under threat from the outside from which we must secure ourselves and our families. Securing the home entails a series of material, discursive and performative strategies, a host of precautionary measures aimed at regulating and ultimately producing security. When I was eleven my family returned home from the local fruit markets to find our house had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, electrical appliances were missing and my parents’ collection of jewellery – wedding rings and heirlooms – had been stolen. Few things remained untouched and the very thought of someone else’s hands going through our personal belongings made our home feel tainted. My parents were understandably distraught. As Filipino immigrants to Australia the heirlooms were not only expensive assets from both sides of my family, but also signifiers of our homeland. Added to their despair was the fact that this was our first house – we had rented prior to that. During the police interviews, we discovered that our area, Sydney’s Western suburbs, was considered ‘high-risk’ and we were advised to install security. In their panic my parents began securing their home. Grills were installed on every window. Each external wooden door was reinforced by a metal security door. Movement detectors were installed at the front of the house, which were set to blind intruders with floodlights. Even if an intruder could enter the back through a window a metal grill security door was waiting between the backroom and the kitchen to stop them from getting to our bedrooms. In short, through a series of transformations our house was made into a residential fortress. Yet home security had its own dangers. A series of rules and regulations were drilled into me ‘in case of an emergency’: know where your keys are in case of a fire so that you can get out; remember the phone numbers for an emergency and the work numbers of your parents; never let a stranger into the house; and if you need to speak to a stranger only open the inside door but leave the security screen locked. Thus, for my Filipino-migrant family in the 1990s, a whole series of defensive behaviours and preventative strategies were produced and disseminated inside and around the home to regulate security risks. Such “local knowledges” were used to reinforce the architectural manifestations of security at the same time that they were a response to the invasion of security systems into our house that created a new set of potential dangers. This article highlights “the interplay of material and symbolic geographies of home” (Blunt and Varley 4), focusing on the relation between urban fears circulating around and within the home and the spatial practices used to negotiate such fears. In exploring home security systems it extends the exemplary analysis of home technologies already begun in Lynn Spigel’s reading of the ‘smart home’ (381-408). In a similar vein, David Morley’s analysis of mediated domesticity shows how communications technology has reconfigured the inside and outside to the extent that television actually challenges the physical boundary that “protects the privacy and solidarity of the home from the flux and threat of the outside world” (87). Television here serves as a passage in which the threat of the outside is reframed as news or entertainment for family viewing. I take this as a point of departure to consider the ways that this mediated fear unfolds in the technology of our homes. Following Brian Massumi, I read the home as “a node in a circulatory network of many dimensions (each corresponding to a technology of transmission)” (85). For Massumi, the home is an event-space at the crossroads of media technologies and political technologies. “In spite of the locks on the door, the event-space of the home must be seen as one characterized by a very loose regime of passage” (85). The ‘locked door’ is not only a boundary marker that defines the inside from the outside but another technology that leads us outside the home into other domains of inquiry: the proliferation of security technologies and the mundane, fearful intimacies of the home. In this context, we should heed Iris Marion Young’s injunction to feminist critics that the home does provide some positives including a sense of privacy and the space to build relationships and identities. Yet, as Colomina argues, the traditional domestic ideal “can only be produced by engaging the home in combat” (20). If, as Colomina’s comment suggests, ontological security is at least partially dependent on physical security, then this article explores the ontological effects of our home security systems. Houses at War: Targeting the Family As Beatriz Colomina reminds us, in times of war we leave our homelands to do battle on the front line, but battle lines are also being drawn in our homes. Drawing inspiration from Virilio’s claim that contemporary war takes place without fighting, Colomina’s article ‘Domesticity at War’ contemplates the domestic interior as a “battlefield” (15). The house, she writes, is “a mechanism within a war where the differences between defense [sic] and attack have become blurred” (17). According to the Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999 report conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, 47% of NSW dwellings were ‘secure’ (meaning that they either had a burglar alarm, or all entry points were secured or they were inside a security block) while only 9% of NSW households had no home security devices present (Smith 3). In a similar report for