10,000th Place

It was five and a half years ago that I became a registered editor on the English Wikipedia. Through years of small edits to politicians’ post-nominals I gradually climbed through the user ranks, from Signator to Burba, then to Novato. It was in 2017 that I began adding heraldic illustrations, as well as looking for photographs of article subjects if the site did not already display them. It was also in that year that I built a user page for myself, complete with a smattering of userboxes.

Not all of my projects have gone well: Several template ideas, such as life peers or husbands of British princesses, were rejected by other editors. Others, such as British MPs by seniority, turned out to exist already.

Late last month I made my eight thousandth edit to the English Wikipedia, enabling me to claim the rank of a Veteran Editor, or Tutnum. It was at this point that I wondered about the statistics for edits by members, and in particular where I ranked in the grand scheme of things. Eventually I stumbled upon a list of registered members by number of edits made. I will not be breaking into the top ten any time soon, for their counts are in the millions. The article goes much further than that, though, showing the top ten thousand editors. To some that may seem excessive, equivalent to handing out participant medals to otherwise lacklustre child athletes. It must be borne in mind, however, that at present the number of registered users on the English Wikipedia is just shy of thirty-seven million, and so even a list as large as this one represents only the top 0.027% of the community. I was intrigued when I saw that the edit counts at the tail end of the leader board were only a few hundred above my own. The article includes links to archived versions of the list, showing who was where at roughly monthly intervals. From this I could see that while the goalposts were obviously shifting, it was doing so at a stately pace compared to my own edit count, which meant that I would eventually catch up. I decided to step up the pace of my contributions, setting a target of twenty-five edits per day, or 175 per week, in the hopes of making the grade before the summer was over. Last night I made by 8,539th edit, having seen that the most recent version of the list had the lowest member on 8,538. This morning the page was updated and shows that I have just scraped through to the 10k spot. I realise, of course, that this position is tenuous and that the editors immediately below me are likely to make up the difference fairly soon (whether or not they are actively trying to get on there), but the closeness of the counts for the next few hundred members above me suggests that I can easily advance a safe distance beyond the waterline even if I decelerate to my normal rate of activity.

One cannot foresee what the future holds. In a few years I might climb thousands of places, or I may be knocked out of the league altogether by a stampede of hyperactive newcomers. In any case, it will be a long time before I can say my work is done.

The Arms of the Speakers

On the whole, my ideas for new Wikipedia pages have not gotten far. My template for life peers was rejected because the category was too large. My template for husbands of princesses was rejected because the topic was considered irrelevant. My plot to list all current members of the House of Commons by length of continuous service was aborted once I found that such an article already existed.

Recently, and without having received any direct notice, I discovered that one of my proposed articles had been accepted  – a list of the armorial bearings of all the Speakers of the House of Commons since 1707.

From the Acts of Union of England & Scotland (a useful jumping-on point for “British” parliamentary history, though the death of Elizabeth in 1603 could also work for the royal component), there have been thirty-three holders of the office. Each of them acquired a grant of arms during their term if they were not armigerous already. Depictions of their arms appear on small wooden escutcheons which are carved onto the interior walls of the speaker’s official residence in the Palace of Westminster.

To create a Wikipedia list of these grants seemed natural given the presence of similar armorial lists for heads of state and government in this and various other countries. Unfortunately my first submission of the list was swiftly rejected for the lack of reliable sources. Cracroft, it seems, is not considered worthy.

Scouring the subject on Google Books, I discovered a tome from 1851 which gave biographical accounts of a great many former speakers, each concluding with his blazon. It is a shame that modern publications do not consider such details so important. Speakers John Smith to Charles Shaw-Lefevre were covered thus, but their successors from the latter half of the nineteenth century were not so easily ticked off. I tried looking for biographies of later speakers, but frequently found that only limited previews were available.

Only rather a long time into my heraldic hobby did a thought occur to me which, in retrospect, should have been obvious from the beginning – that being in a university library I could find many of those same books in physical form. Sure enough a scout around the fourth floor uncovered several such books. More importantly, I also found a shelf holding several old copies of Burke’s and Debrett’s accounts of the Peerage & Baronetage.

