Journal articles on the topic 'Charles B. Towns Hospital'

Charles Fulton (1905-1987) was an Australian architect who applied influences of European Modernism, particularly the civic architecture of Willem Dudok, into the design for several hospital projects in regional towns across Queensland, at the same time adapting a climatic responsive rationale to the projects. As with many remote contexts that have been overlooked by a European and American centric focus upon Modern architecture, the account of Australian Modernism has not been widely acknowledged outside its borders, despite a local momentum to effectively document and publish its achievements. Compounding this predicament, Queensland has suffered from its own exclusion relative to the southern states of New South Wales (Sydney) and Victoria (Melbourne), which have always been the dominant centers of the national profession, its conferences and publications. This paper seeks to address these schisms through the presentation of the work of Fulton, demonstrating how even in remote areas of Queensland, thousands of kilometers from major cities, the reach of Modern architecture found a place. Mobilized by the national federal body, the Office of Health and Home Affairs, drive to improve health services across the country post WWI, Fulton became a leading architect to modernize health facilities and brought about a cultural shift in the reception of Modern architecture across the regions.

Introduction The mandible is an infrequent localisation of primary osseous non-Hodgkin's lymphomas. Few cases of mandibular non-Hodgkin's lymphomas (NHL) have been reported. Case Report A rare condition of primary malignant non-Hodgkin's lymphoma of the mandible in 53-year-old man, was reported at the Department of Maxillofacial and Plastic Surgery in Charles Nicolle Hospital (Tunis, Tunisia). Histologic and Immunohistochemical (IHC) examination Confirmed a B-Cell lymphoma. Discussion The purpose of this report is to describe this rare case of NHL of the mandible, explore the diagnosis and workup, and discuss treatment strategies. In this localisation, neither the clinical features nor the radiologic appearances are often pathognomonic. Conclusion Particular care must be taken to consider lymphoma in the differential diagnosis because this uncommon lesion can pose significant diagnostic problems and is frequently misdiagnosed.

Background:Rheumatoid arthritis (RA) carries a substantial burden for patients and society in terms of morbidity, enduring disability, and costs [1]. The Australian Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme (PBS) has subsidised biological disease-modifying anti-rheumatic drugs (B-DMARDs) since 2003 [2].Objectives:We examined the impact of B-DMARDs availability on RA hospitalisation rate in the Western Australia (WA) population pre- and post- B-DMARDs introduction to the PBS (1995-2002 and 2003-2014).Methods:Population PBS dispensing data for WA of DMARD were obtained and converted to defined daily doses (DDD)/1000 population/day using the WA population census. RA inpatient records were extracted from the WA Hospital Morbidity Data Collection using ICD-9 codes 714 and ICD-10 codes M05.00–M06.99). Principal component analysis (PCA) was applied to determine the relationship between DMARDs use and RA hospital admission rates.Results:There was a total of 17,125 patients who had 50,353 admissions with a diagnostic code for RA during the study period. DMARD use for RA rose from 1.45 to 3.19 DDD/1000 population/day over 1995-2014 (Figure 1). In 1995-2002, the number of RA admissions fell from 7.9 to 2.6 per 1000 hospital separations, then dropped further from 2.9 to 1.9 per 1000 hospital separations in 2003-2014. Based on PCA analysis, conventional DMARDs (methotrexate) and B-DMARDs dispensing had an inverse association with hospital admissions for RA.Conclusion:The increased availability of conventional and biological DMARDs for RA was associated with a significant decline in hospital admissions for RA patients in WA.References:[1]Boonen A, Severens JL (2011) The burden of illness of rheumatoid arthritis. Clin Rheumatol 30:3-8.[2]Medicare Australia (2020) Pharmaceutical Benefits Schedule statistics. http://medicarestatistics.humanservices.gov.au/statistics/pbs_item.jsp.Figure 1.The hospital separations and total drugs use patterns of RA in 1995-2014 in Western Australia.Acknowledgements:Supported by an Australian Government Research Training Program PhD Scholarship at the University of Western Australia.Disclosure of Interests:Khalid Almutairi: None declared, Johannes Nossent Speakers bureau: Janssen, David Preen: None declared, Helen Keen Speakers bureau: Pfizer Australia, Abbvie Australia, Charles Inderjeeth Speakers bureau: bureau: Eli Lilly

Background: Open appendectomy has been the gold standard for the treatment of acute appendicitis since its introduction by Charles Mc Burney in 1889.The introduction of laparoscopic surgery has dramatically changed the field of surgery. Various studies showed conflicting results about the superiority of laparoscopic approach over open for treatment of acute appendicitis. Present study is conducted to determine any possible benefits of the laparoscopic approach over open surgery.Methods: The study was conducted in Dr. V. M. Government Medical College and hospital located in Solapur (Maharashtra) from September 2017 to September 2019. It is a prospective comparative study. Patients were randomly divided into 2 groups alternately where group A and B were operated by conventional and laparoscopic techniques respectively and their outcomes were compared.Results: Mean age of patients in open and laparoscopic appendicectomy group was 29.67 years and 31 years respectively. Post-operative pain, wound infection and hospital stay was significantly more in open group as compared to laparoscopic group (p<0.05).Conclusions: From the results of our study we conclude that laparoscopic appendicectomy has superior results as compared to open appendicectomy.

James Thomas, whose journal is transcribed and appended to this introduction, was a ‘native agent’ of the Church Missionary Society (CMS) at Gbebe and Lokoja at the confluence of the Niger-Benue rivers between 1858 and 1879. A liberated slave who had been converted to Christianity in Sierra Leone, he enlisted in the service of the CMS Niger Mission headed by Rev. Samuel A. Crowther. Thomas was kidnapped around 1832 from Ikudon in northeast Yoruba, near the Niger-Benue confluence. He lived in Sierra Leone for twenty-five years before returning as a missionary to his homeland.Gbebe was an important mid-nineteenth-century river port on the Lower Niger. It was located on the east bank of the Niger, a mile below its confluence with the Benue, and about 300 miles from the Atlantic. Aboh, Onitsha, Ossomari, Asaba, Idah, and Lokoja were other famous mid-nineteenth century Lower Niger towns. From an 1841 estimated base of about 1,500, its population rose to about 10,000 by 1859. Contemporary exploration and trading reports by W. B. Baikie, S. Crowther, T. Hutchinson, and J. Whitford indicate that the town occupied an important place in the commercial life of the region.However, little is known about the town's sociopolitical structures and processes, and still less is known about its relationship with its neighbors. Hence the internal sociopolitical and economic basis for the settlement's economic role in the region is largely unresearched. The reports of James Thomas, Simon Benson Priddy, and Charles Paul, CMS missionaries resident in the town for several years, contain evidence that would be useful for such an endeavor.

Abstract Dr Dorothy Klenke Nash (1898-1976) became the first female neurosurgeon in the United States in 1928 and maintained her status as the country's only female neurosurgeon until 1960. She graduated with her medical degree from the Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons in 1927 and then trained at the Neurologic Institute of New York under Dr Byron Stookey. During her training, she contributed to the advancement of neurosurgical practice through academic research. In 1931, she married Charles B. Nash, and together they had 2 children, George (1932) and Dorothy Patricia (1937). Dr Nash became a senior surgeon at St. Margaret's Hospital in Pittsburgh in 1942. Shortly thereafter, she joined the inaugural University of Pittsburgh Department of Neurosurgery led by Dr Stuart N. Rowe and became an instructor of neurosurgery at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine. In acknowledgment of her advocacy for public access to services for mental health and cerebral palsy, Dr Nash was recognized as a Distinguished Daughter of Pennsylvania (1953) and honored by Mercy Hospital (1957), Bryn Mawr College (1960), and Columbia University (1968). She retired from neurosurgical practice in 1965, at which time she devoted herself to her grandchildren and her Catholic faith. She died on March 5, 1976 at the age of 77. With unwavering tenacity, Dr Nash paved the way for all women in neurosurgery.

Epidemiological features of esophageal cancer (EC), as well as their associations with potential influencing factors in a city, have seldom been seldom explored on a fine scale. The EC death cases in Guangzhou city during 2012−2017 were collected to describe the epidemiological characteristics such as EC mortality rate (ECMR) and health-seeking behaviors of deaths. Potential influencing factors, including socioeconomic conditions (population density, gross domestic product density), medical resources, and ageing degree were also gathered for exploring their relationships with the epidemiological characteristics of EC. A total of 2,409 EC deaths were reported during 2012−2017 in Guangzhou with an age-standardized ECMR of 3.18/105. The prevalence of EC in Guangzhou was spatially featured and was divided into three regions with obvious differentiated ECMR (ECMR of 6.41/105 in region A, ECMR of 5.51/105 in region B, ECMR of 2.56/105 in region C). The street/town-level ECMR was spatially clustered in Guangzhou city, especially two clusters of streets/towns with high ECMR were highlighted in region A and B respectively. Meanwhile, demographic features including gender gap, death age, temporal interval between diagnosis and death, health-seeking behaviors were remarkably different among the three regions. Moreover, health-seeking behaviors (e.g., the proportion of hospital deaths) of the EC deaths were obviously influenced by medical institution occupancy rate and socioeconomic conditions at street/town level. In addition, the street/town-level ECMR was significantly associated with ageing degree across Guangzhou city (r = 0.466, p < 0.01), especially in region A (r = 0.565, p < 0.01). In contrast, the ECMR in region B was closely related to population density (r = −0.524, p < 0.01) and gross domestic product density (r = −0.511, p < 0.01) when the ageing degree was controlled, while these associations were weak in region C. The epidemiological characteristics of EC in Guangzhou city were spatially featured and potentially associated with socioeconomic conditions, medical resources and ageing degree on a fine scale across Guangzhou city. This study could provide scientific basis for local authorities to implement more targeted EC interventions.

Before the extensive use of anaesthesia, great surgeons were measured by how little pain could be caused to patients in the shortest possible time. Simple operations, such as the extraction of rotting teeth, were terrible nightmares to patients. Some people compared surgery to the Spanish inquisition and there are many accounts in the literature of yells, screams, panicking, and resistance in the operating room. Because of this, before anaesthesia, surgery was mainly restricted to amputations and external growth removals and little advancements could be made over hundreds of years. Five men make the claim to have conquered the horror of surgery in the operating room by discovering ether as an anaesthetic agent: William T.G. Morton, Charles T. Jackson, Crawford W. Long, Horace Wells, and William Clarke. However, only William T.G. Morton is credited with discovering ether as an anaesthetic agent. Mr. Morton publicly used ether during the excision of a tumour from a patient’s neck on October 16, 1846 at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. But William T.G. Morton was not the saint that he portrayed himself to be. There is no doubt that he made the first public discovery of anaesthesia but there is doubt as to whether it was because of his great knowledge and research in the field, or because he took advantage of an opportunity to display this borrowed method to the public. Keys TE. The History of Surgical Anaesthesia. New York: Dover Publications, 1963. Smith HM, Bacon DR. The History of Anesthesia. Clinical Anaesthesia. (PG Barash, B. Cullen, RK Stoeling, eds.) Philadelphia: Lippincott, Williams and Wilkins, 2006. Wolffe RJ. Tarnished Idol. California: Norman Publishing Company, 2001.

All European languages have a word for God, and this word means exactly the same in all of them. However, speakers of different European languages tend to relate to God in different ways. Each group has its own characteristic ways of addressing God, encoded in certain words, phrases and grammatical forms, which both reflect and shape the speakers’ habitual ways of thinking about God and relating to God. Often, they also reflect some other aspects of their cultural memory and historical experience. In this paper I will compare the meanings of the vocative expressions used for addressing God in several European languages, including “Gospodi” in Russian, “O God” in English, “Mon Dieu” in French, “Herr” in German, and “Boże” in Polish. But to compare those meanings, we need a common measure. I believe such a common measure is available in the “NSM” framework, from Natural Semantic Metalanguage (see e.g. Goddard and Wierzbicka, 2014; Wierzbicka 2014a and 2018a; Gladkova and Larina 2018a, b). The data is taken mainly from well-known works of literature, such as Lev Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Boris Pasternak’s poem “V bol’nice” (“In Hospital”) for Russian, Charles Peguy’s Le mystère de la charité de Jeanne d’Arc and its English translation by Julien Green for French and English, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s prison poems and Heinrich Böll’s novel Billard um halbzehn for German. The results have shown that each European language offers its users a range of options for addressing God. Some of these options are shared, others appear to be unique to the language. All are underpinned by broader historical phenomena. The exact nature of all these links remains to be investigated.

Abstract Abstract 3664 Background: Positron Emission Tomography scans performed during chemotherapy (Interim-PET) have been used prognostically in patients with Diffuse Large B-cell Lymphoma (DLBCL) and as a tool in response-adapted therapy trials. However, evidence on the predictive role of interim-PET in DLBCL has been limited by study heterogeneity in lymphoma subtypes and treatment regimens. Although earlier studies reported positive interim-PET predicted poorer outcome, a systematic review (Terasawa et al. J Clin Oncol 2009; 27(11):1906–14) could not draw reliable conclusions due to heterogeneity. Recent studies, which maintained a homogeneous patient group with regards to lymphoma subtype (DLBCL) and treatment (Rituximab-CHOP), showed conflicting results (Vitolo et al, Blood 2010; 116: Abs. 2819. Yang et al, Blood 2010; 116: 1799. Gonzalez-Barca et al Blood 2010; 116: Abs. 2793.) Aim: To evaluate the prognostic value of interim-PET in DLBCL patients receiving R-CHOP, without the confounding effect of therapy change based on interim-PET result. We seek to improve our prognostic ability by combining the International Prognostic Index (IPI) with Interim-PET results. Methods: We reviewed retrospectively consecutive DLBCL patients treated with R-CHOP as frontline therapy from 2005 to 2010 at a single institution. Interim-PET images were re-examined by a nuclear medicine physician blinded to the IPI and clinical outcomes. The PET results were classified as Negative or Positive, based on qualitative assessment of the relative intensity of FDG uptake of the area of disease compared to the adjacent mediastinal blood pool or aorta/IVC. Interim-PET was categorised as positive if the uptake was more than mildly above the blood pool intensity. One hundred patients commenced R-CHOP (14 or 21) therapy for DLBCL; 24 patients did not receive interim-PET for logistics reasons and were excluded. Progression free survival (PFS) and overall survival (OS) were analysed by the Cox proportional hazards model and prognostic accuracy was assessed using Harrell's C statistics. Results: In 76 patients analysed, the median age was 61 years (range 16–87); 59% were males. The IPI distribution was: IPI 0 (n=10), 1 (19), 2 (21), 3 (13), 4 (12), 5 (1). The median time of the interim-PET was after cycle 3. Eleven patients (14%) were positive and 65 patients (86%) were negative at Interim-PET. With a median follow-up of 32.5 months, 2-year OS and 2-year PFS (figures 1 and 2) were 70.8% and 60.0% respectively in the PET-negative group, 36.4% and 36.4% for the PET-positive group (log-rank p-value 0.003 for OS, 0.011 for PFS). Correlation analysis showed that the IPI and Interim-PET were minimally associated (rho=0.0873) and were both independent prognostic factors for survival. Cox regression analysis showed that interim PET and IPI were both significant indicators of PFS (p < 0.001 and p=0.002 respectively). The PET result makes a significant contribution to prognostication if IPI is greater than 2 (p<0.0001) and we found the contribution to vary by IPI when the score was greater than 2 (data not shown). In isolation, the prognostic accuracy of a negative PET result is poor (C = 0.63) as it is for IPI (C = 0.75), but when the two indicators are combined the predictive accuracy is improved (C = 0.81). A nomogram utilising the IPI and interim-PET results in the prediction of the 24 month relapse-free survival was created (Figure 3). Conclusion: In our hands, IPI and PET provide independent prognostic information; we found interim PET to have a negative predictive value that varies according to the IPI at diagnosis. By combining the two, a more powerful predictive model may be created as a nomogram. This should be readily testable in larger patient populations where PET data is available, and then ideally prospectively in randomised clinical trials. Example of using the Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital Nomogram: a patient with an IPI of 2 will receive a score of 33; if their interim-PET result is positive, this will produce a score of 70, resulting in a total score of 103. On the lower 2 panels, a total of 103 points is estimated to give rise to a 40% probability of Relapse-free survival at 24 months. Disclosures: No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