Western Australia conducted in October 2004, an estimated 71% of WA households had window security of some sort (screens, locks or shutters) while 67% had deadlocks on at least one external door (4). An estimated 27% had a security alarm installed while almost half (49%) had sensor lights (Hubbard 4-5). This growing sense of insecurity means big business for those selling security products and services. By the end of June 1999, there were 1,714 businesses in Australia’s security services industry generating $1,395 million of income during 1998-99 financial year (McLennan 3; see also Macken). This survey did not include locksmith services or the companies dealing with alarm manufacturing, wholesaling or installing. While Colomina’s article focuses on the “war with weather” and the attempts to control environmental conditions inside the home through what she calls “counterdomesticity” (20), her conceptualisation of the house as a “military weapon” (17) provides a useful tool for thinking the relation between the home, architecture and security. Conceiving of the house as a military weapon might seem like a stretch, but we should recall that the rhetoric of war has already leaked into the everyday. One hears of the ‘war on drugs’ and the ‘war on crime’ in the media. ‘War’ is the everyday condition of our urban jungles (see also Diken and Lausten) and in order to survive, let alone feel secure, one must be able to defend one’s family and home. Take, for example, Signal Security’s website. One finds a panel on the left-hand side of the screen to all webpages devoted to “Residential Products”. Two circular images are used in the panel with one photograph overlapping the other. In the top circle, a white nuclear family (stereotypical mum, dad and two kids), dressed in pristine white clothing bare their white teeth to the internet surfer. Underneath this photo is another photograph in which an arm clad in a black leather jacket emerges through a smashed window. In the foreground a black-gloved hand manipulates a lock, while a black balaclava masks an unrecognisable face through the broken glass. The effect of their proximity produces a violent juxtaposition in which the burglar visually intrudes on the family’s domestic bliss. The panel stages a struggle between white and black, good and bad, family and individual, security and insecurity, recognisability and unidentifiability. It thus codifies the loving, knowable family as the domestic space of security against the selfish, unidentifiable intruder (presumed not to have a family) as the primary reason for insecurity in the family home – and no doubt to inspire the consumption of security products. Advertisements of security products thus articulate the family home as a fragile innocence constantly vulnerable from the outside. From a feminist perspective, this image of the family goes against the findings of the National Homicide Monitoring Program, which shows that 57% of the women killed in Australia between 2004 and 2005 were killed by an intimate partner while 17% were killed by a family member (Mouzos and Houliaras 20). If, on the one hand, the family home is targeted by criminals, on the other, it has emerged as a primary site for security advertising eager to exploit the growing sense of insecurity – the family as a target market. The military concepts of ‘target’ and ‘targeting’ have shifted into the benign discourse of strategic advertising. As Dora Epstein writes, “We arm our buildings to arm ourselves from the intrusion of a public fluidity, and thus our buildings, our architectures of fortification, send a very clear message: ‘avoid this place or protect yourself’” (1997: 139). Epstein’s reference to ‘architectures of fortification’ reminds us that the desire to create security through the built environment has a long history. Nan Ellin has argued that fear’s physical manifestation can be found in the formation of towns from antiquity to the Renaissance. In this sense, towns and cities are always already a response to the fear of foreign invaders (Ellin 13; see also Diken and Lausten 291). This fear of the outsider is most obviously manifested in the creation of physical walls. Yet fortification is also an effect of spatial allusions produced by the configuration of space, as exemplified in Fiske, Hodge and Turner’s semiotic reading of a suburban Australian display home without a fence. While the lack of a fence might suggest openness, they suggest that the manicured lawn is flat so “that eyes can pass easily over it – and smooth – so that feet will not presume to” (30). Since the front garden is best viewed from the street it is clearly a message for the outside, but it also signifies “private property” (30). Space is both organised and lived, in such a way that it becomes a medium of communication to passers-by and would-be intruders. What emerges in this semiotic reading is a way of thinking about space as defensible, as organised in a way that space can begin to defend itself. The Problematic of Defensible Space The incorporation of military architecture into civil architecture is most evident in home security. By security I mean the material systems (from locks to electronic alarms) and precautionary practices (locking the door) used to protect spaces, both of which are enabled by a way of imagining space in terms of risk and vulnerability. I read Oscar Newman’s 1972 Defensible Space as outlining the problematic of spatial security. Indeed, it was around that period that the problematic of crime prevention through urban design received increasing attention in Western architectural discourse (see Jeffery). Newman’s book examines how spaces can be used to reinforce human control over residential environments, producing what he calls ‘defensible space.’ In Newman’s definition, defensible space is a model for residential environments which inhibits crime by creating the physical expression of a social fabric that defends itself. All the different elements which combine to make a defensible space have a common goal – an environment in which latent territoriality and sense of community in the inhabitants can be translated into responsibility for ensuring a safe, productive, and well-maintained living space (3). Through clever design space begins to defend itself. I read Newman’s book as presenting the contemporary problematic of spatialised security: how to structure space so as to increase control; how to organise architecture so as to foster territorialism; how to encourage territorial control through amplifying surveillance. The production of defensible space entails moving away from what he calls the ‘compositional approach’ to architecture, which sees buildings as separate from their environments, and the ‘organic approach’ to architecture, in which the building and its grounds are organically interrelated (Newman 60). In this approach Newman proposes a number of changes to space: firstly, spaces need to be multiplied (one no longer has a simple public/private binary, but also semi-private and semi-public spaces); secondly, these spaces must be hierarchised (moving from public to semi-public to semi-private to private); thirdly, within this hierarchy spaces can also be striated using symbolic or material boundaries between the different types of spaces. Furthermore, spaces must be designed to increase surveillance: use smaller corridors serving smaller sets of families (69-71); incorporate amenities in “defined zones of influence” (70); use L-shaped buildings as opposed to rectangles (84); use windows on the sides of buildings to reveal the fire escape from outside (90). As he puts it, the subdivision of housing projects into “small, recognisable and comprehensible-at-a-glance enclaves is a further contributor to improving the visual surveillance mechanism” (1000). Finally, Newman lays out the principle of spatial juxtaposition: consider the building/street interface (positioning of doors and windows to maximise surveillance); consider building/building interface (e.g. build residential apartments next to ‘safer’ commercial, industrial, institutional and entertainment facilities) (109-12). In short, Newman’s book effectively redefines residential space in terms of territorial zones of control. Such zones of influence are the products of the interaction between architectural forms and environment, which are not reducible to the intent of the architect (68). Thus, in attempting to respond to the exigencies of the moment – the problem of urban crime, the cost of housing – Newman maps out residential space in what Foucault might have called a ‘micro-physics of power’. During the mid-1970s through to the 1980s a number of publications aimed at the average householder are printed in the UK and Australia. Apart from trade publishing (Bunting), The UK Design Council released two small publications (Barty, White and Burall; Design Council) while in Australia the Department of Housing and Construction released a home safety publication, which contained a small section on security, and the Australian Institute of Criminology published a small volume entitled Designing out Crime: Crime prevention through environmental design (Geason and Wilson). While Newman emphasised the responsibility of architects and urban planners, in these publications the general concerns of defensible space are relocated in the ‘average homeowner’. Citing crime statistics on burglary and vandalism, these publications incite their readers to take action, turning the homeowner into a citizen-soldier. The householder, whether he likes it or not, is already in a struggle. The urban jungle must be understood in terms of “the principles of warfare” (Bunting 7), in which everyday homes become bodies needing protection through suitable architectural armour. Through a series of maps and drawings and statistics, the average residential home is transformed into a series of points of vulnerability. Home space is re-inscribed as a series of points of entry/access and lines of sight. Simultaneously, through lists of ‘dos and don’ts’ a set of precautionary behaviours is inculcated into the readers. Principles of security begin codifying the home space, disciplining the spatial practices of the intimate, regulating the access and mobility of the family and guests. The Architectural Nervous System Nowadays we see a wild, almost excessive, proliferation of security products available to the ‘security conscious homeowner’. We are no longer simply dealing with security devices designed to block – such as locks, bolts and fasteners. The electronic revolution has aided the production of security devices that are increasingly more specialised and more difficult to manipulate, which paradoxically makes it more difficult for the security consumer to understand. Detection systems now include continuous wiring, knock-out bars, vibration detectors, breaking glass detectors, pressure mats, underground pressure detectors and fibre optic signalling. Audible alarm systems have been upgraded to wire-free intruder alarms, visual alarms, telephone