A Herald’s Treasure Chest

These titles were not new to me, for I had heard and read them referenced many times in relation to matters of the British aristocracy. Previously I had understood these volumes to be address books and genealogical guides for upper class, which indeed they are. I had not, however, realised that they also functioned as an armorial database. This discovery allowed me to vastly expand my portfolio for all heraldic uploads, but in particular it gave me access to the arms of several speakers in the twentieth century.

As the names imply, Burke and Debrett detail the peers and baronets of the United Kingdom and its predecessor states. Some also document the knightage and companionage, but these entries do not include arms. This means that speakers who are neither peers nor baronets will not have their arms listed – a problem for several of the individuals being studied.

It is customary for a retiring speaker to leave the house altogether and ascend to the other place – the monarch having been petitioned by MPs to confer some mark of her royal favour upon him, and the prime minister having recommended that this be a peerage. George Thomas’s arms can therefore be located as those of the Viscount Tonypandy, as can William Morrison’s as Viscount Dunrossil. Some speakers, though, never moved from the green leather to the red. This can either be because they preferred to remain commoners (in the case of Whitley) or because they did not leave office alive (in the case of Fitzroy and Hylton-Foster). A difficulty also occurs for those speakers whose peerages were short-lived: The shelf had volumes from 1949, 1959, 1972-3, 1985 and 2000. The viscountcy Ruffside does not feature, having existed only from 1951 to 1958. The barony Selwyn-Lloyd (1976-78) was similarly absent. Of course, the deferment of elevation until one’s retirement means that no edition would include the contemporary speaker, only the emeriti. In a few cases I was helped by other Wikipedians who had access to editions which I did not, but that still left me with a smattering of omissions from the record.

As explained before, when no blazon can be found then one can only resort to replication by visual inspection. Speaker’s House is often used for public events, and pictures often make their way online. Of course, the photographers are typically not there to take closeups of the wall decorations, but in a handful of cases I was able to get a good look at the escutcheons which had previously eluded me. The shields are arranged sequentially, so that if at least one of them is already known then a viewer can count along the line to identify the others. It was an easy deduction that the Stuart-era royal arms defaced by a bendlet sinister would belong to Edward Fitzroy, agnate of the Dukes of Grafton. Selwyn-Lloyd’s could be spotted two spaces down from Weatherill’s, but the depth of field made it difficult to precisely identify the charges.

Michael Martin’s arms were a challenge to reproduce as they contain a great many non-standard charges and a motto in Gaelic, “Gorbals Mick” wishing to emphasise the proletarian lineage which set him apart from most other politicians. The display of large graphics online had become much easier by the time John Bercow matriculated his arms, so that their appearance was widely distributed by various news outlets. There is currently some uncertainty as to when, if ever, he will relinquish the chair, but it is likely that the achievements of his eventual successors will receive similar publicity.

The only remaining gaps in the list are for John Henry Whitley and Sir Harry Hylton-Foster, both of whose shields I have seen in the photographs, but too far away to capture the fine details. The latter case is especially infuriating because although Sir Harry perished as a mere knight, a barony was conferred upon his widow, Audrey – who also happened to be Ruffside’s daughter. I sought out her entry in Debrett’s expecting to see the arms of her father and husband impaled, but instead the books gave her no heraldic information at all.

As I am unlikely to be invited to the speaker’s residence in person any time soon – being not a politics student, after all – these last two items may well stay beyond my grasp indefinitely. Still, it’s nice to finally have an article I may call my own after all these years.

EXTERNAL LINKS

  • E. Churton – The Lives of the Speakers of the House of Commons by James Alexander Manning, 1851.
  • Burke’s Peerage – The General Armory of England, Scotland, Ireland & Wales by Sir Bernard Burke, 1864.
  • C-SPAN – Bernard Weatherill reflects on his career, 7th April 1992.
  • C-SPAN – Betty Boothroyd shows of her residence, 1st July 1995.
  • Whitehall 1212 -Torcuil Chrichton sheds some light on Michael Martin’s charges, 4th December 2008.
  • UK Parliament – John Bercow is interviewed with some escutcheons behind him, 7th September 2009.
  • The Daily Telegraph – Response to Bercow’s arms and portrait by Christopher Hope, 28th November 2011.
  • The Guardian – Report on Bercow’s arms, 28th November 2011.
  • The Workers’ Photos Archive – Photographs inside the speaker’s chamber, 19th June 2013.
  • I CAN – Photograph inside the speaker’s chamber showing the arms of Selwyn Lloyd, 26th November 2013.
  • UK Parliament – Bercow before row of escutcheons paying tribute to Jo Cox, 15th June 2017.
  • Hansard – Bercow pays tribute to his deceased predecessor, including a brief description of his arms, 1st May 2018.
  • Reddit – Members were not impressed by my first attempt at Boothroyd’s lozenge, 28th January 2019.