Background: Covalent BTK inhibitors (BTKi) have transformed the management of MCL, WM, and MZL. Despite the marked efficacy of covalent BTKi, treatment failure can occur through the development of resistance and discontinuation for adverse events. Covalent BTKi also share pharmacologic liabilities (e.g. low oral bioavailability, short half-life) that may lead to suboptimal BTK target coverage, for example in rapidly proliferating tumors with high BTK protein turnover, ultimately manifesting as acquired resistance in some patients (pts). To address these limitations, LOXO-305, a highly selective, non-covalent BTKi that inhibits both wild type (WT) and C481-mutated BTK with equal low nM potency was developed. The aim of the BRUIN trial was to define the safety and early efficacy of LOXO-305 in pts with B-cell malignancies. Here we report these data in pts with previously treated MCL, WM, and other NHLs. Methods: BRUIN is a multicenter phase 1/2 trial (NCT 03740529) enrolling pts with advanced B-cell malignancies who have received &gt;2 prior therapies. Dose was escalated according to a standard 3+3 design with LOXO-305 dosed orally in 28-day cycles. The primary endpoint was MTD/RP2D identification. Intra-patient dose-escalation to previously cleared dose levels was permitted. Efficacy evaluable pts included all dosed pts who underwent their first response evaluation or discontinued therapy. Response was assessed every 8 weeks from cycle 3, and every 12 weeks from cycle 13 and was measured according to Lugano Classification or iWWM. Safety was assessed in all pts (CLL/SLL and NHL, n=186). Results: As of 30 April 2020, 186 pts with B-cell malignancies (94 CLL/SLL, 38 MCL, 19 DLBCL, 17 WM, 6 FL, 5 MZL, and 7 Other [B-PLL and Richter's transformation]) were treated on 7 dose levels (25mg to 300mg QD). Among the 92 pts with NHL, the median age was 68 (range 27-87) years. Median number of prior lines of therapy was 2 for MCL (range 2-8), and 3 for other NHLs (range 2-11). 92% of MCL pts had received a prior BTKi; 87% received at least an anti-CD20 antibody, chemotherapy, and BTKi; 10 pts had received SCT/CAR-T; 71% of WM pts had received a prior BTKi. LOXO-305 demonstrated high oral exposures, with doses ≥100mg QD exceeding the BTK IC90 for the entirety of the dosing interval. There were no DLTs or dose reductions. Consistent with LOXO-305's selectivity, the only treatment emergent adverse events regardless of attribution or grade seen in &gt;10% of pts (n=186) were fatigue (n=29, 16%) and diarrhea (n=28, 15%). Responses were observed at the first dose level of 25mg QD. A RP2D of 200mg QD was selected for future studies. At the efficacy cutoff date, 24 MCL pts (63%) and 35 other NHL pts (65%) remained on therapy. Among the 35 efficacy-evaluable MCL pts treated across all dose levels, the ORR was 51% including 9 CRs, 9 PRs, 7 SDs, 8 PDs, and 2 NEs. An additional 3 MCL pts were awaiting initial radiologic assessment. Among the subset of 20 efficacy evaluable MCL pts who started at the RP2D (200mg QD), the ORR was 65% including 7 CRs, 6 PR, 4 SDs, 1 PD and 2 NEs. Of the 18 responding pts treated at any dose, all except 2 remain on therapy, with the longest followed responding pt on treatment for 14 months and ongoing. Of the 2 responding pts who have discontinued treatment, 1 progressed and 1 achieved a CR and electively discontinued treatment to undergo allogeneic stem cell transplant. Responses in MCL have been observed in pts who received prior cell therapy, including 3 of 7 patents with prior SCT, and 1 of 2 with prior CAR-T. Among the 15 efficacy-evaluable pts with WM, the ORR was 60% (1 VGPR, 4 PRs, 4 MRs, 5 SDs, 1 NE), and also 60% in the subset with prior BTKi treatment. 8 of 9 WM responders were ongoing (follow-up time from initial response: 0.1-4.8 months). For the remaining 29 efficacy-evaluable other NHL pts, best response was as follows: DLBCL (3 CRs, 1 SD, 6 PDs, 5 NEs), FL (3 PRs, 1 SD, 1 PD), MZL (2 PRs, 1 SD) and Other [5 Richter's transformation, 1 B-PLL] (2 PRs, 2 SDs, 2 NEs). Conclusion: LOXO-305 demonstrated promising efficacy in heavily pretreated, poor-prognosis MCL pts following multiple prior lines of therapy, including covalent BTKi. Early efficacy was also observed in BTK-treated WM, as well as heavily pretreated other NHLs. LOXO-305 was well tolerated and exhibited a wide therapeutic index. Disclosures Wang: Kite Pharma: Consultancy, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; Loxo Oncology: Consultancy, Research Funding; Verastem: Research Funding; Molecular Templates: Research Funding; Dava Oncology: Honoraria; InnoCare: Consultancy; Oncternal: Consultancy, Research Funding; Nobel Insights: Consultancy; VelosBio: Research Funding; OMI: Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses; Celgene: Consultancy, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; Targeted Oncology: Honoraria; Juno: Consultancy, Research Funding; BioInvent: Research Funding; Lu Daopei Medical Group: Honoraria; OncLive: Honoraria; Beijing Medical Award Foundation: Honoraria; MoreHealth: Consultancy; Guidepoint Global: Consultancy; Acerta Pharma: Research Funding; Pulse Biosciences: Consultancy. Shah:Cell Vault: Research Funding; Miltenyi Biotec: Honoraria, Research Funding; Celgene: Consultancy, Honoraria; Incyte: Consultancy; Lily: Consultancy, Honoraria; Kite Pharma: Consultancy, Honoraria; Verastim: Consultancy; TG Therapeutics: Consultancy. Alencar:Genentech, Celgene, KITE, Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Consultancy. Gerson:Loxo: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Consultancy; Abbvie: Consultancy; Genentech: Consultancy. Fakhri:University of California San Francisco: Current Employment. Jurczak:MeiPharma: Research Funding; Roche: Research Funding; Takeda: Research Funding; Jagiellonian University, Krakow, Poland: Ended employment in the past 24 months; Pharmacyclics: Research Funding; Bayer: Research Funding; Janssen: Research Funding; Acerta: Research Funding; TG Therapeutics: Research Funding; Maria Sklodowska-Curie National Research Institute of Oncology, Krakow, Poland: Current Employment. Tan:Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital and Linear Clinical Research: Current Employment. Lewis:Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital and Linear Clinical Research: Current Employment. Fenske:Medical College of Wisconsin: Current Employment. Coombs:Novartis: Honoraria; Octapharma: Honoraria; LOXO Oncology: Honoraria; MEI Pharma: Honoraria; AstraZeneca: Honoraria; Genentech: Honoraria; Abbvie: Consultancy, Honoraria. Flinn:Calithera Biosciences: Research Funding; Loxo: Research Funding; IGM Biosciences: Research Funding; Takeda: Consultancy, Research Funding; Genentech, Inc.: Research Funding; F. Hoffmann-La Roche: Research Funding; Gilead Sciences: Consultancy, Research Funding; Agios: Research Funding; Karyopharm Therapeutics: Research Funding; Incyte: Research Funding; BeiGene: Consultancy, Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Consultancy, Research Funding; TG Therapeutics: Consultancy, Research Funding; Curio Science: Consultancy; MorphoSys: Consultancy, Research Funding; Curis: Research Funding; Nurix Therapeutics: Consultancy; Novartis: Research Funding; Pfizer: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics LLC, an AbbVie Company: Consultancy, Research Funding; Portola Pharmaceuticals: Research Funding; Seattle Genetics: Consultancy, Research Funding; Teva: Research Funding; Constellation Pharmaceuticals: Research Funding; Great Point Partners: Consultancy; Forma Therapeutics: Research Funding; Iksuda Therapeutics: Consultancy; Unum Therapeutics: Consultancy, Research Funding; Juno Therapeutics: Consultancy, Research Funding; Infinity Pharmaceuticals: Research Funding; Acerta Pharma: Research Funding; AbbVie: Consultancy, Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Research Funding; Trillium Therapeutics: Research Funding; Triphase Research & Development Corp.: Research Funding; Verastem: Consultancy, Research Funding; Yingli Pharmaceuticals ≠: Consultancy, Research Funding; Rhizen Pharmaceuticals: Research Funding; Johnson & Johnson: Other; Roche: Consultancy, Research Funding; Vincera Pharma: Consultancy; Merck: Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding; ArQule: Research Funding; Kite Pharma: Consultancy, Research Funding; Forty Seven: Research Funding. Le Gouill:Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Consultancy; Roche Genentech, Janssen-Cilag and Abbvie, Celgene, Jazz pharmaceutical, Gilead-kite, Loxo, Daiichi-Sankyo and Servier: Honoraria. Palomba:Celgene: Honoraria; Pharmacyclics: Honoraria; Genentech: Research Funding; Novartis: Honoraria; Merck: Honoraria; Juno Therapeutics, a Bristol-Meyers Squibb Company: Honoraria, Research Funding; Regeneron: Research Funding. Woyach:Janssen, Pharmacyclics, AstraZeneca, Abbvie, Arqule: Consultancy; Pharmacyclics, Janssen, Morphosys, Karyopharm, Verastem, Abbvie, Lox: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics LLC, an AbbVie Company, AbbVie, Janssen, AstraZeneca, ArQule: Honoraria. Lamanna:Columbia University Medical Center: Current Employment; MingSight: Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding; Octapharma: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Gilead: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Bei-Gene: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding; Celgene: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Astra Zeneca: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding; Abbvie: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Juno: Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding; Genentech: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding; Loxo: Research Funding; Oncternal, Verastem, TG Therapeutics: Other: Institutional research grants, Research Funding. Cohen:Genentech, BMS, Novartis, LAM, BioInvent, LRF, ASH, Astra Zeneca, Seattle Genetics: Research Funding; Janssen, Adicet, Astra Zeneca, Genentech, Aptitude Health, Cellectar, Kite/Gilead, Loxo: Consultancy. Ghia:Gilead: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; ArQule: Consultancy, Honoraria; Acerta/AstraZeneca: Consultancy, Honoraria; BeiGene: Consultancy, Honoraria; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding; Celgene/Juno: Consultancy, Honoraria; Lilly: Consultancy, Honoraria; MEI: Consultancy, Honoraria; Sunesis: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; Adaptive, Dynamo: Consultancy, Honoraria; Novartis: Research Funding; AbbVie: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding. Eyre:KITE, AZ, Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: travel support; AbbVie: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: travel support; Gilead: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: travel support. Yin:Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Current Employment. Nair:Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Current Employment. Tsai:Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Current Employment. Ku:Loxo Oncology at Lilly: Current Employment. Mato:Pharmacyclics: Consultancy, Research Funding; TG Therapeutics: Consultancy, Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Consultancy, Research Funding; Adaptive: Consultancy, Research Funding; AbbVie: Consultancy, Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Research Funding; Loxo: Consultancy, Research Funding; Genentech: Consultancy, Research Funding. Cheah:Celgene, F. Hoffmann-La Roche, MSD, Janssen, Gilead, Ascentage Pharma, Acerta, Loxo Oncology, TG therapeutics: Honoraria; Celgene, F. Hoffmann-La Roche, Abbvie, MSD: Research Funding.

Abstract Introduction Mantle cell lymphoma (MCL) is an aggressive subtype of B-cell non-Hodgkin lymphomas characterized by (over)expression of BCL2 and good sensitivity to a small molecule BCL2 inhibitor venetoclax. In the present study we analyzed molecular mechanisms of venetoclax resistance in MCL cells, and tested strategies to overcome it based on concurrent targeting of BCL2 a MCL1. Methods Cell death was determined by flow cytometry using Annexin-V/PI staining. Establishment of MCL cell clones with knock-down or transgenic overexpression of MCL1, BIM and NOXA, western blotting, immunohistochemistry of formalin-fixed paraffin-embedded tissue sections, and immunoprecipitation experiments were carried out as previously described (Klanova et al, Clin Cancer Res, 2016). All PDXs were derived in our laboratory from patients with relapsed MCL. All PDX were confirmed by NGS to keep majority of somatic mutations with the primary MCL cells from which they were derived. Samples were sequenced using SureSelectXT Human All Exon V6+UTR (Agilent Technologies, Santa Clara, CA) on the NextSeq 500 (Illumina, San Diego, CA) instrument according to manufacturer's protocols. Experimental therapies were implemented using NOD.Cg-Prkdcscid Il2rgtm1Wjl/SzJ mice purchased from Jackson Laboratory (Bar Harbor, Maine, USA). Therapy was initiated when all mice developed palpable subcutaneous tumors (= day 1, D1). Venetoclax (VTX) and S63845 were from MedchemExpress, carfilzomib (CFZ) was from Charles University General hospital pharmacy. Carfilzomib (4 mg / kg) was administered intravenously (IV) on days 1 and 6. Venetoclax (40 mg / kg) was given by oral gavage on days 1, 2, 3, 6 and 7. S63845 (25 mg / kg) was administered IV on days 1, 2, 3, 6 and 7. Tumor volumes were calculated using the following formula: π / 6 × tumor length × width × height. Results By transgenic overexpression or shRNA-mediated knock-down we confirmed key roles of proapoptotic proteins BIM and NOXA in mediating venetoclax-induced cell death in MCL. We demonstrated that both BIM and NOXA are differentially expressed between MCL cell lines on one side, and primary MCL cells and patient-derived xenograft (PDX) cells on the other side. First, NOXA protein is significantly overexpressed in most MCL cell lines. Second, biallelic deletions of BIM harbored by three commonly used MCL cell lines (JEKO-1, MINO and Z138), and previously reported to be present in approx. 30% of MCL patients, were not found in primary MCL cells. As a consequence, vast majority of the in vitro data was implemented on venetoclax-sensitive cell lines HBL2 and MAVER-1, whose patterns of expression of BCL2, MCL1, BIM and NOXA are similar to primary MCL cells. We demonstrated that MCL1, another key anti-apoptotic protein, plays an essential role in mediating resistance to venetoclax. First, MCL1 functions as a buffer for BIM released from BCL2 upon binding of venetoclax thereby preventing activation of BAX and induction of apoptosis. Second, marked upregulation of MCL1 protein was associated with acquired resistance to venetoclax in two most sensitive MCL cell lines HBL2 and MAVER-1. Based on the in vitro data we proposed two experimental treatment strategies that co-targeted MCL1 (along with inhibition of BCL2 with venetoclax): a direct blockage with a highly specific small molecule MCL1 inhibitor S63845, and an indirect blockage achieved by proteasome inhibitor carfilzomib that upregulates the proapoptotic protein NOXA that specifically binds and blocks MCL1. The combination of venetoclax and S63845 demonstrated synthetic lethality in vivo inducing the longest "remissions" of MCL bearing mice (i.e. temporary disappearance of subcutaneous MCL tumors) using a panel of four different PDXs derived from patients with relapsed / refractory MCL with complex karyotype changes (Figure 1). The combination of carfilzomib and venetoclax was far less effective, and at the same time more toxic suggesting functional blockage of MCL1 induced by overexpressed NOXA is either incomplete or insufficient. Conclusions Our data strongly support investigation of venetoclax in combination with S63845 as an innovative proapoptotic treatment strategy for chemoresistant MCL patients with adverse cytogenetics in the clinical grounds. Figure 1 Figure 1. Disclosures Trněný: Janssen: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Advisory board; Gilead: Honoraria; Morphosys: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Advisory board; Abbvie: Honoraria, Research Funding; F. Hoffman-La Roche Ltd: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Advisory board, Research Funding; Takeda: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Advisory board; Sandoz: Honoraria; Celgene: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Advisory board; Incyte: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Advisory board.