warning devices, access control and closed circuit television and are supported by uninterruptible power supplies and control panels (see Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers 19-39). The whole house is literally re-routed as a series of relays in an electronic grid. If the house as a security risk is defined in terms of points of vulnerability, alarm systems take these points as potential points of contact. Relays running through floors, doors and windows can be triggered by pressure, sound or dislocation. We see a proliferation of sensors: switching sensors, infra-red sensors, ultrasonic sensors, microwave radar sensors, microwave fence sensors and microphonic sensors (see Walker). The increasing diversification of security products attests to the sheer scale of these architectural/engineering changes to our everyday architecture. In our fear of crime we have produced increasingly more complex security products for the home, thus complexifying the spaces we somehow inherently feel should be ‘simple’. I suggest that whereas previous devices merely reinforced certain architectural or engineering aspects of the home, contemporary security products actually constitute the home as a feeling, architectural body capable of being affected. This recalls notions of a sensuous architecture and bodily metaphors within architectural discourse (see Thomsen; Puglini). It is not simply our fears that lead us to secure our homes through technology, but through our fears we come to invest our housing architecture with a nervous system capable of fearing for itself. Our eyes and ears become detection systems while our screams are echoed in building alarms. Body organs are deterritorialised from the human body and reterritorialised on contemporary residential architecture, while our senses are extended through modern security technologies. The vulnerable body of the family home has become a feeling body conscious of its own vulnerability. It is less about the physical expression of fear, as Nan Ellin has put it, than about how building materialities become capable of fearing for themselves. What we have now are residential houses that are capable of being more fully mobilised in this urban war. Family homes become bodies that scan the darkness for the slightest movements, bodies that scream at the slightest possibility of danger. They are bodies that whisper to each other: a house can recognise an intrusion and relay a warning to a security station, informing security personnel without the occupants of that house knowing. They are the newly produced victims of an urban war. Our homes are the event-spaces in which mediated fear unfolds into an architectural nervous system. If media plug our homes into one set of relations between ideologies, representations and fear, then the architectural nervous system plugs that back into a different set of relations between capital, fear and the electronic grid. The home is less an endpoint of broadcast media than a node in an electronic network, a larger nervous system that encompasses the globe. It is a network that plugs architectural nervous systems into city electronic grids into mediated subjectivities into military technologies and back again, allowing fear to be disseminated and extended, replayed and spliced into the most banal aspects of our domestic lives. 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Introduction: Technology EnthusiasmEnthusiasts are people who have a passion, keenness, dedication or zeal for a particular activity or hobby. Today, there are enthusiasts for almost everything, from genealogy, costume dramas, and country houses, to metal detectors, coin collecting, and archaeology. But to be described as an enthusiast is not necessarily a compliment. Historically, the term “enthusiasm” was first used in England in the early seventeenth century to describe “religious or prophetic frenzy among the ancient Greeks” (Hanks, n.p.). This frenzy was ascribed to being possessed by spirits sent not only by God but also the devil. During this period, those who disobeyed the powers that be or claimed to have a message from God were considered to be enthusiasts (McLoughlin).Enthusiasm retained its religious connotations throughout the eighteenth century and was also used at this time to describe “the tendency within the population to be swept by crazes” (Mee 31). However, as part of the “rehabilitation of enthusiasm,” the emerging middle-classes adopted the word to characterise the intensity of Romantic poetry. The language of enthusiasm was then used to describe the “literary ideas of affect” and “a private feeling of religious warmth” (Mee 2 and 34). While the notion of enthusiasm was embraced here in a more optimistic sense, attempts to disassociate enthusiasm from crowd-inciting fanaticism were largely unsuccessful. As such enthusiasm has never quite managed to shake off its pejorative connotations.The 'enthusiasm' discussed in this paper is essentially a personal passion for technology. It forms part of a longer tradition of historical preservation in the United Kingdom and elsewhere in the world. From preserved railways to Victorian pumping stations, people have long been fascinated by the history of technology and engineering; manifesting their enthusiasm through their nostalgic longings and emotional attachment to its enduring material culture. Moreover, enthusiasts have been central to the collection, conservation, and preservation of this particular material record. Technology enthusiasm in this instance is