Wikipedian Heraldry in ITV’s Victoria

Last night “A Show of Unity”, the fifth episode of the third series of ITV’s Victoria, premiered in Britain. It featured two heraldic anomalies that I wanted to examine.

Some of this episode takes place at Classiebawn Castle on the Palmerston estate in County Sligo. A dining room scene features a blue cloth hanging from the back wall which bears an illustration of Palmerston’s arms. Shortly afterwards there is an establishing shot of the outside of the building showing a flag of similar composition (although smaller and portrait) supported by a sculpture of a dog (possibly a talbot sejant, as in Palmerston’s crest). In both cases the depiction of the arms looks suspiciously similar to this one by heraldic artist Rs-nourse, who has produced a great many armorial illustrations for Wikimedia Commons. His works are distinguishable from Sodacan’s in that they are generally more stylised, with greater texturing and shading. As per usual, there was no attribution in the credits.

The use of this particular image also creates an anachronism. This episode, featuring The Queen’s first visit to Ireland and the discovery of her seventh pregnancy, should be set in 1849. Nourse‘s graphic, however, has the shield surrounded by the blue circlet of the Order of the Garter – to which Lord Palmerston was appointed in 1856. Another strange anomaly is that the outdoor flag seems to be topped by a flat metal impression of a coronet. Only four pearls are seen, implying the rank of baron. Meanwhile the printed display already features a coronet with seven pearls, appropriate to Palmerston’s rank of viscount (though he did have the subsidiary title Baron Temple).*

These scenes are surrounded by two scenes back at Buckingham Palace. Even though the monarch is absent, the establishing shots of the palace both feature the Royal Standard flying over the Marble Arch. The flag is too far away and too crumpled for me to determine where they found the image.

*In reality a baronial coronet features six pearls around its rim and a vicomital coronet sixteen, but on a two-dimensional drawing it is not possible to show all of them simultaneously.

Pictures in Unexpected Places

Last week I and many other students received notice that The Lawns, that leafy undergraduate hamlet in the large village of Cottingham, would cease to offer accommodation in the next academic year. At some point I ought probably to make a post discussing this issue in more detail, but for now what piques my interest is the article which appeared in The Tab three days ago. The third photograph is of the balcony on the upper floor of the Lawns Centre, which I took in October 2017, about a month after moving into Ferens Hall, and subsequently uploaded to Wikimedia Commons. This got me wondering where else my images may have turned up.

Snooping around, I found this blog post by Beyond Nuclear International, which laments the recent death of Paul Flynn MP. Nearly two years ago I attempted to make a Wikipedia article listing all current members of the House of Commons in order of seniority. I eventually abandoned the project when I discovered that such a page existed already. Unlike the article just referenced, mine would have included the free-licence portraits of those members which had recently been published. The late Mr Flynn was not included in the new gallery, nor did there appear to be any other photographs of him that were available under the terms necessary for Wikipedia. After searching fruitlessly for a few days, I decided to fill the empty table cell with a cartoon image which I constructed using the shape tools on Libre Office. The fabricated portrait was never used on any real articles, so I rather expected it to languish in permanent obscurity. The use of my crude caricature on BNI’s sombre blog post is especially perplexing given that the page already features two photographs of the departed, the first a publicity shot courtesy of the CND and the second a screencap of parliamentary footage dubiously credited to Flickr-ite Ninian Reid.

Curiously there are to be found at least two photographs for which I am credited even though I did not take them: an editorial in The Oxford Student and a newsletter by the Shropshire Patients Group. In both cases the images were screenshots from short educational films which were released on the UK Parliament YouTube Channel in late 2012. In these cases it seems most likely that the creators of these articles found me listed on the file pages as the user who uploaded the images, and mistook that to mean that I had been the one who took those photographs in the first place. One dreads to consider what this says about the reading comprehension skills of the people of the people who produce these websites, and can only hope that the rest of their content is more carefully considered!