Abstract Introduction: Ixazomib (Ninlaro) is the first orally administered proteasome inhibitor (PI) approved in more than 50 countries worldwide, including China. The TOURMALINE-MM1 study was a large randomized, double-blind, global registration study assessing treatment with either ixazomib or placebo added to lenalidomide and dexamethasone. The China Continuation Study (CCS) was a separate regional expansion of the global study that used the same study design. (Panel A) In the global study, IRd treatment extended progression-free survival (PFS), the primary endpoint, by 35% (HR=0.74) vs Rd. Here we report results of a pooled analysis of data from a subgroup of Asian patients enrolled in these two studies. Demographics and Methods: Asian patients from China (n=6 from the global study; n=115 from the CCS), Singapore (n=6), South Korea (n=6), and 3 non-Asian countries (n=5) were included in this pooled analysis. Overall response rate (ORR) was based on the International Myeloma Working Group criteria. The median OS and PFS were calculated using the Kaplan-Meier method. Comparative analysis of treatment groups used stratified log rank tests and the Cox proportional hazard regression model. Safety assessments were based on treatment-emergent adverse events (TEAEs), changes in laboratory parameters, and 12-lead electrocardiogram results. Results: Data from 138 pts were analyzed (67 IRd; 71 Rd). Baseline characteristics were balanced between the treatment groups; overall median age was 61 (range, 30-80) years, 67% of pts were < 65 years; 97% of pts had Eastern Cooperative Oncology Group Performance Scores 0-1; 37% had International Staging System (ISS) stages II/III; and 72% had lytic bone disease. The median number of prior treatments was 2, with 82% exposed to thalidomide of which 61% were thalidomide refractory, 61% were exposed to bortezomib, and 48% exposed to both drugs. The ORR was 57% in the IRd group vs 37% in the Rd group. Median OS was 25.8 mos and 15.8 mos in the IRd and Rd treatment groups, respectively (HR=0.346). (Panel B). OS also was longer with IRd therapy regardless of prior exposure to bortezomib (HR=0.322) or thalidomide (HR=0.317) as well as in pts with thalidomide refractory tumors (HR=0.273). (Panel C). The median PFS was 7.3 mos and 4.6 mos in the IRd and Rd treatment groups, respectively (HR=0.559). Longer PFS was also observed with IRd treatment in pts with prior exposure to bortezomib (HR=0.467) or thalidomide (HR= 0.580) as well as pts with thalidomide refractory tumors (HR= 0.631). The rates of drug-related TEAEs (IRd, 96%; Rd, 97%), serious TEAEs (IRd, 37%; Rd, 34%), Grade 3/4 TEAEs (IRd, 74%; Rd, 73%) and discontinuations due to AEs (IRd, 12%; Rd, 13%) were similar in both treatment groups. Grade 3/4 TEAEs reported in ≥10% of either treatment group were anemia (IRd, 14%; Rd, 31%), lower respiratory infection (IRd, 23%; Rd, 21%), neutrophil count decrease (IRd, 13%; Rd, 16%), platelet count decrease (IRd, 15%; Rd, 13%), neutropenia (IRd, 17%; Rd, 9%), thrombocytopenia (IRd 11%; Rd 6%). There was no increased cardiotoxicity, renal toxicity, hepatoxicity or secondary primary malignancy in the IRd group. Conclusions: Asian pts with RRMM treated with oral IRd showed superior OS and PFS vs those treated with Rd. The benefit was consistent regardless of prior exposure to thalidomide and bortezomib. The addition of ixazomib to Rd was well-tolerated, and no new safety signals were identified. The safety profile of IRd was consistent with the safety findings of the large global study (Moreau P, Masszi T, Grzasko N, et al. for the TOURMALINE-MM1 Study group. N Engl J Med. 2016;374:1621-1634.) Disclosures Jin: College of Medicine, Zhejiang University: Employment; The National Natural Science Foundation of China: Research Funding. Chng:Amgen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; Celgene: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses, Research Funding; Merck: Research Funding; Aslan: Research Funding; Takeda: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: Travel, accommodation, expenses. Goh:Johnson & Johnson: Consultancy, Honoraria; Bristol-Myers-Squibb: Consultancy, Honoraria; Pfizer: Consultancy, Honoraria; Sanofi-Aventis: Consultancy, Honoraria; Astellas: Consultancy, Honoraria; Gilead: Consultancy, Honoraria; Amgen: Consultancy, Honoraria; Novartis: Consultancy, Honoraria. Wu:Takeda Pharmaceuticals: Employment. Wang:Millennium Pharmaceuticals, a wholly owned subsidiary of Takeda: Employment. Liu:Millennium Pharmaceuticals, Inc., Cambridge, MA, USA, a wholly owned subsidiary of Takeda Pharmaceutical Company Limited: Employment. Skacel:Millennium Pharmaceuticals, Inc., Cambridge, MA, USA, a wholly owned subsidiary of Takeda Pharmaceutical Company Limited: Employment; Department of Hematology, Charles University General Hospital, Prague, Czech Republic: Other: Affiliation. Wan:Takeda Pharmaceuticals International Co.: Employment. Berg:Millennium Pharmaceuticals, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Takeda Pharmaceutical Company Limited: Employment.

Background: Follicular lymphoma (FL) is the most common subtype of indolent non-Hodgkin lymphoma (NHL). Although most patients with FL respond well to first-line therapy, they will inevitably relapse, and the subsequent course is often characterized by a pattern of recurrent relapses with progressively shorter intervals between treatment lines. Moreover, the use of multiple consecutive therapies often leads to refractory disease with severely limited treatment options, demonstrating the need for new therapies for this patient population. Currently approved phosphoinositide 3-kinase (PI3K) inhibitors are often poorly tolerated. Parsaclisib, a potent, highly-selective, next-generation PI3Kδ inhibitor, has shown promising activity in patients with previously treated B-cell malignancies. Here, we report preliminary results of CITADEL-203 (NCT03126019), a multicenter, open-label phase 2 study of parsaclisib in relapsed or refractory (R/R) FL. Methods: Key eligibility included, age ≥18 years, histologically confirmed R/R FL grade 1, 2, or 3a, ≥2 prior systemic therapies, Eastern Cooperative Oncology Group performance status (ECOG PS) ≤2, and ineligible for hematopoietic stem cell transplantation (HSCT). Patients were allocated to receive parsaclisib 20 mg once daily (QD) for 8 weeks followed by either 20 mg once weekly (weekly-dosing group [WG]) or 2.5 mg QD (daily-dosing group [DG]). Prophylaxis for Pneumocystis jirovecii pneumonia (PJP) was required. Objective response rate (ORR) was the primary endpoint; complete response rate (CRR), duration of response (DOR), progression-free survival (PFS), overall survival (OS), and safety and tolerability were secondary endpoints. All radiology-based endpoints were based on independent review. Results: From March 2018 to 17January 2020 (data cut-off), 106 patients (WG, n = 22; DG, n = 84) were treated. Enrollment is ongoing (target: 120 patients). At cut-off, 39 (37%) patients had discontinued treatment, including 25 (24%) for disease progression. The median exposure (range) was 5.3 months (0.5-18.1). The median age was 67 years, and 54% of the patients were men. The median time since initial diagnosis was 6 years. At enrollment, most patients (92%) had an ECOG PS ≤1, and 43% had a Follicular Lymphoma International Prognostic Index score ≥3 (high risk). The median (range) number of prior systemic therapies was 2 (1−8); 20% of the patients had prior HSCT; 47% were refractory to and 41% had relapsed from their most recent therapy. At the data cut-off, 96 patients were evaluable for response, including 74 in DG (Table). The ORR and CRR were 69.8% (95% confidence interval [CI]: 59.6−78.7) and 13.5% respectively, in all evaluable patients, and 71.6% (95% CI: 59.9% - 81.5%) and 13.5%, respectively, in DG. The median time to response was 8 weeks. The median DOR (95% CI) was not reached among responders overall (9.2 months−not estimable) and those in DG (7.4 months−not estimable). The median PFS (95% CI) was 15.8 months (11.3−15.8) overall and 15.8 months (11.0−15.8) in DG. The median follow-up (range) for this population was 10.2 months (1.9−22.2) overall and 9.5 months (1.9−21.1) in DG. Among the 106 patients evaluable for safety, the most common treatment-emergent adverse events (TEAE) were diarrhea (27.4% of patients), nausea (22.6%), cough (18.9%), and fatigue (15.1%). The most common TEAEs grade ≥3 were diarrhea (9.4% of patients), neutropenia (6.6%), and colitis (3.8%). TEAEs leading to dose interruption or dose reduction occurred in 39.6% and 9.4% of patients, respectively. TEAEs leading to treatment discontinuation occurred in 16% of patients. Serious TEAEs observed in ≥2 patients included diarrhea (5.7% of patients), colitis (3.8%), and pleural effusion (1.9%). There were no fatal TEAEs. TEAEs of clinical interest included rash (12.3% of patients), exfoliative dermatitis (1.9%), pneumonia (0.9%), and PJP (0.9%). New or worsening grade ≥3 laboratory test values of clinical interest included increase in alanine/aspartate amino transferase (0.9%/0% of patients), and decrease in neutrophil count (8.5%), platelet count (0%), and hemoglobin (1.9%). Conclusion: Parsaclisib demonstrated a high rate of rapid and durable response, and had an acceptable safety profile and was generally well tolerated. These results demonstrate a favorable benefit-risk profile in R/R FL. Updated data will be presented. Disclosures Lynch: Morphosys: Consultancy; Takeda: Research Funding; Incyte: Research Funding; TG therapeutics: Research Funding; Rhizen: Research Funding; Bayer: Research Funding; Juno: Research Funding; Cyteir: Research Funding; Genentech: Research Funding. Paneesha:Bristol-Myers Squibb: Honoraria; Celgene: Honoraria; Gilead: Honoraria; Janssen: Honoraria; AbbVie: Honoraria. Avigdor:Takeda, Gilead, Pfizer: Consultancy, Honoraria; Janssen, BMS: Research Funding. McKinney:Verastem: Consultancy; Pharmacyclics: Consultancy; Kite/Gilead: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; Beigene: Research Funding; Celgene: Consultancy, Research Funding; Genentech: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; Incyte: Research Funding; Molecular Templates: Consultancy, Research Funding; Nordic Nanovector: Research Funding; Novartis: Research Funding; BTG: Consultancy. Wahlin:Gilead Sciences: Research Funding; Roche: Consultancy, Research Funding. Belada:Roche: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Travel expenses, Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Gilead: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Travel expenses, Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding; Takeda: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Other: Travel expenses, Research Funding. Canales:Celgene, Gilead, iQone, Janssen, Karyopharm, Novartis, F. Hoffmann-La Roche, Sandoz: Honoraria; Janssen, F. Hoffmann-La Roche, Sandoz, Takeda: Speakers Bureau. Cunningham:Bayer: Research Funding; OVIBIO: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Amgen: Research Funding; Lilly: Research Funding; Janssen: Research Funding; Clovis Oncology: Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding; MedImmune: Research Funding; Merck: Research Funding; Merrimack: Research Funding; Sanofi: Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Research Funding; 4SC: Research Funding. Morley:Kite: Honoraria; Janssen: Honoraria; Abbvie: Other: Conference Support; Takeda: Other: Conference Support; Roche: Other: Conference Support; Advisory board. Zheng:Incyte: Current Employment, Current equity holder in publicly-traded company. DeMarini:Incyte Corporation: Current Employment, Current equity holder in publicly-traded company. Jiang:Incyte Corporation: Current Employment, Current equity holder in publicly-traded company. Trněný:1st Faculty of Medicine, Charles University, General Hospital in Prague: Current Employment; Incyte: Consultancy, Honoraria; AbbVie: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Amgen: Consultancy, Honoraria; Takeda: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); MorphoSys: Consultancy, Honoraria; Gilead Sciences: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Roche: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding; Bristol Meyers Squibb: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Celgene: Consultancy.

Introduction: Venetoclax (Ven) is an orally administered, highly selective inhibitor of B-cell lymphoma-2 (BCL-2). Fixed-duration VenR improved outcomes versus standard bendamustine-rituximab (BR) in the randomized Phase III MURANO study (NCT02005471; Seymour et al. N Engl J Med 2018) and is now a standard of care for the treatment of pts with R/R CLL. There are currently limited data to guide subsequent therapies when relapse occurs after fixed-duration VenR and uncertainty regarding the efficacy of repeated VenR treatment. Here, we report the response rates to follow-up therapy with Ven and Ven-based regimens, or exposure to Bruton tyrosine kinase inhibitor (BTKi) salvage therapy, following pts' participation in the MURANO trial. Methods: Pts were randomized to VenR (Ven 400 mg daily for 2 years [yrs] plus monthly R for the first 6 months [mo]) or BR (6 mo). The primary endpoint was investigator-assessed progression-free survival (PFS). Pts in either arm with disease progression were followed for overall survival (OS) and disease response to any subsequent anti-CLL therapeutic regimens. Pts who initiated new anti-CLL therapy, but who had not had a response assessment reported by the principal investigator, were considered unevaluable. Results: 389 pts were enrolled in MURANO (VenR, n=194; BR, n=195). At a clinical cutoff date of May 8, 2020, all main study pts had ceased treatment with a median follow-up of 59 mo (range 0-71.5). PFS and OS benefits were maintained at the 5-yr follow-up (Kater et al. Submitted to ASH 2020). Following disease progression, 67/87 (77.0%) VenR pts and 123/148 (83.1%) BR pts had received subsequent anti-CLL therapy. The time to next therapy (TTNT) from study entry was longer following VenR versus BR, with a median TTNT of 57.8 (95% CI: 55.1-NE) mo versus 23.9 (95% CI: 20.7-29.5) mo (HR, 0.26 [95% CI: 0.20-0.35]; p&lt;0.001), respectively (Figure 1). Best overall response (BOR) rates to first subsequent anti-CLL therapy for pts with evaluable responses were 70.5% for VenR compared with 81.7% for BR. Of the BR pts receiving subsequent therapy; 99/123 (80.5%) pts received novel targeted therapy alone or in combination with other agents (BTKi, n=72; phosphoinositide 3-kinase inhibitors [PI3Ki], n=10; Ven, n=15; or other investigational medicinal products [IMP], n=2) while the remaining 24 pts received chemoimmunotherapy. Of pts previously treated with BR, the BOR rate to novel targeted agents was 84.4% among evaluable pts (83.9% for BTKi and 80.0% for Ven-based therapy; Table 1). Fifty two of 67 pts in the VenR arm received subsequent novel therapy (BTKi, n=18; PI3Ki, n=1; Ven [alone or in combination], n=32; IMP, n=1). The BOR rate to these targeted agents was 79.4% among evaluable pts. After a median treatment-free interval of 13.5 (range 0.0-41.3) mo, 18 VenR pts received a BTKi as their next line of therapy (all were BTKi naïve). These pts achieved high overall response rates (ORR): 14/14 (100% of pts with an evaluable assessment) at a median treatment duration of 21.9 (range 5.6-59.2) mo, with 10 pts continuing on BTKi therapy at this follow-up. After a median treatment-free interval of 23.7 (range 3.3-43.8) mo, 32 VenR pts were re-treated with Ven-based regimens; 21 were enrolled in the re-treatment arm of the MURANO sub-study and 11 were treated outside of the sub-study. The BOR to re-treatment with Ven or Ven-containing therapies was 72.2% of evaluable pts (Table 1). Among these pts, initial response to VenR at the main study end of combination treatment response visit was 100% (6 complete response [CR]/CR with incomplete hematologic recovery; 12 partial response), with 77.8% (14/18) achieving undetectable minimal residual disease and 15/18 completing the initial 2 yrs of Ven therapy without progression. Median treatment duration in evaluable pts re-treated with Ven-based regimens was 11.4 (range 0.7-37.6) mo with 50% of pts continuing on therapy. Conclusions: Five-yr data from MURANO demonstrated sustained TTNT benefit with VenR versus BR. Despite &gt;80% of relapsed BR pts receiving salvage therapy with a novel agent, OS rates remain superior with VenR therapy. Relapsed VenR pts demonstrated high ORR to either subsequent BTKi therapy or re-exposure to Ven-based regimens. These data show early use of fixed-duration VenR in R/R CLL is an effective approach and does not compromise subsequent therapy response or OS. Disclosures Owen: AbbVie, F. Hoffmann-La Roche, Janssen, Astrazeneca, Merck, Servier, Novartis, Teva: Honoraria. D'Rozario:AbbVie: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; F. Hoffmann-La Roche: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees. Robak:GSK: Research Funding; Bristol Meyers Squibb: Research Funding; Medical University of Lodz: Current Employment; Morphosys: Research Funding; Takeda: Consultancy; UCB: Honoraria, Research Funding; Octapharma: Honoraria; AbbVie: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding; Acerta: Research Funding; Roche: Consultancy, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding; Novartis: Honoraria, Research Funding; Sandoz: Consultancy, Honoraria; UTX-TGR: Research Funding; Momenta: Consultancy; Pfizer: Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Honoraria, Research Funding; Pharmacyclics LLC, an AbbVie Company: Honoraria, Research Funding; BioGene: Honoraria, Research Funding. Kater:Celgene, F. Hoffmann-La Roche/Genentech, Astra Zeneca, Janssen: Honoraria; Celgene, F. Hoffmann-La Roche/Genentech, Astra Zeneca, Janssen: Research Funding. Montillo:AbbVie: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; F. Hoffmann-La Roche: Honoraria, Research Funding; Janssen: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; Astra Zeneca: Honoraria; Gilead: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; Verastem: Honoraria. de la Serna:Abbvie, AstraZeneca: Other: Travel, Accommodations, Expenses; Abbvie, Pharmacyclics, Novartis, Janssen, Acerta, AstraZeneca, BioGene, UCB, Sandoz: Honoraria; Gilead, AstraZeneca, Abbvie, Janssen, Sandoz, F. Hoffmann-La Roche: Consultancy; Abbvie, Janssen: Speakers Bureau; F. Hoffmann-La Roche, Abbvie, Pharmacyclics, Gilead, GlaxoSmithKline, Novartis, Janssen, Roche, Acerta, AstraZeneca, BioGene, UCB: Research Funding. Trněný:Bristol Meyers Squibb: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Amgen: Consultancy, Honoraria; Takeda: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); AbbVie: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Incyte: Consultancy, Honoraria; MorphoSys: Consultancy, Honoraria; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); Gilead Sciences: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company); 1st Faculty of Medicine, Charles University, General Hospital in Prague: Current Employment; Roche: Consultancy, Honoraria, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company), Research Funding; Celgene: Consultancy. Kim:AbbVie, Inc.: Current Employment, Current equity holder in publicly-traded company, Divested equity in a private or publicly-traded company in the past 24 months, Other: may hold stock or other options. Bataillard:Imperial College Healthcare NHS Trust: Ended employment in the past 24 months; Roche Products Limited (temporary clinical fellowship as a fixed-term sabbatical from Hematology specialty training fellowship at Imperial College Healthcare NHS Trust): Current Employment. Lefebure:F. Hoffmann-La Roche: Current Employment, Current equity holder in publicly-traded company. Boyer:Roche: Current Employment, Current equity holder in publicly-traded company, Other: TRAVEL, ACCOMMODATIONS, EXPENSES (paid by any for-profit health care company). Seymour:Mei Pharma: Consultancy, Honoraria; F. Hoffmann-La Roche: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Gilead: Consultancy; Nurix: Honoraria; Morphosys: Consultancy, Honoraria; AbbVie: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Celgene: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding.