about having a passion for the history and material record of technological development, specifically here industrial archaeology. Despite being a pastime much participated in, technology enthusiasm is relatively under-explored within the academic literature. For the most part, scholarship has tended to focus on the intended users, formal spaces, and official narratives of science and technology (Adas, Latour, Mellström, Oldenziel). In recent years attempts have been made to remedy this imbalance, with researchers from across the social sciences examining the position of hobbyists, tinkerers and amateurs in scientific and technical culture (Ellis and Waterton, Haring, Saarikoski, Takahashi). Work from historians of technology has focussed on the computer enthusiast; for example, Saarikoski’s work on the Finnish personal computer hobby:The definition of the computer enthusiast varies historically. Personal interest, pleasure and entertainment are the most significant factors defining computing as a hobby. Despite this, the hobby may also lead to acquiring useful knowledge, skills or experience of information technology. Most often the activity takes place outside working hours but can still have links to the development of professional expertise or the pursuit of studies. In many cases it takes place in the home environment. On the other hand, it is characteristically social, and the importance of friends, clubs and other communities is greatly emphasised.In common with a number of other studies relating to technical hobbies, for example Takahashi who argues tinkerers were behind the advent of the radio and television receiver, Saarikoski’s work focuses on the role these users played in shaping the technology in question. The enthusiasts encountered in this paper are important here not for their role in shaping the technology, but keeping technological heritage alive. As historian of technology Haring reminds us, “there exist alternative ways of using and relating to technology” (18). Furthermore, the sociological literature on audiences (Abercrombie and Longhurst, Ang), fans (Hills, Jenkins, Lewis, Sandvoss) and subcultures (Hall, Hebdige, Schouten and McAlexander) has also been extended in order to account for the enthusiast. In Abercrombie and Longhurst’s Audiences, the authors locate ‘the enthusiast’ and ‘the fan’ at opposing ends of a continuum of consumption defined by questions of specialisation of interest, social organisation of interest and material productivity. Fans are described as:skilled or competent in different modes of production and consumption; active in their interactions with texts and in their production of new texts; and communal in that they construct different communities based on their links to the programmes they like. (127 emphasis in original) Based on this definition, Abercrombie and Longhurst argue that fans and enthusiasts differ in three ways: (1) enthusiasts’ activities are not based around media images and stars in the way that fans’ activities are; (2) enthusiasts can be hypothesized to be relatively light media users, particularly perhaps broadcast media, though they may be heavy users of the specialist publications which are directed towards the enthusiasm itself; (3) the enthusiasm would appear to be rather more organised than the fan activity. (132) What is striking about this attempt to differentiate between the fan and the enthusiast is that it is based on supposition rather than the actual experience and observation of enthusiasm. It is here that the ethnographic account of enthusiasm presented in this paper and elsewhere, for example works by Dannefer on vintage car culture, Moorhouse on American hot-rodding and Fuller on modified-car culture in Australia, can shed light on the subject. My own ethnographic study of groups with a passion for telecommunications heritage, early British computers and industrial archaeology takes the discussion of “technology enthusiasm” further still. Through in-depth interviews, observation and textual analysis, I have examined in detail the formation of enthusiast societies and their membership, the importance of the material record to enthusiasts (particularly at home) and the enthusiastic practices of collecting and hoarding, as well as the figure of the technology enthusiast in the public space of the museum, namely the Science Museum in London (Geoghegan). In this paper, I explore the culture of enthusiasm for the industrial past through the example of the Greater London Industrial Archaeology Society (GLIAS). Focusing on industrial sites around London, GLIAS meet five or six times a year for field visits, walks and a treasure hunt. The committee maintain a website and produce a quarterly newsletter. The title of my paper, “If you can walk down the street and recognise the difference between cast iron and wrought iron, the world is altogether a better place,” comes from an interview I conducted with the co-founder and present chairman of GLIAS. He was telling me about his fascination with the materials of industrialisation. In fact, he said even concrete is sexy. Some call it a hobby; others call it a disease. But enthusiasm for industrial archaeology is, as several respondents have themselves identified, “as insidious in its side effects as any debilitating germ. It dictates your lifestyle, organises your activity and decides who your friends are” (Frow and Frow 177, Gillespie et al.). Through the figure of the industrial archaeology enthusiast, I discuss in this paper what it means to be