Hark the Herald

It was through editing Wikipedia that I came to develop an interest in heraldry. Since my scientific and technical education was not yet at the point where I felt competent to edit articles about elements, reaction mechanisms or mathematical proofs. I instead concentrated on my humanities interests. This saw me editing the articles of statesmen and the offices they held. Even here, however, I was primarily devoted to the technical details rather than to the grand sweep. My edits would concern what precedence a certain politician held, the honorific by which they should be addressed and, of course, what would be on their coat of arms.

A medieval system of shield markings for differentiating knights on the battlefield (or at a jousting tournament) may at first appear to have little relation to a discussion of parliamentary elections or ministerial appointment, but heraldry has long outlasted the system of warfare whence it originated, evolving to become a signature and status symbol for people of many professions.

In Britain there is a significant overlap between the armigerous classes and the political community, though of course this is true to varying extents in many other countries also. In earlier times it was the case that high office in parliament, government, military and church was largely reserved for members of royal and noble families who naturally would have possessed armorial bearings. In modern times the direction of passage has reversed somewhat as formerly unadorned statesmen over the course of their careers (and particularly at their retirements), acquire heraldic achievements to reward their political ones.

The upshot is that over the last couple of years I, having run the course of correcting the written details of the biographies of the great and powerful, turned to filling out the visual side of things as well. By a combination of desktop drawing tools, image manipulation and liberal use of the set transparent colour function, I have put together depictions of well over two hundred coats of arms belonging to everyone from the Duchess of Inverness to Heston Blumenthal.

Sometimes the details of a person’s achievement can be frustratingly hard for a penniless amateur to uncover. Sometimes, as in the case of Philip May, press will display an image of a coat of arms but will not include the formal blazon. This means that I can only copy from the photograph to the best of my abilities rather than construct it from scratch. Other times, such as with the late Lord Martin of Springburn, the newspapers will give an informal list of the elements in the arms but will provide neither blazon nor illustration, and therefore it is not possible for me to reproduce the arms at all.

In England, Wales, Northern Ireland and a few other Commonwealth realms, heraldic grants are made by the College of Arms. Their website regularly posts newsletters and articles detailing recent grants and matriculations. A reasonable smattering of these are illustrated and blazoned online, but the majority are simply listed with reference codes, requiring an inquisitive Wikipedian to expend great effort in making a personal inspection – and often pay a fee. In Scotland the same function is carried out by the Lord Lyon Court. Their website was, until late last year, laughably outdated. Even now it is not especially impressive. Similar issues are present there and, though blazons are occasionally published on Twitter, on the whole their output remains a mystery.

Sometimes, the recipients of these new grants are keen to publicise them, whether on their personal websites or on social networks. On other occasions their is no such disclosure. The college’s newsletters often list, without elaboration, peers of the realm and public officeholders who, upon investigation, do not have any significant online presence beyond perhaps their entries on the websites of the organizations which employ them, none of which are prone to including such symbols.

My work in this field was accelerated significantly this August when I came across Cracroft’s Peerage – a website which attempts to detail all of the peers, baronets and other prominent people in the British Isles, including their armorial possessions. The website is far from ideal; the overall design is rather old-fashioned, there are a great many missing or unfinished entries, and an inefficient system of navigation is made worse by the frequency of typing errors in hyperlinks, which make certain pages inaccessible without some ingenuity on the part of the end user. Even so, Cracroft’s has been a boon to my efforts, and I have uploaded over two hundred escutcheons in the last few months based on the information found there.

For a straightforward blazon, the whole process of illustrating, uploading and embedding the arms can be completed in as little as twenty minutes. On occasion, however, the process is slowed by the requirement for more complicated designs, especially if they contain non-standard elements. Roundels, chevrons, annulets, crosses and mullets can be easily created by the shape tools available in most office software. Lions, unicorns, crowns and roses are more complex, but are sufficiently ubiquitous that scavenging them from existing images is not too onerous. Other components, such as the golden fuschias in the arms of Lady Fookes or the crossed pencil and pen in those of Lord Stansgate, proved rather more challenging.