Abstract Background: MCL is a subtype of NHL that remains largely incurable with conventional therapies; BR is standard first-line therapy. Acalabrutinib is a potent, highly selective, covalent Bruton tyrosine kinase inhibitor with minimal off-target activity. Acalabrutinib was approved by the FDA in October 2017 for patients with R/R MCL and ≥1 prior therapy. This ongoing, multicenter, open-label Phase 1b study assessed the safety and efficacy of acalabrutinib + BR in patients with TN or R/R MCL. Methods: Patients aged ≥18 y with ECOG PS ≤2 and adequate organ function were eligible; R/R patients had received ≥1 prior therapy. Patients received oral acalabrutinib 100 mg twice daily, plus B 90 mg/m2 intravenously (IV) on days 1 and 2 and R 375 mg/m2 IV on day 1 in each 28-day cycle. Acalabrutinib was given until disease progression (PD) or intolerance; BR was repeated every 28 days for up to 6 cycles. Patients with TN MCL who achieved partial or complete response (CR) received rituximab maintenance therapy (375 mg/m2 every other cycle for up to 12 doses starting on cycle 8). Dose-limiting toxicity (DLT) was evaluated in the first 6 patients per cohort (TN or R/R) after completing 1 cycle. If <2 patients had DLTs, cohorts were expanded. The primary endpoint was safety of acalabrutinib + BR. Secondary endpoints were overall response rate (ORR), duration of response (DOR) and progression-free survival (PFS). Pharmacokinetic evaluation was exploratory. Results: A total of 38 patients enrolled (TN, n=18; R/R, n=20); 63% were men; 55% were ≥65 y. At baseline, 100% of TN and 95% of R/R patients had ECOG PS ≤1; 89% and 95% had Ann Arbor stage IV disease, 44% and 60% had intermediate-risk and 11% and 15% had high-risk simplified MCL International Prognostic Index scores, respectively. The median number of prior therapies in the R/R cohort was 2 (range 1-4) and 45% were refractory (stable disease or PD) to most recent prior treatment. As of 4 May 2018, median time on study was 17.6 mo (range 0.6-23.1) for TN and 14.2 mo (range 1.2-23.6) for R/R patients; 78% of TN and 50% of R/R patients completed 6 cycles of BR with acalabrutinib. Across both cohorts, no DLTs were observed. Adverse events (AEs) of any grade in ≥30% of patients in any cohort are in Table 1. In the TN cohort, Grade ≥3 AEs in ≥10% of patients were neutropenia (33%) and pneumonia (11%). Serious AEs (SAEs) occuring in ≥2 patients included pneumonia (Grade 3, n=2 [11%]) and pyrexia (Grade 1, n=2 [11%]). One patient had pulmonary alveolar hemorrhage (Grade 4, investigator assessed as related to acalabrutinib) leading to discontinuation of study treatment (acalabrutinib + BR). There were 3 deaths: 1 patient had Grade 5 pneumonitis (investigator assessed as related to acalabrutinib; 24 days after last dose), 1 died of unascertained cause, and 1 died of unknown cause. In the R/R cohort, Grade ≥3 AEs (in ≥10%) were neutropenia (50%); diarrhea, leukopenia, decreased neutrophil count, pneumonia and thrombocytopenia (10% each). Pneumonia was the only SAE to occur in ≥2 patients (n=3; 1 Grade 1, 2 Grade 3). Three patients had major hemorrhage; all were Grade 3 AEs and investigator assessed as unrelated to study treatment (subdural hematoma [after a traumatic fall], large intestinal ulcer hemorrhage [on study day 2], gastrointestinal hemorrhage [duodenal tumor found on endoscopy]). One patient had Grade 3 angina pectoris (unrelated) leading to discontinuation of study treatment (acalabrutinib + BR). There were 4 deaths: 1 patient had Grade 5 AE cerebrospinal meningitis (investigator assessed as unrelated to acalabrutinib; 123 days after last dose), 1 died of unascertained cause, and 2 had PD. No patients had cytomegalovirus infection, pneumocystis jiroveci pneumonia, or atrial fibrillation during the study. In the TN cohort, the ORR was 94%, with a CR rate of 72% (Table 2); median DOR and median PFS were not reached (NR). In the R/R cohort, ORR was 80% and CR rate was 65%; median DOR was 15.0 mo (95% CI: 12.2, NR) and median PFS was 16.6 mo (95% CI: 14.2, NR). There were no clinically meaningful differences in steady-state acalabrutinib exposure when administered with or without BR (n=12 [TN, n=6; R/R, n=6]). Conclusion: Combination therapy with acalabrutinib + BR showed an acceptable safety profile, with no meaningful changes in acalabrutinib exposure. The high CR rate with acalabrutinib + BR in both TN and R/R MCL further supports a phase 3 randomized study of acalabrutinib + BR versus BR in TN MCL (NCT02972840). Disclosures Phillips: Bayer: Consultancy; Seattle Genetics: Consultancy; Pharmacyclics: Consultancy, Research Funding; Abbvie: Research Funding; Genentech: Consultancy; Gilead: Consultancy. Smith:Portola: Research Funding; Merck Sharpe Dohme and Corp: Consultancy, Research Funding; Acerta Pharma BV: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Research Funding; Genentech: Research Funding; Seattle Genetics: Research Funding. Jurczak:Afimed: Research Funding; BeiGene: Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding; Epizyme: Research Funding; Gilead: Research Funding; Janssen: Research Funding; Nordic Nanovector: Research Funding; Merck: Research Funding; Morphosys: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Research Funding; Servier: Research Funding; Roche: Research Funding; TG Therapeutics: Research Funding; Gilead: Consultancy; Janssen: Consultancy; Sandoz-Nowartis: Consultancy; AstraZeneca/Acerta: Consultancy, Research Funding; European Medicines Agency: Consultancy. Robak:AbbVie, Inc: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Gilead: Consultancy; Roche: Consultancy, Honoraria; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria. Stevens:Bayer: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees. Farber:Celgene: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; BeiGene: Research Funding; Acerta: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Research Funding; Genentech: Honoraria, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Charles M. Farber, MD, PhD, LLC-Medical legal consulting: Consultancy; ummit Medical Group-MD Anderson Cancer Center: Employment; Gilead: Honoraria; Seattle Genetics: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau. Pagel:Pharmacyclics, an AbbVie Company: Consultancy; Gilead: Consultancy. Maddocks:Merck: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Research Funding; Novartis: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics/Janssen: Honoraria; AstraZeneca: Honoraria; Teva: Honoraria; BMS: Research Funding. Flinn:Janssen: Research Funding; Trillium: Research Funding; Calithera: Research Funding; Celgene: Research Funding; Forma: Research Funding; Verastem: Research Funding; Pfizer: Research Funding; Takeda: Research Funding; BeiGene: Research Funding; Seattle Genetics: Research Funding; Pharmacyclics: Research Funding; Novartis: Research Funding; Forty Seven: Research Funding; Constellation: Research Funding; Genentech: Research Funding; Agios: Research Funding; Infinity: Research Funding; Merck: Research Funding; Verastem: Consultancy, Research Funding; TG Therapeutics: Research Funding; Portola: Research Funding; Gilead: Research Funding; Kite: Research Funding; Incyte: Research Funding; ArQule: Research Funding; Curis: Research Funding. 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Goy:Seattle Genetics: Research Funding; Genentech: Research Funding; Kite/Gilead: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Takeda: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Acerta: Consultancy, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Pharmacyclics/J&J: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Celgene: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Hackensack University Medical Center: Employment; COTA: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees. Zinzani:MSD: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; BMS: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Takeda: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Astra Zeneca: Speakers Bureau; Bayer: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; PFIZER: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Janssen: Honoraria, Speakers Bureau; Celltrion: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Roche: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; PFIZER: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Celgene: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Merck: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; SERVIER: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Verastem: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; Bayer: Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Merck: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; Gilead: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Speakers Bureau; TG Pharmaceuticals: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees; TG Pharmaceuticals: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees. Zaucha:Celgene: Honoraria; Amgen: Honoraria; Roche: Honoraria; Takeda: Honoraria. Coleman:Gilead: Consultancy, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Pharmacyclics: Speakers Bureau; Kite Pharmaceuticals: Equity Ownership; Celgene: Consultancy, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Merck: Research Funding; Bayer: Consultancy, Research Funding, Speakers Bureau; Incyte: Research Funding. Chen:Acerta Pharma: Employment; AstraZeneca: Equity Ownership; Merck: Equity Ownership. Lee:Acerta Pharma: Employment. Liang:Acerta Pharma: Employment. Seto:Acerta Pharma: Employment. Wang:Celgene: Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; AstraZeneca: Consultancy, Research Funding; MoreHealth: Consultancy; Acerta Pharma: Honoraria, Research Funding; Novartis: Research Funding; Juno: Research Funding; Dava Oncology: Honoraria; Pharmacyclics: Honoraria, Research Funding; Janssen: Consultancy, Honoraria, Membership on an entity's Board of Directors or advisory committees, Research Funding; Kite Pharma: Research Funding.

Abstract This study compares the frequency and severity of influenza A/H1N1pdm09 (A/H1), influenza A/H3N2 (A/H3) and other respiratory virus infections in hospitalised patients. Data from 17 332 adult hospitalised patients admitted to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital, Perth, Western Australia, with a respiratory illness between 2012 and 2015 were linked with data containing reverse transcription polymerase chain reaction results for respiratory viruses including A/H1, A/H3, influenza B, human metapneumovirus, respiratory syncytial virus and parainfluenza. Of these, 1753 (10.1%) had test results. Multivariable regression analyses were conducted to compare the viruses for clinical outcomes including ICU admission, ventilation, pneumonia, length of stay and death. Patients with A/H1 were more likely to experience severe outcomes such as ICU admission (OR 2.5, 95% CI 1.2–5.5, P = 0.016), pneumonia (OR 3.0, 95% CI 1.6–5.7, P < 0.001) and lower risk of discharge from hospital (indicating longer lengths of hospitalisation; HR 0.64 95% CI 0.47–0.88, P = 0.005), than patients with A/H3. Patients with a non-influenza respiratory virus were less likely to experience severe clinical outcomes than patients with A/H1, however, had similar likelihood when compared to patients with A/H3. Patients hospitalised with A/H1 had higher odds of severe outcomes than patients with A/H3 or other respiratory viruses. Knowledge of circulating influenza strains is important for healthcare preparedness.

Abstract Background and Aims The aging of the population and the increase in life expectancy have led to increasing numbers of elderly patients so greater numbers of elderly patients with chronic kidney diseases are surviving longer. Membranous nephropathy (MN) is the most important cause of glomerular disease in older patients (≥65 years). The aim of this study is to describe the epidemiological and clinical profile of elderly patients with MN and to analyze the diagnostic and management approach. Method We conducted a retrospective descriptive study in the nephrology department at Charles Nicolle hospital over a period of 44 years. All older patients (≥65 years) with histologically proven MN were included in this study. Results Thirty patients were collected. The mean age was 69.43 years (65-78 years) with a male predominance (sex ratio: 2.3) and low socio-economic level in 83.3% of cases. Sixteen patients were smokers (55.3%), 5 ethyl patients (16.7%), diabetes was present in 3 patients (10%) and hypertension in 11 patients (36.7%). Two cases of neoplasm were present, namely one case of prostatic adenocarcinoma and one case of gallbladder adenocarcinoma, all were diagnosed and treated along one year and ten years respectively, before the diagnosis of MN. The circumstances of discovery was dominated by oedema in 27 cases (86.27%), hypertension in 11 cases (36.7%) and elevated creatinine level in 9 cases (30%). Deep venous thrombosis was the circumstance of discovery in one case. At the time of diagnosis, the clinico-biological picture was dominated by high systolic blood pressure in 21 cases (67.6%), anasarca in 7 cases (23.3%), proteinuria in all cases and hematuria in 20 cases (66.6%). Biology revealed nephrotic syndrome (NS) in 28 cases (87.11%), hypercholesterolemia in 23 cases (76.6%), high serum creatinine in 14 cases (46.6%) with an average creatinine level of 123,85 µmol/l, anemia in 17 cases (56.6%) and anti-neutrophil cytoplasmic antibodies were positive in one case. MN was confirmed by a kidney biopsy in all cases. Twenty-two patients had idiopathic MN (IMN) and 2 patients had secondary MN. In fact, MN was associated with multiple myeloma in one case and secondary to hepatitis B in other case. Symptomatic treatment was indicated in all patients. Patients with secondary MN received etiopathogenic treatment. For the IMN, immunosuppressive therapy started early for 12 patients (40%) because of the severe NS and the deterioration of renal function. Eight patients (26.6%) received corticosteroids alone, three patients received corticosteroid with mycofenolate mofetil and one patient received corticosteroid with ciclosporin. We noted complete remission in 6 patients and end renal stage disease in 5 patients. Conclusion In studies of glomerular disease in the elderly, MN was the most common cause of NS. The clinical presentation is similar in older and younger patients, but older patients more often present with kidney failure and severe NS.

ObjectiveThis study is an attempt to explore the relationship of EF incidence with climate variables and ENSO events in the seventh most populous city in India.IntroductionEnteric fever (EF) is a grave systemic infection, which has been controlled quite effectively in developed countries, but continues to be a grave public health concern for India. Environmental drivers such as rainfall, temperature, relative humidity and El Niño-Southern Oscillations (ENSO) are known to influence the transmission of Salmonella typhi and paratyphi. India possesses the largest population burden of EF, yet very few studies have explored its climatic associations.MethodsWe analyzed address-confirmed widal positive, monthly EF cases reported by Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation and local climate data recorded by the Meteorology Office from 1986-2017. EF incidence trend in the city was cross validated using EF monthly reports from one large public hospital and from private reports. We also collected data for Temperature, Humidity and Rainfall from Meteorological Centre of Ahmedabad, population data from Census department, and identified IOD and ENSO events from National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) for the same period.ResultsOur study recorded 29,808 Widal positive cases for 32 years. EF incidence trend over last 32 years showed a decadal pattern. Initial study period (1986-1995) showed higher and erratic case rates, while cases were more restrained during the last decade (1995-2005), although a steady rise is persisting. We also observed a consistent rise in EF cases in the last 8 years (Fig 1).Analysis of annual pattern of monthly-normalized EF cases revealed a bimodal distribution of peaks, in the month of June and September. Peaks of EF cases showed a lag and lead of one month with Tmax and Tmin. The first EF peak in June lagged the Tmax peak in May by a month and the second EF peak in September led the Tmax peak in October by a month. The second peak of EF cases in September coincided with the peak humidity in the same month. The dip between the two EF peaks coincided with maximum rainfall peak in July (Fig 2 a,b,c). Spearman’s rank correlation showed a small positive but significant correlation between monthly EF case rates and climate variables (Tab 1). A Poisson model showed significant but weak association between EF incidence and all climate variables - Tmin, RH and Rainfall. In our study T max had the strongest association with EF cases, wherein an increase of one case was accompanied by a 0.1°C increase of the Tmax (Tab 2).Over the 32 years, there were 4 strong and 4 moderate El Nino years, 5 strong and 2 moderate La Nina years and 17 neutral years. Figure 3 shows that except for the two El Nino years which coincided with positive IOD events, the remaining six El Nino years experienced a subdued rainfall. Six out of seven La Nina years experienced high rainfall. The early El Nino events of 1986, 1987, 1991 and the most recent one of 2015 exhibit a trend of low rainfall and high cases. This trend is diluted in the middle El Nino years, 1994, 1997, 2002 and 2009 showing high and low rainfall and relatively lesser annual case rates. Although the highest case rate was recorded in a La Nina year - 59/100,000 in 1988, average case rates were highest for El Nino years (25.5), lower for La Nina (20.5) and lowest for Neutral years (17.6). However, we were unable to establish any statistical significance between average EF case rates during each of these periods. A spearman correlation between EF cases and rainfall was small but significant for El Nino (rs= 0.35, p=0.001) and for neutral years (rs= 0.20, p= 0.004), but not for La Nina years. A repeated measures ANOVA analysis showed no significant difference in average EF cases during the three ENSO categories, however visual profile plot (Fig 4) of estimated marginal monthly means over the year showed distinct differences – early rise and peaking of cases in the El Nino and La Nina years, and a much more restrained rise without conspicuous peaks in Neutral years.The 2 positive IOD events that occurred along with the strong El Nino events in 1994 and 1997 may have led to lowering of case rates during El Nino years, and thus the lack of a significant increase in EF incidence rates. But this could also be due to the fact that our analysis, unlike a time series analysis, has used an El Nino year as a variable, which does not accommodate the fact that El Nino does not run by a calendar year. We were unable to conduct a geospatial analysis which may have better correlated our data with temperature and rainfall intensity during the three ENSO phases in our region. Uneven development of urban infrastructure would also influence rates of illness. Furthermore, the cases reported to the epidemic cell were based on Slide and/or Tube Widal positive tests which is considered a poor diagnostic test. Despite these numerous and at times opposing factors influencing trends of EF, the upswing in case incidence rate early in the El Nino and La Nina years, when the weather is still balmy and water shortages haven’t yet begun in the city, merits deeper investigation.ConclusionsFuture control strategies for EF need to consider the influence of local environment, geographical climate variation and seasonal patterns. This relationship between ENSO events and EF cases needs to be investigated with larger and longer data sets from different cities and towns in the sub-continent. One of the limitation of our study is we need longer and larger, spatially distributed dataset of EF incidences to associate it better with climate phenomena.