enthusiastic. I begin by reflecting on the development of this specialist subject area. I go on to detail the formation of the Society in the late 1960s, before exploring the Society’s fieldwork methods and some of the other activities they now engage in. I raise questions of enthusiast and professional knowledge and practice, as well as consider the future of this particular enthusiasm.Defining Industrial ArchaeologyThe practice of 'industrial archaeology' is much contested. For a long time, enthusiasts and professional archaeologists have debated the meaning and use of the term (Palmer). On the one hand, there are those interested in the history, preservation, and recording of industrial sites. For example the grandfather figures of the subject, namely Kenneth Hudson and Angus Buchanan, who both published widely in the 1960s and 1970s in order to encourage publics to get involved in recording. Many members of GLIAS refer to the books of Hudson Industrial Archaeology: an Introduction and Buchanan Industrial Archaeology in Britain with their fine descriptions and photographs as integral to their early interest in the subject. On the other hand, there are those within the academic discipline of archaeology who consider the study of remains produced by the Industrial Revolution as too modern. Moreover, they find the activities of those calling themselves industrial archaeologists as lacking sufficient attention to the understanding of past human activity to justify the name. As a result, the definition of 'industrial archaeology' is problematic for both enthusiasts and professionals. Even the early advocates of professional industrial archaeology felt uneasy about the subject’s methods and practices. In 1973, Philip Riden (described by one GLIAS member as the angry young man of industrial archaeology), the then president of the Oxford University Archaeology Society, wrote a damning article in Antiquity, calling for the subject to “shed the amateur train drivers and others who are not part of archaeology” (215-216). He decried the “appallingly low standard of some of the work done under the name of ‘industrial archaeology’” (211). He felt that if enthusiasts did not attempt to maintain high technical standards, publish their work in journals or back up their fieldwork with documentary investigation or join their county archaeological societies then there was no value in the efforts of these amateurs. During this period, enthusiasts, academics, and professionals were divided. What was wrong with doing something for the pleasure it provides the participant?Although relations today between the so-called amateur (enthusiast) and professional archaeologies are less potent, some prejudice remains. Describing them as “barrow boys”, some enthusiasts suggest that what was once their much-loved pastime has been “hijacked” by professional archaeologists who, according to one respondent,are desperate to find subjects to get degrees in. So the whole thing has been hijacked by academia as it were. Traditional professional archaeologists in London at least are running head on into things that we have been doing for decades and they still don’t appreciate that this is what we do. A lot of assessments are handed out to professional archaeology teams who don’t necessarily have any knowledge of industrial archaeology. (James, GLIAS committee member)James went on to reveal that GLIAS receives numerous enquiries from professional archaeologists, developers and town planners asking what they know about particular sites across the city. Although the Society has compiled a detailed database covering some areas of London, it is by no means comprehensive. In addition, many active members often record and monitor sites in London for their own personal enjoyment. This leaves many questioning the need to publish their results for the gain of third parties. Canadian sociologist Stebbins discusses this situation in his research on “serious leisure”. He has worked extensively with amateur archaeologists in order to understand their approach to their leisure activity. He argues that amateurs are “neither dabblers who approach the activity with little commitment or seriousness, nor professionals who make a living from that activity” (55). Rather they pursue their chosen leisure activity to professional standards. A point echoed by Fine in his study of the cultures of mushrooming. But this is to get ahead of myself. How did GLIAS begin?GLIAS: The GroupThe 1960s have been described by respondents as a frantic period of “running around like headless chickens.” Enthusiasts of London’s industrial archaeology were witnessing incredible changes to the city’s industrial landscape. Individuals and groups like the Thames Basin Archaeology Observers Group were recording what they could. Dashing around London taking photos to capture London’s industrial legacy before it was lost forever. However the final straw for many, in London at least, was the proposed and subsequent demolition of the “Euston Arch”. The Doric portico at Euston Station was completed in 1838 and stood as a symbol to the glory of railway travel. Despite strong protests from amenity societies, this Victorian symbol of progress was finally pulled down by British Railways in 1962 in order to make way for what enthusiasts have called a “monstrous concrete box”.In response to these changes, GLIAS was founded in 1968 by two engineers and a locomotive driver over afternoon tea in a suburban living room in Woodford, North-East London. They held their first meeting