I am far from the first person to contribute to the topic of heraldry on Wikipedia. The Heraldry & Vexillology project has nearly two hundred participants. In my estimation, the most eminent of these is he who goes by the name of Sodacan. He has been active on the Commons for just over ten years and his publications number well into the thousands. If you have ever looked at a coat of arms on Wikipedia – especially if it relates to a member of a royal family or a major organ of state – it was probably made by him. His capabilities in this realm are many levels above mine, for he has constructed from scratch many hundreds of distinct heraldic elements and arranged them flawlessly in many convoluted ways. Testament to Sodacan’s mastery in this field is that his graphics have escaped from the Wikimedia world: UKTV documentaries William & Harry: Brothers In Arms and The Stuarts: A Bloody Reign both prominently featured his art in their title sequences. Were that no enough, the Windsors themselves got in on the act for the two royal weddings in 2018. Sodacan’s representations of the arms of Their Royal Highnesses Prince Henry of Wales and Princess Eugenie of York were used on the orders of service for their respective ceremonies. The Central Chancery of the Orders of Knighthood also prominently displays his picture of the Queen’s arms on their homepage. Disappointingly, none of these bother to credit him. Still, it’s nice to know that even the work of an anonymous hobbyist can make it into high places.

FURTHER READING

Encyclopedic Knowledge

The main selling point of Wikipedia is its open nature. Unlike other on-line information sources, Jimmy Wales’s gift to the world can be edited by anyone and everyone reading it. Further, where most forums or newspaper articles would request at least a name and an email address before permitting outsider contributions to be made, if not a full account established, Wikipedia allows strangers to interact with the site’s content with negligible effort or commitment. That being said, a great many regular users do sign up, as I did in February 2014. Since then I have made well over a thousand edits to various pages. The vast majority of these have been minor, often inconsequential details, but then that is how most Wikipedia edits go. Thousands of contributors make thousands of piecemeal amendments (linking one page to another, adding a picture, extending a paragraph by half a sentence, etc) which over time allow enormous and elaborate articles to grow. There are few pages which any individual can truly call their own work, for each is the product of less an elephant than an army of ants.

Theoretically any editor can write anything on any page. In practice, however, editors who attempt to cover all the information in the world will quickly find their efforts obliterated by another with superior local knowledge. In a community so vast, the generalist stands no chance. It is more prudent, therefore, to specialise in the extreme and carve out a niche, however minuscule, where one can reign supreme. In my case this was the correction and maintenance of the honorifics of British politicians.

While my primary interest would ordinarily have been the natural sciences, I knew that I would struggle to hold my own on any scientific topic compared to those with far greater qualification on the matter. I went instead for a relatively simple yet frequently error-laden topic where the corrections were simple to grasp and unlikely to be challenged.

By and large my edits were to pages rarely perused – such as colourising the illustration for John Fane, 10th Earl of Westmorland or establishing a new info-box for George Henry Roberts. Occasionally, though, I have moved to more populous wards, whose greater interest and attention can sometimes generate controversy and conflict. Margaret Thatcher, for instance, is hotly contested – not only for her divisive political legacy, but also the mere issue of whether she should be styled as “The Lady” or “The Baroness”. If edits to the biographies of the dead were contentious, those of the living are a minefield. In particular those involved in unfolding events tend to undergo short but dense periods of extremely heavy editing over seemingly minor but often quite important issues.

Since I took up this hobby, Britain has undergone two changes of government. The first was caused by a parliamentary general election whose date was advertised as 7th May, but whose origins were several weeks earlier: When a parliament of the United Kingdom has run its course it must dissolve, to be replaced by the product of the ensuing votes. In the past the dates of dissolution and election would be a closely guarded secret until its announcement by the prime minister, but the Fixed-Term Parliaments Act 2011 removed this prerogative so that the expiration date of the fifty-fifth parliament was known in advance to be Sunday 30th March 2015. As midnight approached on Saturday 29th I was poised to strike, for dissolution means that the House of Commons no longer exists and thus the people formerly described as MPs are no longer entitled to that status. Their post-nominals must therefore be deleted and suggestions of incumbency rectified. On the first day of official campaigning I enacted this for the pages of more than a hundred politicians. On election night, of course, I had to begin putting them back again.

After a British general election it is traditional for the outgoing government to publish a list of Dissolution Honours. I created a page in waiting but no list appeared, and when I tried to add the names of new peers appointed immediately to the new parliament (Maude of Horsham, Altmann, Keen of Elie, Dunlop) they were swiftly struck down. Finally I gave up and, assuming that there was to be no list at all, requested that the useless page be deleted. When the list finally did appear I was on holiday with no access to the internet, so that the process was started again and almost completed without me. All that remained was to move the pages of lesser known recipients to less ambiguous addresses (such as Donald Foster (politician) to Don Foster, Baron Foster of Bath).