IntroductionIn the year 2000, a group of likeminded individuals got together and convened the first annual World Barista Championship in Monte Carlo. With twelve competitors from around the globe, each competitor was judged by seven judges: one head judge who oversaw the process, two technical judges who assessed technical skills, and four sensory judges who evaluated the taste and appearance of the espresso drinks. Competitors had fifteen minutes to serve four espresso coffees, four cappuccino coffees, and four “signature” drinks that they had devised using one shot of espresso and other ingredients of their choice, but no alcohol. The competitors were also assessed on their overall barista skills, their creativity, and their ability to perform under pressure and impress the judges with their knowledge of coffee. This competition has grown to the extent that eleven years later, in 2011, 54 countries held national barista championships with the winner from each country competing for the highly coveted position of World Barista Champion. That year, Alejandro Mendez from El Salvador became the first world champion from a coffee producing nation. Champion baristas are more likely to come from coffee consuming countries than they are from coffee producing countries as countries that produce coffee seldom have a culture of espresso coffee consumption. While Ireland is not a coffee-producing nation, the Irish are the highest per capita consumers of tea in the world (Mac Con Iomaire, “Ireland”). Despite this, in 2008, Stephen Morrissey from Ireland overcame 50 other national champions to become the 2008 World Barista Champion (see, http://vimeo.com/2254130). Another Irish national champion, Colin Harmon, came fourth in this competition in both 2009 and 2010. This paper discusses the history and development of coffee and coffee houses in Dublin from the 17th century, charting how coffee culture in Dublin appeared, evolved, and stagnated before re-emerging at the beginning of the 21st century, with a remarkable win in the World Barista Championships. The historical links between coffeehouses and media—ranging from print media to electronic and social media—are discussed. In this, the coffee house acts as an informal public gathering space, what urban sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls a “third place,” neither work nor home. These “third places” provide anchors for community life and facilitate and foster broader, more creative interaction (Oldenburg). This paper will also show how competition from other “third places” such as clubs, hotels, restaurants, and bars have affected the vibrancy of coffee houses. Early Coffee Houses The first coffee house was established in Constantinople in 1554 (Tannahill 252; Huetz de Lemps 387). The first English coffee houses opened in Oxford in 1650 and in London in 1652. Coffee houses multiplied thereafter but, in 1676, when some London coffee houses became hotbeds for political protest, the city prosecutor decided to close them. The ban was soon lifted and between 1680 and 1730 Londoners discovered the pleasure of drinking coffee (Huetz de Lemps 388), although these coffee houses sold a number of hot drinks including tea and chocolate as well as coffee.The first French coffee houses opened in Marseille in 1671 and in Paris the following year. Coffee houses proliferated during the 18th century: by 1720 there were 380 public cafés in Paris and by the end of the century there were 600 (Huetz de Lemps 387). Café Procope opened in Paris in 1674 and, in the 18th century, became a literary salon with regular patrons: Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot and Condorcet (Huetz de Lemps 387; Pitte 472). In England, coffee houses developed into exclusive clubs such as Crockford’s and the Reform, whilst elsewhere in Europe they evolved into what we identify as cafés, similar to the tea shops that would open in England in the late 19th century (Tannahill 252-53). Tea quickly displaced coffee in popularity in British coffee houses (Taylor 142). Pettigrew suggests two reasons why Great Britain became a tea-drinking nation while most of the rest of Europe took to coffee (48). The first was the power of the East India Company, chartered by Elizabeth I in 1600, which controlled the world’s biggest tea monopoly and promoted the beverage enthusiastically. The second was the difficulty England had in securing coffee from the Levant while at war with France at the end of the seventeenth century and again during the War of the Spanish Succession (1702-13). Tea also became the dominant beverage in Ireland and over a period of time became the staple beverage of the whole country. In 1835, Samuel Bewley and his son Charles dared to break the monopoly of The East India Company by importing over 2,000 chests of tea directly from Canton, China, to Ireland. His family would later become synonymous with the importation of coffee and with opening cafés in Ireland (see, Farmar for full history of the Bewley's and their activities). Ireland remains the highest per-capita consumer of tea in the world. Coffee houses have long been linked with social and political change (Kennedy, Politicks; Pincus). The notion that these new non-alcoholic drinks were responsible for the Enlightenment because people could now gather socially without getting drunk is rejected by Wheaton as frivolous, since there had always been alternatives to strong drink, and European civilisation had achieved much in the previous centuries (91). She comments additionally that cafés, as gathering places for dissenters, took over the role that taverns had long played. Pennell and Vickery support this argument adding that by offering a choice of drinks, and often sweets, at a fixed price and in a more civilized setting than most taverns provided, coffee houses and cafés were part of the rise of the modern restaurant. It is believed that, by 1700, the commercial provision of food and drink constituted the second largest occupational sector in London. Travellers’ accounts are full of descriptions of London taverns, pie shops, coffee, bun and chop houses, breakfast huts, and food hawkers (Pennell; Vickery). Dublin Coffee Houses and Later incarnations The earliest reference to coffee houses in Dublin is to the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85). Public dining or drinking establishments listed in the 1738 Dublin Directory include taverns, eating houses, chop houses, coffee houses, and one chocolate house in Fownes Court run by Peter Bardin (Hardiman and Kennedy 157). During the second half of the 17th century, Dublin’s merchant classes transferred allegiance from taverns to the newly fashionable coffee houses as places to conduct business. By 1698, the fashion had spread to country towns with coffee houses found in Cork, Limerick, Kilkenny, Clonmel, Wexford, and Galway, and slightly later in Belfast and Waterford in the 18th century. Maxwell lists some of Dublin’s leading coffee houses and taverns, noting their clientele: There were Lucas’s Coffee House, on Cork Hill (the scene of many duels), frequented by fashionable young men; the Phoenix, in Werburgh Street, where political dinners were held; Dick’s Coffee House, in Skinner’s Row, much patronized by literary men, for it was over a bookseller’s; the Eagle, in Eustace Street, where meetings of the Volunteers were held; the Old Sot’s Hole, near Essex Bridge, famous for its beefsteaks and ale; the Eagle Tavern, on Cork Hill, which was demolished at the same time as Lucas’s to make room for the Royal Exchange; and many others. (76) Many of the early taverns were situated around the Winetavern Street, Cook Street, and Fishamble Street area. (see Fig. 1) Taverns, and later coffee houses, became meeting places for gentlemen and centres for debate and the exchange of ideas. In 1706, Francis Dickson published the Flying Post newspaper at the Four Courts coffee house in Winetavern Street. The Bear Tavern (1725) and the Black Lyon (1735), where a Masonic Lodge assembled every Wednesday, were also located on this street (Gilbert v.1 160). Dick’s Coffee house was established in the late 17th century by bookseller and newspaper proprietor Richard Pue, and remained open until 1780 when the building was demolished. In 1740, Dick’s customers were described thus: Ye citizens, gentlemen, lawyers and squires,who summer and winter surround our great fires,ye quidnuncs! who frequently come into Pue’s,To live upon politicks, coffee, and news. (Gilbert v.1 174) There has long been an association between coffeehouses and publishing books, pamphlets and particularly newspapers. Other Dublin publishers and newspapermen who owned coffee houses included Richard Norris and Thomas Bacon. Until the 1850s, newspapers were burdened with a number of taxes: on the newsprint, a stamp duty, and on each advertisement. By 1865, these taxes had virtually disappeared, resulting in the appearance of 30 new newspapers in Ireland, 24 of them in Dublin. Most people read from copies which were available free of charge in taverns, clubs, and coffee houses (MacGiolla Phadraig). Coffee houses also kept copies of international newspapers. On 4 May 1706, Francis Dickson notes in the Dublin Intelligence that he held the Paris and London Gazettes, Leyden Gazette and Slip, the Paris and Hague Lettres à la Main, Daily Courant, Post-man, Flying Post, Post-script and Manuscripts in his coffeehouse in Winetavern Street (Kennedy, “Dublin”). Henry Berry’s analysis of shop signs in Dublin identifies 24 different coffee houses in Dublin, with the main clusters in Essex Street near the Custom’s House (Cocoa Tree, Bacon’s, Dempster’s, Dublin, Merchant’s, Norris’s, and Walsh’s) Cork Hill (Lucas’s, St Lawrence’s, and Solyman’s) Skinners’ Row (Bow’s’, Darby’s, and Dick’s) Christ Church Yard (Four Courts, and London) College Green (Jack’s, and Parliament) and Crampton Court (Exchange, and Little Dublin). (see Figure 1, below, for these clusters and the locations of other Dublin coffee houses.) The earliest to be referenced is the Cock Coffee House in Cook Street during the reign of Charles II (1660-85), with Solyman’s (1691), Bow’s (1692), and Patt’s on High Street (1699), all mentioned in print before the 18th century. The name of one, the Cocoa Tree, suggests that chocolate was also served in this coffee house. More evidence of the variety of beverages sold in coffee houses comes from Gilbert who notes that in 1730, one Dublin poet wrote of George Carterwright’s wife at The Custom House Coffee House on Essex Street: Her coffee’s fresh and fresh her tea,Sweet her cream, ptizan, and whea,her drams, of ev’ry sort, we findboth good and pleasant, in their kind. (v. 2 161) Figure 1: Map of Dublin indicating Coffee House clusters 1 = Sackville St.; 2 = Winetavern St.; 3 = Essex St.; 4 = Cork Hill; 5 = Skinner's Row; 6 = College Green.; 7 = Christ Church Yard; 8 = Crampton Court.; 9 = Cook St.; 10 = High St.; 11 = Eustace St.; 12 = Werburgh St.; 13 = Fishamble St.; 14 = Westmorland St.; 15 = South Great George's St.; 16 = Grafton St.; 17 = Kildare St.; 18 = Dame St.; 19 = Anglesea Row; 20 = Foster Place; 21 = Poolbeg St.; 22 = Fleet St.; 23 = Burgh Quay.A = Cafe de Paris, Lincoln Place; B = Red Bank Restaurant, D'Olier St.; C = Morrison's Hotel, Nassau St.; D = Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen's Green; E = Jury's Hotel, Dame St. Some coffee houses transformed into the gentlemen’s clubs that appeared in London, Paris and Dublin in the 17th century. These clubs originally met in coffee houses, then taverns, until later proprietary clubs became fashionable. Dublin anticipated London in club fashions with members of the Kildare Street Club (1782) and the Sackville Street Club (1794) owning the premises of their clubhouse, thus dispensing with the proprietor. The first London club to be owned by the members seems to be Arthur’s, founded in 1811 (McDowell 4) and this practice became widespread throughout the 19th century in both London and Dublin. The origin of one of Dublin’s most famous clubs, Daly’s Club, was a chocolate house opened by Patrick Daly in c.1762–65 in premises at 2–3 Dame Street (Brooke). It prospered sufficiently to commission its own granite-faced building on College Green between Anglesea Street and Foster Place which opened in 1789 (Liddy 51). Daly’s Club, “where half the land of Ireland has changed hands”, was renowned for the gambling that took place there (Montgomery 39). Daly’s sumptuous palace catered very well (and discreetly) for honourable Members of Parliament and rich “bucks” alike (Craig 222). The changing political and social landscape following the Act of Union led to Daly’s slow demise and its eventual closure in 1823 (Liddy 51). Coincidentally, the first Starbucks in Ireland opened in 2005 in the same location. Once gentlemen’s clubs had designated buildings where members could eat, drink, socialise, and stay overnight, taverns and coffee houses faced competition from the best Dublin hotels which also had coffee rooms “in which gentlemen could read papers, write letters, take coffee and wine in the evening—an exiguous substitute for a club” (McDowell 17). There were at least 15 establishments in Dublin city claiming to be hotels by 1789 (Corr 1) and their numbers grew in the 19th century, an expansion which was particularly influenced by the growth of railways. By 1790, Dublin’s public houses (“pubs”) outnumbered its coffee houses with Dublin boasting 1,300 (Rooney 132). Names like the Goose and Gridiron, Harp and Crown, Horseshoe and Magpie, and Hen and Chickens—fashionable during the 17th and 18th centuries in Ireland—hung on decorative signs for those who could not read. Throughout the 20th century, the public house provided the dominant “third place” in Irish society, and the drink of choice for itd predominantly male customers was a frothy pint of Guinness. Newspapers were available in public houses and many newspapermen had their own favourite hostelries such as Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street; The Pearl, and The Palace on Fleet Street; and The White Horse Inn on Burgh Quay. Any coffee served in these establishments prior to the arrival of the new coffee culture in the 21st century was, however, of the powdered instant variety. Hotels / Restaurants with Coffee Rooms From the mid-19th century, the public dining landscape of Dublin changed in line with London and other large cities in the United Kingdom. Restaurants did appear gradually in the United Kingdom and research suggests that one possible reason for this growth from the 1860s onwards was the Refreshment Houses and Wine Licences Act (1860). The object of this act was to “reunite the business of eating and drinking”, thereby encouraging public sobriety (Mac Con Iomaire, “Emergence” v.2 95). Advertisements for Dublin restaurants appeared in The Irish Times from the 1860s. Thom’s Directory includes listings for Dining Rooms from the 1870s and Refreshment Rooms are listed from the 1880s. This pattern continued until 1909, when Thom’s Directory first includes a listing for “Restaurants and Tea Rooms”. Some of the establishments that advertised separate coffee rooms include Dublin’s first French restaurant, the Café de Paris, The Red Bank Restaurant, Morrison’s Hotel, Shelbourne Hotel, and Jury’s Hotel (see Fig. 1). The pattern of separate ladies’ coffee rooms emerged in Dublin and London during the latter half of the 19th century and mixed sex dining only became popular around the last decade of the 19th century, partly infuenced by Cesar Ritz and Auguste Escoffier (Mac Con Iomaire, “Public Dining”). Irish Cafés: From Bewley’s to Starbucks A number of cafés appeared at the beginning of the 20th century, most notably Robert Roberts and Bewley’s, both of which were owned by Quaker families. Ernest Bewley took over the running of the Bewley’s importation business in the 1890s and opened a number of Oriental Cafés; South Great Georges Street (1894), Westmoreland Street (1896), and what became the landmark Bewley’s Oriental Café in Grafton Street (1927). Drawing influence from the grand cafés of Paris and Vienna, oriental tearooms, and Egyptian architecture (inspired by the discovery in 1922 of Tutankhamen’s Tomb), the Grafton Street business brought a touch of the exotic into the newly formed Irish Free State. Bewley’s cafés became the haunt of many of Ireland’s leading literary figures, including Samuel Becket, Sean O’Casey, and James Joyce who mentioned the café in his book, Dubliners. A full history of Bewley’s is available (Farmar). It is important to note, however, that pots of tea were sold in equal measure to mugs of coffee in Bewley’s. The cafés changed over time from waitress- to self-service and a failure to adapt to changing fashions led to the business being sold, with only the flagship café in Grafton Street remaining open in a revised capacity. It was not until the beginning of the 21st century that a new wave of coffee house culture swept Ireland. This was based around speciality coffee beverages such as espressos, cappuccinos, lattés, macchiatos, and frappuccinnos. This new phenomenon coincided with the unprecedented growth in the Irish economy, during which Ireland became known as the “Celtic Tiger” (Murphy 3). One aspect of this period was a building boom and a subsequent growth in apartment living in the Dublin city centre. The American sitcom Friends and its fictional coffee house, “Central Perk,” may also have helped popularise the use of coffee houses as “third spaces” (Oldenberg) among young apartment dwellers in Dublin. This was also the era of the “dotcom boom” when many young entrepreneurs, software designers, webmasters, and stock market investors were using coffee houses as meeting places for business and also as ad hoc office spaces. This trend is very similar to the situation in the 17th and early 18th centuries where coffeehouses became known as sites for business dealings. Various theories explaining the growth of the new café culture have circulated, with reasons ranging from a growth in Eastern European migrants, anti-smoking legislation, returning sophisticated Irish emigrants, and increased affluence (Fenton). Dublin pubs, facing competition from the new coffee culture, began installing espresso coffee machines made by companies such as Gaggia to attract customers more interested in a good latté than a lager and it is within this context that Irish baristas gained such success in the World Barista competition. In 2001 the Georges Street branch of Bewley’s was taken over by a chain called Café, Bar, Deli specialising in serving good food at reasonable prices. Many ex-Bewley’s staff members subsequently opened their own businesses, roasting coffee and running cafés. Irish-owned coffee chains such as Java Republic, Insomnia, and O’Brien’s Sandwich Bars continued to thrive despite the competition from coffee chains Starbucks and Costa Café. Indeed, so successful was the handmade Irish sandwich and coffee business that, before the economic downturn affected its business, Irish franchise O’Brien’s operated in over 18 countries. The Café, Bar, Deli group had also begun to franchise its operations in 2008 when it too became a victim of the global economic downturn. With the growth of the Internet, many newspapers have experienced falling sales of their printed format and rising uptake of their electronic versions. Most Dublin coffee houses today provide wireless Internet connections so their customers can read not only the local newspapers online, but also others from all over the globe, similar to Francis Dickenson’s coffee house in Winetavern Street in the early 18th century. Dublin has become Europe’s Silicon Valley, housing the European headquarters for companies such as Google, Yahoo, Ebay, Paypal, and Facebook. There are currently plans to provide free wireless connectivity throughout Dublin’s city centre in order to promote e-commerce, however, some coffee houses shut off the wireless Internet in their establishments at certain times of the week in order to promote more social interaction to ensure that these “third places” remain “great good places” at the heart of the community (Oldenburg). Conclusion Ireland is not a country that is normally associated with a coffee culture but coffee houses have been part of the fabric of that country since they emerged in Dublin in the 17th century. These Dublin coffee houses prospered in the 18th century, and survived strong competition from clubs and hotels in the 19th century, and from restaurant and public houses into the 20th century. In 2008, when Stephen Morrissey won the coveted title of World Barista Champion, Ireland’s place as a coffee consuming country was re-established. The first decade of the 21st century witnessed a birth of a new espresso coffee culture, which shows no signs of weakening despite Ireland’s economic travails. References Berry, Henry F. “House and Shop Signs in Dublin in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.” The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland 40.2 (1910): 81–98. Brooke, Raymond Frederick. Daly’s Club and the Kildare Street Club, Dublin. Dublin, 1930. Corr, Frank. Hotels in Ireland. Dublin: Jemma Publications, 1987. Craig, Maurice. Dublin 1660-1860. Dublin: Allen Figgis, 1980. Farmar, Tony. The Legendary, Lofty, Clattering Café. Dublin: A&A Farmar, 1988. Fenton, Ben. “Cafe Culture taking over in Dublin.” The Telegraph 2 Oct. 2006. 29 Apr. 2012 ‹http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1530308/cafe-culture-taking-over-in-Dublin.html›. Gilbert, John T. A History of the City of Dublin (3 vols.). Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1978. Girouard, Mark. Victorian Pubs. New Haven, Conn.: Yale UP, 1984. 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L. “Old Dublin Clubs and Coffee-Houses.” New Ireland Review VI (1896): 39–44. Murphy, Antoine E. “The ‘Celtic Tiger’—An Analysis of Ireland’s Economic Growth Performance.” EUI Working Papers, 2000 29 Apr. 2012 ‹http://www.eui.eu/RSCAS/WP-Texts/00_16.pdf›. Oldenburg, Ray, ed. Celebrating the Third Place: Inspiring Stories About The “Great Good Places” At the Heart of Our Communities. New York: Marlowe & Company 2001. Pennell, Sarah. “‘Great Quantities of Gooseberry Pye and Baked Clod of Beef’: Victualling and Eating out in Early Modern London.” Londinopolis: Essays in the Cultural and Social History of Early Modern London. Eds. Paul Griffiths and Mark S. R. Jenner. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2000. 228–59. Pettigrew, Jane. A Social History of Tea. London: National Trust Enterprises, 2001. Pincus, Steve. “‘Coffee Politicians Does Create’: Coffeehouses and Restoration Political Culture.” The Journal of Modern History 67.4 (1995): 807–34. Pitte, Jean-Robert. “The Rise of the Restaurant.” Food: A Culinary History from Antiquity to the Present. Eds. Jean-Louis Flandrin and Massimo Montanari. New York: Columbia UP, 1999. 471–80. Rooney, Brendan, ed. A Time and a Place: Two Centuries of Irish Social Life. Dublin: National Gallery of Ireland, 2006. Tannahill, Reay. Food in History. St Albans, Herts.: Paladin, 1975. Taylor, Laurence. “Coffee: The Bottomless Cup.” The American Dimension: Cultural Myths and Social Realities. Eds. W. Arens and Susan P. Montague. Port Washington, N.Y.: Alfred Publishing, 1976. 14–48. Vickery, Amanda. Behind Closed Doors: At Home in Georgian England. New Haven: Yale UP, 2009. Wheaton, Barbara Ketcham. Savouring the Past: The French Kitchen and Table from 1300-1789. London: Chatto & Windus, Hogarth P, 1983. Williams, Anne. “Historical Attitudes to Women Eating in Restaurants.” Public Eating: Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 1991. Ed. Harlan Walker. Totnes: Prospect Books, 1992. 311–14. World Barista, Championship. “History–World Barista Championship”. 2012. 02 Apr. 2012 ‹http://worldbaristachampionship.com2012›.AcknowledgementA warm thank you to Dr. Kevin Griffin for producing the map of Dublin for this article.