one Sunday afternoon in December at the Science Museum in London and attracted over 130 people. Firing the imagination of potential members with an exhibition of photographs of the industrial landscape taken by Eric de Maré, GLIAS’s first meeting was a success. Bringing together like-minded people who are motivated and enthusiastic about the subject, GLIAS currently has over 600 members in the London area and beyond. This makes it the largest industrial archaeology society in the UK and perhaps Europe. Drawing some of its membership from a series of evening classes hosted by various members of the Society’s committee, GLIAS initially had a quasi-academic approach. Although some preferred the hands-on practical element and were more, as has been described by one respondent, “your free-range enthusiast”. The society has an active committee, produces a newsletter and journal, as well as runs regular events for members. However the Society is not simply about the study of London’s industrial heritage, over time the interest in industrial archaeology has developed for some members into long-term friendships. Sociability is central to organised leisure activities. It underpins and supports the performance of enthusiasm in groups and societies. For Fine, sociability does not always equal friendship, but it is the state from which people might become friends. Some GLIAS members have taken this one step further: there have even been a couple of marriages. Although not the subject of my paper, technical culture is heavily gendered. Industrial archaeology is a rare exception attracting a mixture of male and female participants, usually retired husband and wife teams.Doing Industrial Archaeology: GLIAS’s Method and PracticeIn what has been described as GLIAS’s heyday, namely the 1970s to early 1980s, fieldwork was fundamental to the Society’s activities. The Society’s approach to fieldwork during this period was much the same as the one described by champion of industrial archaeology Arthur Raistrick in 1973:photographing, measuring, describing, and so far as possible documenting buildings, engines, machinery, lines of communication, still or recently in use, providing a satisfactory record for the future before the object may become obsolete or be demolished. (13)In the early years of GLIAS and thanks to the committed efforts of two active Society members, recording parties were organised for extended lunch hours and weekends. The majority of this early fieldwork took place at the St Katherine Docks. The Docks were constructed in the 1820s by Thomas Telford. They became home to the world’s greatest concentration of portable wealth. Here GLIAS members learnt and employed practical (also professional) skills, such as measuring, triangulations and use of a “dumpy level”. For many members this was an incredibly exciting time. It was a chance to gain hands-on experience of industrial archaeology. Having been left derelict for many years, the Docks have since been redeveloped as part of the Docklands regeneration project.At this time the Society was also compiling data for what has become known to members as “The GLIAS Book”. The book was to have separate chapters on the various industrial histories of London with contributions from Society members about specific sites. Sadly the book’s editor died and the project lost impetus. Several years ago, the committee managed to digitise the data collected for the book and began to compile a database. However, the GLIAS database has been beset by problems. Firstly, there are often questions of consistency and coherence. There is a standard datasheet for recording industrial buildings – the Index Record for Industrial Sites. However, the quality of each record is different because of the experience level of the different authors. Some authors are automatically identified as good or expert record keepers. Secondly, getting access to the database in order to upload the information has proved difficult. As one of the respondents put it: “like all computer babies [the creator of the database], is finding it hard to give birth” (Sally, GLIAS member). As we have learnt enthusiasm is integral to movements such as industrial archaeology – public historian Raphael Samuel described them as the “invisible hands” of historical enquiry. Yet, it is this very enthusiasm that has the potential to jeopardise projects such as the GLIAS book. Although active in their recording practices, the GLIAS book saga reflects one of the challenges encountered by enthusiast groups and societies. In common with other researchers studying amenity societies, such as Ellis and Waterton’s work with amateur naturalists, unlike the world of work where people are paid to complete a task and are therefore meant to have a singular sense of purpose, the activities of an enthusiast group like GLIAS rely on the goodwill of their members to volunteer their time, energy and expertise. When this is lost for whatever reason, there is no requirement for any other member to take up that position. As such, levels of commitment vary between enthusiasts and can lead to the aforementioned difficulties, such as disputes between group members, the occasional miscommunication of ideas and an over-enthusiasm for some parts of the task in hand. On top of this, GLIAS and societies like it are confronted with changing health and safety policies and tightened security surrounding industrial sites. This has made the practical side of industrial archaeology increasingly difficult. As GLIAS member Bob