Later in the same year Canada had its own federal election. Though the Canadian parliamentary system is in many ways a carbon copy of our own, the events there elapsed rather differently – the Conservative Party was defeated and Stephen Harper announced he would step down as prime minister. Immediately (indeed, before the election had even concluded), the page of his victorious rival Justin Trudeau MP (Liberal, Papineau) had been edited to credit him as “Prime Minister of Canada”. He was unfit to be thus accredited, however, for his appointment to said office had not yet happened. Whereas British elections – excepting those which produce hung parliaments, of course – typically conclude with the leaders of the defeated parties vacating their posts before all of the seats have even declared, it remains in Canada conventional for several days to elapse before the resignation of a defeated incumbent actually takes effect. So it was last year that despite polling day having been 15th October, Trudeau the Younger did not come to power until 4th November. This, naturally, was too slow for the notoriously impatient citizens of the internet, so his info-box had instead oscillated between such unsupportable adornments as “Prime Minister-elect”, “Prime Minister-designate” and “Prime Minister (presumptive)” throughout the interlude until finally the undifferentiated appellation became reality.

Come 2016, the elections arrived for the Scottish Parliament, the National Assembly for Wales and the Northern Ireland Assembly. Again, I raced through page after page deleting MSP, AM and MLA from every info-box I could find. I also edited the pages of the legislatures themselves to set the memberships to zero and change the party balance pictures to show empty chambers. Again, these all had to be restored for the re-elected once the results had been announced. In simultaneous occurrence was the London mayoral election, in which a smaller group of candidates battled to replace Boris Johnson MP as Britain’s most popularly-mandated statesman. Elections of this type use the Supplementary Vote, a kind of cut-price Alternative Vote system in which all but the top two candidates would be eliminated after the first round. In this case it was obvious well in advance that said candidates would be Zac Goldsmith MP (Conservative) and Sadiq Khan MP (Labour). Given that London is more populous than Scotland, and that the mayoral race has the entire city as one enormous constituency, it is perhaps unsurprising that the counting process took over twenty-four hours. The editors naturally got twitchy. As soon as newspapers began reporting that Khan was “ahead” or “set to win” there came a series of edits and reverts as various users jostled to be the first to add the “Mayor of London” category. Again there were some “Mayor-elect” attempts also, regardless of the fact that the right honourable member for Tooting had not yet been formally (or even informally) declared the winner.

As long and as complicated as “Super Thursday” might have been it could never have been Britain’s primary political event in 2016. That distinction is the property of the referendum on 23rd June, in which some seventeen million voters decided that the United Kingdom should no longer be a member of the European Union. In spite of earlier insistence that he would remain regardless (and strong requests from ministerial colleagues on both sides to do so) David Cameron told the nation that fresh leadership was required and thus he would step down at some point in the autumn. His “term_end” was at once set to October 2016 before being swiftly reverted. Again there was a dispute between the semantics of announcing that one intends to resign, resigning, and ceasing to be incumbent.