Introduction The academic area known as food studies—incorporating elements from disciplines including anthropology, folklore, history, sociology, gastronomy, and cultural studies as well as a range of multi-disciplinary approaches—asserts that cooking and eating practices are less a matter of nutrition (maintaining life by absorbing nutrients from food) and more a personal or group expression of various social and/or cultural actions, values or positions. The French philosopher, Michel de Certeau agrees, arguing, moreover, that there is an urgency to name and unpick (what he identifies as) the “minor” practices, the “multifarious and silent reserve of procedures” of everyday life. Such practices are of crucial importance to all of us, as although seemingly ordinary, and even banal, they have the ability to “organise” our lives (48). Within such a context, the following aims to consider the influence and significance of an important (although largely unstudied) professional figure in rural and regional economic life: the country food preparer variously known as the local chef or cook. Such an approach is obviously framed by the concept of “cultural economy”. This term recognises the convergence, and interdependence, of the spheres of the cultural and the economic (see Scott 335, for an influential discussion on how “the cultural geography of space and the economic geography of production are intertwined”). Utilising this concept in relation to chefs and cooks seeks to highlight how the ways these figures organise (to use de Certeau’s term) the social and cultural lives of those in their communities are embedded in economic practices and also how, in turn, their economic contributions are dependent upon social and cultural practices. This initial mapping of the influence and significance of the rural and regional chef in one rural and regional area, therefore, although necessarily different in approach and content, continues the application of such converged conceptualisations of the cultural and economic as Teema Tairu’s discussion of the social, recreational and spiritual importance of food preparation and consumption by the unemployed in Finland, Guy Redden’s exploration of how supermarket products reflect shared values, and a series of analyses of the cultural significance of individual food products, such as Richard White’s study of vegemite. While Australians, both urban and rural, currently enjoy access to an internationally renowned food culture, it is remarkable to consider that it has only been during the years following the Second World War that these sophisticated and now much emulated ways of eating and cooking have developed. It is, indeed, only during the last half century that Australian eating habits have shifted from largely Anglo-Saxon influenced foods and meals that were prepared and eaten in the home, to the consumption of a wider range of more international and sophisticated foods and meals that are, increasingly, prepared by others and eaten outside the consumer’s residence. While a range of commonly cited influences has prompted this relatively recent revolution in culinary practice—including post-war migration, increasing levels of prosperity, widespread international travel, and the forces of globalisation—some of this change owes a debt to a series of influential individual figures. These tastemakers have included food writers and celebrity chefs; with early exponents including Margaret Fulton, Graham Kerr and Charmaine Solomon (see Brien). The findings of this study suggests that many restaurant chefs, and other cooks, have similarly played, and continue to take, a key role in the lives of not only the, necessarily, limited numbers of individuals who dine in a particular eatery or the other chefs and/or cooks trained in that establishment (Ruhlman, Reach), but also the communities in which they work on a much broader scale. Considering Chefs In his groundbreaking study, A History of Cooks and Cooking, Australian food historian Michael Symons proposes that those who prepare food are worthy of serious consideration because “if ‘we are what we eat’, cooks have not just made our meals, but have also made us. They have shaped our social networks, our technologies, arts and religions” (xi). Writing that cooks “deserve to have their stories told often and well,” and that, moreover, there is a “need to invent ways to think about them, and to revise our views about ourselves in their light” (xi), Symons’s is a clarion call to investigate the role and influence of cooks. Charles-Allen Baker-Clark has explicitly begun to address this lacunae in his Profiles from the Kitchen: What Great Cooks Have Taught Us About Ourselves and Our Food (2006), positing not only how these figures have shaped our relationships with food and eating, but also how these relationships impact on identities, culture and a range of social issues including those of social justice, spirituality and environmental sustainability. With the growing public interest in celebrities, it is perhaps not surprising that, while such research on chefs and/or cooks is still in its infancy, most of the existing detailed studies on individuals focus on famed international figures such as Marie-Antoine Carême (Bernier; Kelly), Escoffier (James; Rachleff; Sanger), and Alexis Soyer (Brandon; Morris; Ray). Despite an increasing number of tabloid “tell-all” surveys of contemporary celebrity chefs, which are largely based on mass media sources and which display little concern for historical or biographical accuracy (Bowyer; Hildred and Ewbank; Simpson; Smith), there have been to date only a handful of “serious” researched biographies of contemporary international chefs such as Julia Child, Alice Waters (Reardon; Riley), and Bernard Loiseux (Chelminski)—the last perhaps precipitated by an increased interest in this chef following his suicide after his restaurant lost one of its Michelin stars. Despite a handful of collective biographical studies of Australian chefs from the later-1980s on (Jenkins; O’Donnell and Knox; Brien), there are even fewer sustained biographical studies of Australian chefs or cooks (Clifford-Smith’s 2004 study of “the supermarket chef,” Bernard King, is a notable exception). Throughout such investigations, as well as in other popular food writing in magazines and cookbooks, there is some recognition that influential chefs and cooks have worked, and continue to work, outside such renowned urban culinary centres as Paris, London, New York, and Sydney. The Michelin starred restaurants of rural France, the so-called “gastropubs” of rural Britain and the advent of the “star-chef”-led country bed and breakfast establishment in Australia and New Zealand, together with the proliferation of farmer’s markets and a public desire to consume locally sourced, and ecologically sustainable, produce (Nabhan), has focused fresh attention on what could be called “the rural/regional chef”. However, despite the above, little attention has focused on the Australian non-urban chef/cook outside of the pages of a small number of key food writing magazines such as Australian Gourmet Traveller and Vogue Entertaining + Travel. Setting the Scene with an Australian Country Example: Armidale and Guyra In 2004, the Armidale-Dumaresq Council (of the New England region, New South Wales, Australia) adopted the slogan “Foodies thrive in Armidale” to market its main city for the next three years. With a population of some 20,000, Armidale’s main industry (in economic terms) is actually education and related services, but the latest Tourist Information Centre’s Dining Out in Armidale (c. 2006) brochure lists some 25 restaurants, 9 bistros and brasseries, 19 cafés and 5 fast food outlets featuring Australian, French, Italian, Mediterranean, Chinese, Thai, Indian and “international” cuisines. The local Yellow Pages telephone listings swell the estimation of the total number of food-providing businesses in the city to 60. Alongside the range of cuisines cited above, a large number of these eateries foreground the use of fresh, local foods with such phrases as “local and regional produce,” “fresh locally grown produce,” “the finest New England ingredients” and locally sourced “New England steaks, lamb and fresh seafood” repeatedly utilised in advertising and other promotional material. Some thirty kilometres to the north along the New England highway, the country town of Guyra, proclaimed a town in 1885, is the administrative and retail centre for a shire of some 2,200 people. Situated at 1,325 metres above sea level, the town is one of the highest in Australia with its main industries those of fine wool and lamb, beef cattle, potatoes and tomatoes. Until 1996, Guyra had been home to a large regional abattoir that employed some 400 staff at the height of its productivity, but rationalisation of the meat processing industry closed the facility, together with its associated pet food processor, causing a downturn in employment, local retail business, and real estate values. Since 2004, Guyra’s economy has, however, begun to recover after the town was identified by the Costa Group as the perfect site for glasshouse grown tomatoes. Perfect, due to its rare combination of cool summers (with an average of less than two days per year with temperatures over 30 degrees celsius), high winter light levels and proximity to transport routes. The result: 3.3 million kilograms of truss, vine harvested, hydroponic “Top of the Range” tomatoes currently produced per annum, all year round, in Guyra’s 5-hectare glasshouse: Australia’s largest, opened in December 2005. What residents (of whom I am one) call the “tomato-led recovery” has generated some 60 new local jobs directly related to the business, and significant flow on effects in terms of the demand for local services and retail business. This has led to substantial rates of renovation and building of new residential and retail properties, and a noticeably higher level of trade flowing into the town. Guyra’s main street retail sector is currently burgeoning and stories of its renewal have appeared in the national press. Unlike many similar sized inland towns, there are only a handful of empty shops (and most of these are in the process of being renovated), and new commercial premises have recently been constructed and opened for business. Although a small town, even in Australian country town terms, Guyra now has 10 restaurants, hotel bistros and cafés. A number of these feature local foods, with one pub’s bistro regularly featuring the trout that is farmed just kilometres away. Assessing the Contribution of Local Chefs and Cooks In mid-2007, a pilot survey to begin to explore the contribution of the regional chef in these two close, but quite distinct, rural and regional areas was sent to the chefs/cooks of the 70 food-serving businesses in Armidale and Guyra that I could identify. Taking into account the 6 returns that revealed a business had closed, moved or changed its name, the 42 replies received represented a response rate of 65.5per cent (or two thirds), representatively spread across the two towns. Answers indicated that the businesses comprised 18 restaurants, 13 cafés, 6 bistro/brasseries, 1 roadhouse, 1 takeaway/fast food and 3 bed and breakfast establishments. These businesses employed 394 staff, of whom 102 were chefs and/cooks, or 25.9 per cent of the total number of staff then employed by these establishments. In answer to a series of questions designed to ascertain the roles played by these chefs/cooks in their local communities, as well as more widely, I found a wide range of inputs. These chefs had, for instance, made a considerable contribution to their local economies in the area of fostering local jobs and a work culture: 40 (95 per cent) had worked with/for another local business including but not exclusively food businesses; 30 (71.4 per cent) had provided work experience opportunities for those aspiring to work in the culinary field; and 22 (more than half) had provided at least one apprenticeship position. A large number had brought outside expertise and knowledge with them to these local areas, with 29 (69 per cent) having worked in another food business outside Armidale or Guyra. In terms of community building and sustainability, 10 (or almost a quarter) had assisted or advised the local Council; 20 (or almost half) had worked with local school children in a food-related way; 28 (two thirds) had helped at least one charity or other local fundraising group. An extra 7 (bringing the cumulative total to 83.3 per cent) specifically mentioned that they had worked with/for the local gallery, museum and/or local history group. 23 (more than half) had been involved with and/or contributed to a local festival. The question of whether they had “contributed anything else important, helpful or interesting to the community” elicited the following responses: writing a food or wine column for the local paper (3 respondents), delivering TAFE teacher workshops (2 respondents), holding food demonstrations for Rotary and Lions Clubs and school fetes (5 respondents), informing the public about healthy food (3 respondents), educating the public about environmental issues (2 respondents) and working regularly with Meals on Wheels or a similar organisation (6 respondents, or 14.3 per cent). One respondent added his/her work as a volunteer driver for the local ambulance transport service, the only non-food related response to this question. Interestingly, in line with the activity of well-known celebrity chefs, in addition to the 3 chefs/cooks who had written a food or wine column for the local newspaper, 11 respondents (more than a quarter of the sample) had written or contributed to a cookbook or recipe collection. One of these chefs/cooks, moreover, reported that he/she produced a weblog that was “widely read”, and also contributed to international food-related weblogs and websites. In turn, the responses indicated that the (local) communities—including their governing bodies—also offer some support of these chefs and cooks. Many respondents reported they had been featured in, or interviewed and/or photographed for, a range of media. This media comprised the following: the local newspapers (22 respondents, 52.4 per cent), local radio stations (19 respondents, 45.2 per cent), regional television stations (11 respondents, 26.2 per cent) and local websites (8 respondents, 19 per cent). A number had also attracted other media exposure. This was in the local, regional area, especially through local Council publications (31 respondents, 75 per cent), as well as state-wide (2 respondents, 4.8 per cent) and nationally (6 respondents, 14.3 per cent). Two of these local chefs/cooks (or 4.8 per cent) had attracted international media coverage of their activities. It is clear from the above that, in the small area surveyed, rural and regional chefs/cooks make a considerable contribution to their local communities, with all the chefs/cooks who replied making some, and a number a major, contribution to those communities, well beyond the requirements of their paid positions in the field of food preparation and service. The responses tendered indicate that these chefs and cooks contributed regularly to local public events, institutions and charities (with a high rate of contribution to local festivals, school programs and local charitable activities), and were also making an input into public education programs, local cultural institutions, political and social debates of local importance, as well as the profitability of other local businesses. They were also actively supporting not only the future of the food industry as a whole, but also the viability of their local communities, by providing work experience opportunities and taking on local apprentices for training and mentorship. Much more than merely food providers, as a group, these chefs and cooks were, it appears, also operating as food historians, public intellectuals, teachers, activists and environmentalists. They were, moreover, operating as content producers for local media while, at the same time, acting as media producers and publishers. Conclusion The terms “chef” and “cook” can be diversely defined. All definitions, however, commonly involve a sense of professionalism in food preparation reflecting some specialist knowledge and skill in the culinary arts, as well as various levels of creativity, experience and responsibility. In terms of the specific duties that chefs and professional cooks undertake every day, almost all publications on the subject deal specifically with workplace related activities such as food and other supply ordering, staff management, menu planning and food preparation and serving. This is constant across culinary textbooks (see, for instance, Culinary Institute of America 2002) and more discursive narratives about the professional chef such as the bestselling autobiographical musings of Anthony Bourdain, and Michael Ruhlman’s journalistic/biographical investigations of US chefs (Soul; Reach). An alternative preliminary examination, and categorisation, of the roles these professionals play outside their kitchens reveals, however, a much wider range of community based activities and inputs than such texts suggest. It is without doubt that the chefs and cooks who responded to the survey discussed above have made, and are making, a considerable contribution to their local New England communities. It is also without doubt that these contributions are of considerable value, and valued by, those country communities. Further research will have to consider to what extent these contributions, and the significance and influence of these chefs and cooks in those communities are mirrored, or not, by other country (as well as urban) chefs and cooks, and their communities. Acknowledgements An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Engaging Histories: Australian Historical Association Regional Conference, at the University of New England, September 2007. I would like to thank the session’s participants for their insightful comments on that presentation. A sincere thank you, too, to the reviewers of this article, whose suggestions assisted my thinking on this piece. Research to complete this article was carried out whilst a Visiting Fellow with the Research School of Humanities, the Australian National University. References Armidale Tourist Information Centre. Dining Out in Armidale [brochure]. Armidale: Armidale-Dumaresq Council, c. 2006. Baker-Clark, C. A. Profiles from the Kitchen: What Great Cooks have Taught us about Ourselves and our Food. Lexington: UP of Kentucky, 2006. Bernier, G. Antoine Carême 1783-1833: La Sensualité Gourmande en Europe. Paris: Grasset, 1989. Bourdain, A. Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly. New York: Harper Perennial, 2001. Bowyer, A. Delia Smith: The Biography. London: André Deutsch, 1999. Brandon, R. The People’s Chef: Alexis Soyer, A Life in Seven Courses. Chichester: Wiley, 2005. Brien, D. L. “Australian Celebrity Chefs 1950-1980: A Preliminary Study.” Australian Folklore 21 (2006): 201–18. Chelminski, R. The Perfectionist: Life and Death In Haute Cuisine. New York: Gotham Books, 2005. Clifford-Smith, S. A Marvellous Party: The Life of Bernard King. Milson’s Point: Random House Australia, 2004. Culinary Institute of America. The Professional Chef. 7th ed. New York: Wiley, 2002. de Certeau, M. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1988. Hildred, S., and T. Ewbank. Jamie Oliver: The Biography. London: Blake, 2001. Jenkins, S. 21 Great Chefs of Australia: The Coming of Age of Australian Cuisine. East Roseville: Simon and Schuster, 1991. Kelly, I. Cooking for Kings: The Life of Antoine Carême, The First Celebrity Chef. New York: Walker and Company, 2003. James, K. Escoffier: The King of Chefs. London and New York: Hambledon and London, 2002. Morris, H. Portrait of a Chef: The Life of Alexis Soyer, Sometime Chef to the Reform Club. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1938. Nabhan, G. P. Coming Home to Eat: The Pleasures and Politics of Local Foods. New York: W.W. Norton, 2002. O’Donnell, M., and T. Knox. Great Australian Chefs. Melbourne: Bookman Press, 1999. Rachleff, O. S. Escoffier: King of Chefs. New York: Broadway Play Pub., 1983. Ray, E. Alexis Soyer: Cook Extraordinary. Lewes: Southover, 1991. Reardon, J. M. F. K. Fisher, Julia Child, and Alice Waters: Celebrating the Pleasures of the Table. New York: Harmony Books, 1994. Redden, G. “Packaging the Gifts of Nation.” M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.7 (1999) accessed 10 September 2008 http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/gifts.php. Riley, N. Appetite For Life: The Biography of Julia Child. New York: Doubleday, 1977. Ruhlman, M. The Soul of a Chef. New York: Viking, 2001. Ruhlman, M. The Reach of a Chef. New York: Viking, 2006. Sanger, M. B. Escoffier: Master Chef. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1976. Scott, A. J. “The Cultural Economy of Cities.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 212 (1997) 323–39. Simpson, N. Gordon Ramsay: The Biography. London: John Blake, 2006. Smith, G. Nigella Lawson: A Biography. London: Andre Deutsch, 2005. Symons, M. A History of Cooks and Cooking. Urbana and Chicago: U of Illinois P, 2004. Tairu, T. “Material Food, Spiritual Quest: When Pleasure Does Not Follow Purchase.” M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.7 (1999) accessed 10 September 2008 http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/pleasure.php. White, R. S. “Popular Culture as the Everyday: A Brief Cultural History of Vegemite.” Australian Popular Culture. Ed. I. Craven. Cambridge UP, 1994. 15–21.