explains:For me to go on site now I have to wear site boots and borrow a hard hat and a high visibility jacket. Now we used to do incredibly dangerous things in the seventies and nobody batted an eyelid. You know we were exploring derelict buildings, which you are virtually not allowed in now because the floor might give way. Again the world has changed a lot there. GLIAS: TodayGLIAS members continue to record sites across London. Some members are currently surveying the site chosen as the location of the Olympic Games in London in 2012 – the Lower Lea Valley. They describe their activities at this site as “rescue archaeology”. GLIAS members are working against the clock and some important structures have already been demolished. They only have time to complete a quick flash survey. Armed with the information they collated in previous years, GLIAS is currently in discussions with the developer to orchestrate a detailed recording of the site. It is important to note here that GLIAS members are less interested in campaigning for the preservation of a site or building, they appreciate that sites must change. Instead they want to ensure that large swathes of industrial London are not lost without a trace. Some members regard this as their public duty.Restricted by health and safety mandates and access disputes, GLIAS has had to adapt. The majority of practical recording sessions have given way to guided walks in the summer and public lectures in the winter. Some respondents have identified a difference between those members who call themselves “industrial archaeologists” and those who are just “ordinary members” of GLIAS. The walks are for those with a general interest, not serious members, and the talks are public lectures. Some audience researchers have used Bourdieu’s metaphor of “capital” to describe the experience, knowledge and skill required to be a fan, clubber or enthusiast. For Hills, fan status is built up through the demonstration of cultural capital: “where fans share a common interest while also competing over fan knowledge, access to the object of fandom, and status” (46). A clear membership hierarchy can be seen within GLIAS based on levels of experience, knowledge and practical skill.With a membership of over 600 and rising annually, the Society’s future is secure at present. However some of the more serious members, although retaining their membership, are pursuing their enthusiasm elsewhere: through break-away recording groups in London; active membership of other groups and societies, for example the national Association for Industrial Archaeology; as well as heading off to North Wales in the summer for practical, hands-on industrial archaeology in Snowdonia’s slate quarries – described in the Ffestiniog Railway Journal as the “annual convention of slate nutters.” ConclusionsGLIAS has changed since its foundation in the late 1960s. Its operation has been complicated by questions of health and safety, site access, an ageing membership, and the constant changes to London’s industrial archaeology. Previously rejected by professional industrial archaeology as “limited in skill and resources” (Riden), enthusiasts are now approached by professional archaeologists, developers, planners and even museums that are interested in engaging in knowledge exchange programmes. As a recent report from the British think-tank Demos has argued, enthusiasts or pro-ams – “amateurs who work to professional standards” (Leadbeater and Miller 12) – are integral to future innovation and creativity; for example computer pro-ams developed an operating system to rival Microsoft Windows. As such the specialist knowledge, skill and practice of these communities is of increasing interest to policymakers, practitioners, and business. So, the subject once described as “the ugly offspring of two parents that shouldn’t have been allowed to breed” (Hudson), the so-called “amateur” industrial archaeology offers enthusiasts and professionals alike alternative ways of knowing, seeing and being in the recent and contemporary past.Through the case study of GLIAS, I have described what it means to be enthusiastic about industrial archaeology. I have introduced a culture of collective and individual participation and friendship based on a mutual interest in and emotional attachment to industrial sites. As we have learnt in this paper, enthusiasm is about fun, pleasure and joy. The enthusiastic culture presented here advances themes such as passion in relation to less obvious communities of knowing, skilled practices, material artefacts and spaces of knowledge. Moreover, this paper has been about the affective narratives that are sometimes missing from academic accounts; overlooked for fear of sniggers at the back of a conference hall. Laughter and humour are a large part of what enthusiasm is. Enthusiastic cultures then are about the pleasure and joy experienced in doing things. Enthusiasm is clearly a potent force for active participation. I will leave the last word to GLIAS member John:One meaning of enthusiasm is as a form of possession, madness. Obsession perhaps rather than possession, which I think is entirely true. It is a pejorative term probably. The railway enthusiast. But an awful lot of energy goes into what they do and achieve. Enthusiasm to my mind is an essential ingredient. If you are not a person who can muster enthusiasm, it is very difficult, I think, to get anything out of it. On the basis of the more you put in the more you get out. 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