There was no time to quibble over the status of the government, though, as events were unfolding rather more rapidly in the opposition. News emerged shortly after the referendum that Labour MPs (namely the Right Honourable Dame Margaret Hodge) had called for a motion of no confidence in their leader Jeremy Corbyn, following his alleged poor performance in the campaign. These sentiments were relayed to him personally by his shadow foreign secretary Hillary Benn, whom Corbyn promptly dismissed from his frontbench team. Mr Benn was swiftly followed by a steady trickle of other shadow ministers who resigned in protest, citing similar dissatisfactions with Corbyn’s leadership. Naturally I went to edit their respective pages to note their departures, only to realise that many of their offices had never been listed in the first place. When a person is appointed to be a minister of the crown – in particular a secretary of state – then there will be official correspondence including certain legal documents which explicitly say which job they have and when they got it. For junior ministers there is less available evidence (their appointments are not mentioned in Orders in Council) and though there is some documentation of their offices (such as Hansard, or official correspondence, or the government’s website) there can often be inconsistencies between references (sometimes they are just a minister of parliamentary undersecretary of state, name of department, others they have a more specific title) and often there are subtle changes in the exact portfolio whenever such a position changes hands. Marking out a clear line of succession for certain junior posts is therefore rather difficult. It is not helped by the fact that junior ministers are, by nature, given less media attention and so there are fewer sources to hand. Moving over to the opposition team, the shadow cabinet are usually fairly well documented, but it should be remembered that theirs are courtesy titles in the gift of the leader of the opposition. While mostly they correspond to the titles of those on the treasury bench, there are some (such as Michael Howard’s Shadow Secretary of State for the Family or Jeremy Corbyn’s Shadow Minister for Young People & Voter Registration) which do not, which heralds yet more confusion. Such was the state of affairs throughout the last week of June when, in the words of some otherwise-forgettable Twitter commentator “People whom I’ve never heard of are resigning from positions I didn’t know existed.” Eventually Mr Corbyn announced his new team, which was filled with people even more obscure. Richard Burgon MP, for example, became Shadow Lord Chancellor at the age of thirty-five, having only been elected to the House of Commons thirteen months prior. He, and many others in what surely must now be Labour’s C or even D team, had a biography shorter than that of Larry the Cat.

Eventually the “coup” subsided when there was nobody left to resign, and Corbyn still did not step down as leader. Over on the Conservative side, by contrast, the leadership election moved all too quickly. The first ballot saw Theresa May win the support of exactly half of the Conservative MPs, with Stephen Crabb and Liam Fox dropping out. The second ballot eliminated Michael Gove, which left the final battle between May and Andrea Leadsom. For the briefest of moments it appeared that an intense fight was about to erupt as Leadsom cast doubts on the barren May’s ability to govern as a non-mother. Then, suddenly, it was all over – on Monday 11th July the minister of state was seen announcing her withdrawal from the contest. The whole political landscape changed as Theresa May was left as the only candidate in the severely truncated race. Yet again the editors were quick to proclaim the new premier, as if First Lord of the Treasury were an actual barony whose abeyance had recently been terminated. Shortly after Leadsom’s surrender a meeting of the 1922 Committee was convened and May was officially declared Leader of the Conservative Party. Cameron, now even more of a lame duck than before, brought forward his resignation to Wednesday 13th July. The next two days saw an excruciating struggle to keep the relevant pages up (or rather down) to date against myriad attempts to publish the handover prematurely. After Cameron’s speech before the black door, the cameras hovered around Buckingham Palace waiting for the former prime minister to emerge and the incoming one to arrive. Finally – and after an awkward photograph of the home secretary shaking Her Majesty’s hand, Mrs May returned to Downing Street to announce that she had indeed accepted a request to form a government. Finally the moderators gave way and the edit could legitimately be made.

The relief was to be short-lived, for the new prime minister hurriedly enacted a cabinet reshuffle, sifting out the Notting Hill set in favour of her own allies. There were some short spells of confusion, such as when it appeared that Jeremy Hunt had been relieved of the Department of Health, only to find that he would remain in place (word had it that May had wanted Theresa Villiers to replace him, but then Villiers resigned and there were no other candidates available). Whereas the reshuffle was for the most part routine (if rather large), there were some notable differences with the establishment of three new departments of state (Exiting the European Union; International Trade and Business, Energy & Industrial Strategy) and the dissolution of two old ones (Energy & Climate Change and Business, Innovation & Skills). Many of her predecessors were criticised for rearranging departments too often, but Cameron was unusually passive in this regard – his one noticeable change was to have the department for children, schools & families renamed the Department for Education. Collectively the editors cocked up the transition where the business portfolio was concerned, as the new BEIS had a separate page created, thus preventing the old one from being moved until the erroneous creation had been deleted. Finally it was assumed that Greg Clark would be President of the Board of Trade, as all his predecessors had been. Instead, it transpired that this sinecure would actually belong to the Secretary of State for International Trade (The Right Honourable Liam Fox MP). Amusingly we discovered that government officials had made the same error themselves, with Clark being appointed president for four days until Fox succeeded him.

Now, at the end of August, the British political line-up appears to have reached a moment of relative stability. No doubt there will be further resignations, appointments and re-elections in the foreseeable future, and no doubt there will be confusion over who has what, but I or others like me will always be around to ensure that, if nothing else, their post-nominals will be accurate.