The return of Jesus Christ, the end of the world, war, devastating earthquakes, invading space ships, asteroid strikes, the Y2K bug, what do they all have in common? Little if anything really, except that they have all been associated with the coming of the year 2000. To many in Australia the year 2000 may well be an end, if not the End. To some of those, however, it may also be the beginning of something else most significant. That expectation will now be examined. You will have a conducted tour through war and peace, demonic activity, and aeroplanes crashing and people flying. The subject is how a significant number of Australian Christians understand the end of the world ("The End Times"), most particularly the return of Jesus Christ. Those who hold this view we will call "EndTimers". That Jesus Christ will return has been the expectation of the church from its conception. The day of Pentecost is usually regarded as the birthday of the church, and a few days before that Jesus ascended into heaven and the astonished disciples who witnessed it were told by two angels that Jesus would return (Acts 1:9-11). An expectation of the literal return of Jesus Christ has been with the church ever since. It being commonly featured in its creeds both ancient and modern. However, some individual Christians do not hold to a literal, physical return, though they would be in the minority. But amongst those who do expect a literal return, there has not always been agreement about its nature. EndTimers are one group among many, but scattered throughout the Protestant churches. They predict that Jesus Christ will return very soon, indeed, he will return in "this generation". This phrase and many of the ideas commonly associated with it are to be found in the Gospel of Matthew chapter 24. In this chapter Jesus predicts some cataclysmic events, and towards the end of his address, in verse 34, says that they will happen in "this generation". The most natural understanding of this phrase in context is that those events would happen in the life time of his hearers. Indeed, events very much like those described by Jesus did happen in the Fall of Jerusalem about forty years later. Such are the similarities between the two, many Christians with a more liberal view of the Bible see Christ's words as a later construct of the church placed on his lips, and thus as prophecy after the event. For reasons that are more complex than logical EndTimers regard the phrase "this generation" as referring to the generation beginning at the founding of the modern state of Israel in 1948. From that, the events predicted by Jesus are regarded not specifically about a fall of Jerusalem, but about his return and the end of the world. Therefore those who hold this view believe that the End Times will begin within a generation of 1948. If these EndTimers, then, believe that Jesus Christ will return within a generation of 1948, the first question one has to ask is, "How long is a generation?" In the 1960s and 1970s, even into the 1980s, the common answer to that was "Forty years!". Consequently, a glut of books and videos appeared predicting that the End would begin in the 1980s, and they included such titles as: Will Christ Return by 1988: 101 Reasons Why; 88 Reasons Why Christ Will Return in 1988; and Decade of the 80's: A World in Spasm. But the most prominent and influential of them was Hal Lindsey's Late Great Planet Earth, published in 1970. That book is said to be the third largest selling Christian book of all time, with over 20 million copies in print (weep your heart out Bryce Courtney). Most books of this type have been published in America, but were frequently available in Australia. Though this system of belief seems to have had its origins in nineteenth century Britain, American fundamentalists have been its main advocates and developers. As so often happens with American ideas and practices, many Australians have enthusiastically adopted it. In Australia one of the leading teachers in the EndTimers' camp is Brisbane's Ray Yerbury, though New Zealander Barry Smith through lecture tours and books has probably had more influence here. The books of Hal Lindsey, Ray Yerbury, Barry Smith and a few other sources will now be used to detail the beliefs of these Australian EndTimers. Lindsey is included because though he is American, Late Great Planet Earth has been a major, perhaps the major, factor in many Australian Christians adopting these beliefs. The starting point must be the establishment of the modern state of Israel in 1948. To EndTimers this is fulfilment of biblical prophecy. Lindsey says that the "paramount prophetic sign" concerning the return of Jesus Christ is that "Israel had to be a nation again in the land of its forefathers". As has already been noted, within this scheme the return of Christ must happen within a generation of that occurrence. Lindsey writing in 1970 was bold enough to say a generation was "something like forty years" (Late, 43, 54), and is said to believe that Christ will definitely return before the year 2000. Yerbury, writing twenty years later, had to have other options, and he stated that a generation could be either 40, 70-80, 100 or 120 years (Vital, 11). Now 1988 is well in the past, many EndTimers seem to expect Christ's return in or around the year 2000. However, this belief is not usually held with great dogmatism or precision. Indeed, End Times expectations in Australia have been quieter in 1999 than many would have expected. There has been little banner-waving or overt demonstration. In addition the sale of books about the End Times through Australian Christian bookshops has also been slower this year than expected. EndTimers commonly believe that further "signs" of Jesus Christ's return include widespread wars, earthquakes and famines. This is based on a particular understanding of Matthew chapter 24. In addition, a decline in Christian moral values (2 Timothy 3:1-4) and a worldwide control of the money markets (Revelation 13:11-18) are also seen as signs that Christ's return is not far away. To what level wars, earthquakes and famines have to rise or moral values decline before they can be considered authentic signs is not usually discussed, but is clearly a difficulty. Another "sign" of the approaching End is the emergence of a demonic political leader, the Antichrist, also known as "the Beast" (Revelation 13:1-18). With the time scale involved it is necessary to believe that this man, and it always seems to be a man, is alive today, so Antichrist candidates have included the present Pope, the President of a rapidly emerging United States of Europe, Bill Gates, and Prince Charles. Australian leaders do not seem to be considered sufficiently important or frightening to feature as Anichrist candidates. The Bible gives the identification of this "Beast": the number 666. Barry Smith, with neat numerics (a = 6, b = 12, etc.), favoured Henry Kissinger for this role, his surname totalling 666 on Smith's method. Yerbury, with characteristic caution, says that we cannot know his identity at this stage. Another figure that must appear is the Antichrist's henchman, "the False Prophet", a religious leader (Smith, Warning, 22-56; Second Warning, 57-66; better, 170-173; Yerbury, Ultimate, 99-112; Vital, 53-4). Central to EndTimers' beliefs is the Great Tribulation, a time of terrible war and suffering. The duration of this cataclysm is variously described as being seven years (Lindsey, Late, 42, 137-8; Yerbury, Vital, 42-4) or three and a half years (Smith, Warning, 102-112). Where does the return of Jesus Christ fit into this? Commonly EndTimers believe that he will return twice, the first time will be immediately prior to the Great Tribulation, the second time will be seven years later. This first return is for a particular purpose: to remove all the "true" Christians from Earth and take them to heaven, in what is usually known as "the Rapture". This is sometimes referred to as "His coming for the saints". On this occasion he does not actually visit Earth; he only appears above it, and "the saints" will literally rise up to meet him in the sky (Matthew 24:37-41; 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18). But for those remaining on Earth this will all be hidden, that is they will know that their Christian friends and neighbours have disappeared, but will have no idea where they have gone or what has happened (Lindsey, Late, 135-142; Smith, Warning, 150-157; Yerbury, Ultimate, 119-122; Vital, 33-6). This belief conjures up some extraordinary expectations. A Christian doctor operating on a patient will be whisked away, mid operation. Car drivers will disappear, causing their vehicles to crash. Airline pilots will suddenly vanish with terrible consequences. Indeed, it is rumoured that some American airlines do not allow Christians to be both pilot and co-pilot of the one aircraft. Christians must be teamed with non-Christians, in case the Christian is suddenly "raptured". Though this specific belief may not have as much significance in Australia as it does in America, there is no doubt that it is still held tenaciously by its Australian advocates. After the Great Tribulation Jesus Christ will return once more, this time actually to Earth. This return is sometimes referred to as Christ's coming "with the saints", for he will bring back the previously taken Christians with him. This will be followed by the fearsome battle of Armageddon, which Christ will win. He will then establish his reign over the whole world, ruling from Jerusalem, in peace, with equity. This reign will last for 1000 years, the millennium of chapter 20 of the book of Revelation. It is normal for EndTimers to perceive this as literally 1000 years, whereas many other Christians, often with very different understandings of End Times events, would see it as symbolic for a long period (Lindsey, Late, 169-178; Smith, Warning, 158-160; Yerbury, Ultimate, 137-149; Vital, 78-101). Following the Millennium there will be a Satan-led rebellion, but this will be short lived, possibly once more of a seven year duration (Lindsey, 178; Yerbury, Vital, 105-7). God, however, will then triumph over Satan, and wrap up the events of this world and this age, judge its inhabitants, and create a new Heaven and a new Earth, upon which the saved will live with Christ forever (Lindsey, 178; Yerbury, Ultimate, 150-154; Vital, 108-117). Who in Australia holds the views outlined above? They are held by most Australian Christian fundamentalists and some Christian evangelicals. Who are these fundamentalists and evangelicals and what else do they believe? Both groups hold to the core traditional Protestant beliefs (the deity of Jesus Christ, the Trinity, etc), and are to be found in most, if not all, Protestant denominations in Australia, from the Anglican Church to the more recently formed charismatic churches. Fundamentalists and evangelicals are not always clearly distinguishable from each other, for there is much overlapping in beliefs between them. But there are, however, some basic differences between the two. Fundamentalists have a very strong emphasis on a literal interpretation of the Bible, frequently interpreting in an unnatural way, often taking metaphors, symbols, and other figures literally. They are also frequently anti-intellectual. Evangelicals, on the other hand, would take a more rational approach to the Bible, giving due regard to the form of the specific writing, and are usually prepared to engage in intellectual debate. Both groups believe that Jesus Christ will literally return, though there is disagreement about the details between and within the two groups. How many evangelical and fundamentalist Christians are there in Australia? A survey published in 1994 was conducted amongst the attenders of numerous Protestant congregations, and discovered that 48% of those people believed that "the Bible is the Word of God which needs to be read in the context of the times". These, most of them at any rate, would be what have here been termed "evangelicals". Another 21% believed that "the Bible is the Word of God, to be taken literally word for word", and thus would be "fundamentalists" (Kaldor, 45-7). If the survey was anything like accurate, approaching 70% of those attending Australian Protestant churches are either evangelicals or fundamentalists. As it would also seem that there are over 1 million attenders at Protestant churches in Australia (Kaldor, 344), it is probable that there are more than seven hundred thousand evangelical and fundamentalist Christians in Australia. The specific beliefs outlined in this article are widespread amongst fundamentalist Christians, but also seem to be held by some evangelicals. These Christians can be found in probably all Protestant denominations, though are much more common in charismatic and Baptist churches than in, say, Anglican and Uniting churches. These beliefs are also found in some of the sects outside the mainstream Christian church. The number of EndTimers in Australia is almost certainly well in excess of one hundred thousand, and may be above two hundred thousand. How do these beliefs manifest themselves in current Australian life? First, one would expect EndTimers to be less concerned about certain issues of social concern than other Christians, and this often seems to be the case. For example, one does not often find them championing the protection of the environment. If Christ's Kingdom on Earth is not many years away, then why worry about such things now? They can be attended to when Christ returns. The important issue is to prepare people for that return. Another manifestation is the setting of dates for that return, which is probably more common than many realise. Those writers consulted for this study do not predict exact dates for these events. They rely on the more elastic concept of the "this generation" idea. But other people do predict precise dates and times. It is not uncommon to hear individuals, and it is usually individuals rather than movements, predicting that Christ will return on this date or another. They each have their own schemes of interpreting the numerics of such biblical books as Daniel and Revelation. One of the most famous of these predictions was in 1992 when posters began appearing in various Australian towns declaring: THE FINAL WARNING OF GOD JESUS is COMING IN 1am 29th OCT 1992 IN THE AIR (It's the Rapture) Remember the days of Noah and Lot Reject the 666 of computer bar code Repent your sins to God Ready the 7 years Great Tribulation This particular prediction originated in a movement in Korea, and, indeed, its leader in Australia was a Korean on temporary residence here. Several of the teachings discussed in this article are indicated in the poster, with the addition of a very precise prediction of Jesus Christ's return. When the day approached, the leader of the Australian wing of the movement was interviewed in newspapers and on TV, and he politely but boldly confirmed his conviction to the Australian public. The Current Affair interview with him the day after the prediction was proved false was especially touching. He apologised with great sincerity to those he had misled, and soon after returned to his homeland. Ironically, the organisation of which this man was part seems to have left open the possibility of future predictions. It is one of the astonishing facts of this type of endeavour throughout history, that those who predict the end of the world are not discouraged by failure. They just try again. Why? The answers may vary, but central is a strong belief in the certainty of biblical prophecy and the confidence that some have that they know best how to interpret it. It would seem that it would take more than failure to dent that confidence. References Kaldor, Peter (ed.) Winds of Change: The Experience of Church in a Changing Australia. Sydney: Anzea, 1994. Lindsey, Hal. The Late Great Planet Earth. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1970. Smith, Barry R. "... better than Nostradamus." Marlborough: Smith Family, 1996. ---. Second Warning. New Zealand: Smith Family, 1985. ---. Warning. New Zealand: Smith Family, 1980. Yerbury, Ray W. The Ultimate Event. Brisbane: Cross, 1988. ---. Vital Signs of Christ's Coming. Brisbane: Cross, 1990. Citation reference for this article MLA style: David Bennett. "That Year 2000: The End or a Beginning?." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.8 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9912/end.php>. Chicago style: David Bennett, "That Year 2000: The End or a Beginning?," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 8 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9912/end.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: David Bennett. (1999) That year 2000: the end or a beginning?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(8). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9912/end.php> ([your date of access]).

Introduction“Chav” is a social phenomenon that gained significant popular media coverage and attention in the United Kingdom in the early 2000s. Chavs are often characterised, by others, as young people from a background of low socioeconomic status, usually clothed in branded sportswear. All definitions of Chav position them as culturally anomalous, as Other.This article maps out a multidisciplinary definition of the Chav, synthesised from 21 published academic publications: three recurrent themes in scholarly discussion emerge. First, this research presents whiteness as an assumed and essential facet of Chav identity. When marginalising Chavs because of their “incorrect whiteness”, these works assign them a problematic and complex relationship with ethnicity and race. Second, Chav discourse has previously been discussed as a form of intense class-based abhorrence. Chavs, it would seem, are perceived as anomalous by their own class and those who deem themselves of a higher socioeconomic status. Finally, Chavs’ consumption choices are explored as amplifying such negative constructions of class and white ethnic identities, which are deemed as forming an undesirable aesthetic. This piece is not intended to debate whether or not Chav is a subculture, clubculture or neotribe. Although Greg Martin’s discussion around the similarities between historical subcultures and Chavs remains pertinent and convincing, this article discusses how young people labelled as Chavs are excluded on a variety of fronts. It draws a cross-disciplinary mapping of the Chav, providing the beginnings of a definition of a derogatory label, applied to young people marking them anomalous in British society.What Is a Chav?The word Chav became officially included in the English language in the UK in 2003, when it was inducted into the Oxford English Dictionary (OED). The current OED entry offers many points for further discussion, all centred upon a discriminatory positioning of Chav:chav, n. Etymology: Probably either < Romani čhavo unmarried Romani male, male Romani child (see chavvy n.), or shortened < either chavvy n. or its etymon Angloromani chavvy. Brit. slang (derogatory). In the United Kingdom (originally the south of England): a young person of a type characterized by brash and loutish behaviour and the wearing of designer-style clothes (esp. sportswear); usually with connotations of a low social status.Chav was adopted by British national media as a catch-all term encompassing regional variants. Many discussions have likened Chav to groups such as “Bogans” in Australia and “Trailer Trash” in the US. Websites such as UrbanDictionary and Chavscum have often, informally, defined Chav through a series of derogatory “backcronyms” such as Council Housed And Violent or Council House Associated Vermin, positioning it as a derogatory social label synonymous with notions of perceived criminality, poverty, poor taste, danger, fear, class, and whiteness.Chav came to real prominence in the early 2000s in mainstream British media, gaining visibility through television shows such as Shameless (2004-2013), Little Britain (2003-2006), and The Catherine Tate Show (2004-2009). The term exploded across the tabloid press, as noted by Antoinette Renouf in 2005. Extensive tabloid press coverage drove the phenomenon to front-page coverage in TIME magazine in 2008. Chavs were observed as often wearing Burberry check-patterned clothing. For the first time since its founding in 1856, and due to the extent of Chav’s negative media coverage, Burberry decided to largely remove its trademark check pattern between 2001 and 2014 from sale. Chavs in AcademiaThe rubric of the Chav did not emerge in academia with the same vigour as it did in popular media, failing to gain the visibility of previous youth social formations such as Punks, Mods, et al. Rather, there has been a modest but consistent number of academic publications discussing this subject: 1-3 publications per year, published between 2006-2015. Of the 22 academic texts explicitly addressing and discussing Chavs, none were published prior to 2006. Extensive searches on databases such as EBSCO, JSTOR and ProQuest, yielded no further academic publications on this subject since Joanne Heeney’s 2015 discussion of Chav and its relationship to contested conceptualisations of disability.From a review of the available literature, the following key thematic groupings run through the publications: Chavs’ embodiment of a "wrong" type of white identity; their embodiment of a "wrong" type of working-class identity; and finally, their depiction as flawed consumers. I will now discuss these groupings, and their implications for future research, in order to chart a multidisciplinary conceptualisation of the Chav. Ultimately, my discussion will evidence how "out of place" Chavs appear to be in terms of race and ethnicity, class, and consumption choices. Chavs as “Wrong” WhitesThe dividing practices (Foucault) evident in UK popular media and websites such as Urbandictionary in the early 2000s distinctly separated “hypervisible ‘filthy whites’” (Tyler) from the “respectable whiteness” of the British middle-class. As Imogen Tyler puts it, “the cumulative effect of this disgust is the blocking of the disenfranchised white poor from view; they are rendered invisible and incomprehensible”, a perspective revisited in relation to the "celebrity chav" by Tyler and Joe Bennett. In a wider discussion of ethnicity, segregation and discrimination, Colin Webster discusses Chav and “white trash”, within the context of discourses that criminalise certain forms of whiteness. The conspicuous absence of whiteness in debates regarding fair representation of ethnicity and exclusion is highlighted here, as is the difficulty that social sciences often encounter in conceptualising whiteness in terms exceeding privilege, superiority, power, and normality. Bennett discusses Chavspeak, as a language conceived as enacting combinations of well-known sociolinguistic stereotypes. Chavspeak derives from an amalgamation of Black English vernaculars, potentially identifying its speakers as "race traitors". Bennett's exploration of Chavs as turncoats towards their own whiteness places them in an anomalous position of exclusion, as “Other” white working-class people. A Google image search for Chav conducted on 8th July 2020 yielded, in 198 of the first 200 images, the pictures of white youth. In popular culture, Chavs are invariably white, as seen in shows such as Little Britain, The Catherine Tate Show and, arguably, also in Paul Abbott’s Shameless. There is no question, however, that whiteness is an assumed and essential facet of Chav identity. Explorations of class and consumption may help to clarify this muddy conceptualisation of ethnicity and Chavs. Chavs as “Wrong” Working ClassChav discourse has been discussed as addressing intense class-based abhorrence (Hayward and Yar; Tyler). Indeed, while focussing more upon the nexus between chavs, class, and masculinity, Anoop Nayak’s ethnographic approach identifies a clear distinction between “Charver kids” (a slang term for Chav found in the North-East of England) and “Real Geordies” (Geordie is a regional term identifying inhabitants from that same area, most specifically from Newcastle-upon-Tyne). Nayak identified Chavs as rough, violent and impoverished, against the respectable, skilled and upwardly mobile working-class embodied by the “Real Geordies” (825). Similar distinctions between different types of working classes appear in the work of Sumi Hollingworth and Katya Williams. In a study of white, middle-class students from English urban state comprehensive schools in Riverside and Norton, the authors found that “Chav comes to represent everything about whiteness that the middle-classes are not” (479). Here, Chav is discussed as a label that school-age children reserve for “others”, namely working-class peers who stand out because of their clothing, their behaviour, and their educational aspirations. Alterity is a concept reinforced by Bennett’s discussion of Chavspeak, as he remarks that “Chavs are other people, and Chavspeak is how other people talk” (8). The same position is echoed in Sarah Spencer, Judy Clegg, and Joy Stackhouse’s study of the interplay between language, social class, and education in younger generations. Chavspotting is the focus of Bennett’s exploration of lived class experiences. Here, the evocation of the Chav is seen as a way to reinforce and reproduce dominant rhetoric against the poor. Bennett discusses the ways in which websites such as Chavscum.com used towns, cities and shopping centres as ideal locations to practice Chav-spotting. What is evident, however, is that behind Chavspotting lies the need for recontextualisation of normalising social practices which involve identification of determinate social groups in social spaces. This finding is supported by the interviews conducted by Ken McCullock et al (548) who found the Chav label, along with its regional variant of Charva, to be an extension of these social practices of identification, as it was applied to people of lower socioeconomic status as a marker of difference: “Chav/Charva … it’s what more posh people use to try and describe thugs and that” (McCulloch et al., 552).The semi-structured interview data gathered by Spencer, Clegg, and Stackhouse reveals how the label of Chav trickled down from stereotypes in popular culture to the real-life experiences of school-aged children. Here, Chavs are likened by school children to animals, “the boys are like monkeys, and the girls are like squeaky squirrels who like to slap people if they even look at you” (136) and their language is defined as lacking complexity. It bears relevance that, in these interviews, children in middle-class areas are once again “othering” the Chav, applying the label to children from working-class areas. Heeney’s discussion of the Chav pivots around questions of class and race. This is particularly evident as she addresses the media contention surrounding glamour model Katie Price, and her receipt of disability welfare benefits for her son. Ethnicity and class are key in academic discussion of the Chav, and in this context they prove to be interwoven and inexorably slippery. Just as previous academic discussions surrounding ethnicity challenge assumptions around whiteness, privilege and discrimination, an equally labyrinthine picture is drawn on the relationship between class and the Chavs, and on the practices of exclusion and symbolic to which they are subject. Chavs as “Wrong” ConsumersKeith Hayward and Majid Yar’s much-cited work points to a rethinking of the underclass concept (Murray) through debates of social marginality and consumption practices. Unlike previous socio-cultural formations (subcultures), Chavs should not be viewed as the result of society choosing to “reject or invert mainstream aspirations or desires” but simply as “flawed” consumers (Hayward and Yar, 18). The authors remarked that the negative social construction and vilification of Chav can be attributed to “a set of narrow and seemingly irrational and un-aesthetic consumer choices” (18). Chavs are discussed as lacking in taste and/or educational/intelligence (cultural capital), and not in economic capital (Bourdieu): it is the former and not the latter that makes them the object of ridicule and scorn. Chav consumption choices are often regarded, and reported, as the wrong use of economic capital. Matthew Adams and Jayne Rainsborough also discuss the ways in which cultural sites of representation--newspapers, websites, television--achieve a level of uniformity in their portrayal of Chavs as out of place and continually framed as “wrong consumers", just as Nayak did. In their argument, they also note how Chavs have been intertextually represented as sites of bodily indiscretion in relation to behaviours, lifestyles and consumption choices. It is these flawed consumption choices that Paul Johnson discusses in relation to the complex ways in which the Chav stereotype, and their consumption choices, are both eroticised and subjected to a form of symbolic violence. Within this context, “Council chic” has been marketed and packaged towards gay men through themed club events, merchandise, sex lines and escort services. The signifiers of flawed consumption (branded sportswear, jewellery, etc), upon which much of the Chav-based subjugation is centred thus become a hook to promote and sell sexual services. As such, this process subjects Chavs to a form of symbolic violence, as their worth is fetishised, commodified, and further diminished in gay culture. The importance of consumption choices and, more specifically, of choices which are considered to be "wrong" adds one final piece to this map of the Chav (Mason and Wigley). What was already noted as discrimination towards Chavs centred upon notions of class, socioeconomic status, and, ethnicity, is amplified by emphasis on consumption choices deemed to be aesthetically undesirable. This all comes together through the “Othering” of a pattern of consumerist choices that encompasses branded clothes, sportswear and other garments typically labelled as "chavvy". Chav: Not Always a LabelIn spite of its rare occurrence in academic discourse on Chavs, it is worth noting here that not all scholarly discussions focus on the notion of Chav as assigned identity, as the work of Kehily, Nayak and Young clearly demonstrates.Kehily and Nayak’s performative approach to Chav adopts an urban ethnography approach to remark that, although these socio-economic-racial labels are felt as pejorative, they can be negotiated within immediate contexts to become less discriminatory and gain positive connotations of respectability in given situations. Indeed, such labels can be enacted as a transitional identity to be used and adopted intermittently. Chav remains an applied label, but a flexible label which can be negotiated and adapted. Robert Young challenges many established conceptualisations of Chav culture, paying particular attention to notions of class and self-identification. His study found that approximately 15% of his 3,000 fifteen-year old respondents, all based in the Glasgow area, self-identified as Chav or "Ned" (a Scottish variant of Chav). The cultural criminological approach taken by Young does not clearly specify what options were given to participants when selecting "Neds or popular" as self-identification. Young’s work is of real value in the discussion of Chav, since it constitutes the only example of self-identification as Chav (Ned); future work reasserting these findings is required for the debate to be continued in this direction. Conclusion: Marginalised on All Fronts?Have Chavs been ostracised for being the wrong type of white person? Much has been discussed around the problematic role of ethnicity in Chav culture. Indeed, many scholars have discussed how Chav adopted the language, dress and style of ethnic minority groups. This assimilation of non-white identities leaves the Chav stranded on two fronts: (1) they are marked as Other by predominantly white social groups and vilified as race/ethnicity traitors (Bennett, Chavspeak); (2) they stand apart from ethnic minority identities through a series of exaggerated and denigrated consumption choices – adopting a bricolage identity that defines them against other groups surrounding them. Are Chavs the wrong type of white, working-class consumer? We know from the seminal works of Dick Hebdige and Stuart Hall that subcultural styles can often convey a range of semiotic messages to the outside world. If one were to bear in mind the potentially isolated nature of those considered Chavs, one could see in their dress a consumption of "status" (McCulloch et al., 554). The adoption of a style predominantly consisting of expensive-looking branded clothes, highly-visible jewellery associated with an exaggerated sporting lifestyle, stands as a symbol of disposable income and physical prowess, a way of ‘fronting up’ to labels of poverty, criminality and lack of social and cultural capital.As my charting process comes to a conclusion, with the exclusion of the studies conducted by Young, Kehily and Nayak, Chav is solely discussed as an “Othering” label, vastly different from the self-determined identities of other youth subcultures. As a matter of fact, a number of studies portray the angry reactions to such labelling (Hollingworth and Williams; Bennett; Mason and Wigley). So are Chavs vilified because of their whiteness, their class, or their consumption choices? More likely, they are vilified because of a combination of all of the above. Therefore, we would not be mistaken in identifying Chavs as completely lacking in identity capital. What is apparent from the literature discussed is that the Chav exists in an anomalous “no man's land”. ReferencesAdams, Matthew, and Jayne Raisborough. "The Self-Control Ethos and the Chav: Unpacking Cultural Representations of the White Working Class." Culture & Psychology 17.1 (2011): 81-97.Bennett, Joe. "‘And What Comes Out May Be a Kind of Screeching’: The Stylisation of Chavspeak in Contemporary Britain." Journal of Sociolinguistics 16.1 (2012): 5-27.———. "Chav-Spotting in Britain: The Representation of Social Class as Private Choice." Social Semiotics 23.1 (2013): 146-162.Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Boston: Harvard UP, 1984.Foucault, Michel. “The Subject and Power." Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics. Eds. Hubert L. Dreyfus and Paul Rabinow. Brighton: Harvester, 1982. 777-795.Hayward, Keith, and Majid Yar. "The Chavphenomenon: Consumption, Media and the Construction of a New Underclass." Crime, Media, Culture 2.1 (2006): 9-28.Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Methuen, 1979. Heeney, Joanne. "Disability Welfare Reform and the Chav Threat: A Reflection on Social Class and ‘Contested Disabilities’." Disability & Society 30.4 (2015): 650-653.Hollingworth, Sumi, and Katya Williams. "Constructions of the Working-Class ‘Other’ among Urban, White, Middle-Class Youth: ‘Chavs’, Subculture and the Valuing of Education." Journal of Youth Studies 12.5 (2009): 467-482.Johnson, Paul. "’Rude Boys': The Homosexual Eroticization of Class." Sociology 42.1 (2008): 65-82.Kehily, Mary Jane, and Anoop Nayak. "Charver Kids and Pram-Face Girls: Working-Class Youth, Representation and Embodied Performance." Youth Cultures in the Age of Global Media. Eds. Sara Bragg and Mary Jane Kehily. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014. 150-165.Maffesoli, Michel. The Time of the Tribes: The Decline of Individualism in Mass Society. London: SAGE, 1995.Martin, Greg. "Subculture, Style, Chavs and Consumer Capitalism: Towards a Critical Cultural Criminology of Youth." Crime, Media, Culture 5.2 (2009): 123-145.Mason, Roger B., and Gemma Wigley. “The Chav Subculture: Branded Clothing as an Extension of the Self.” Journal of Economics and Behavioural Studies 5.3: 173-184.McCulloch, Ken, Alexis Stewart, and Nick Lovegreen. "‘We Just Hang Out Together’: Youth Cultures and Social Class." Journal of Youth Studies 9.5 (2006): 539-556.Murray, Charles. The Emerging British Underclass. London: IEA Health and Welfare Unit, 1990.Nayak, Anoop. "Displaced Masculinities: Chavs, Youth and Class in the Post-Industrial City." Sociology 40.5 (2006): 813-831.Oxford English Dictionary. "Chav." 20 Apr. 2015.Renouf, Antoinette. “Tracing Lexical Productivity and Creativity in the British Media: The Chavs and the Chav-Nots.” Lexical Creativity, Texts and Contexts. Ed. Judith Munat. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing, 2007. 61-93. Spencer, Sarah, Judy Clegg, and Joy Stackhouse. "Language, Social Class and Education: Listening to Adolescents’ Perceptions." Language and Education 27.2 (2013): 129-143.Thornton, Sarah. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity, 1995.Tyler, Imogen. “Chav Scum: The Filthy Politics of Social Class in Contemporary Britain”. M/C Journal 9.5 (2006). 7 July 2020 <http://www.journal.media-culture.org.au/0610/09-tyler.php>.Tyler, Imogen, and Bruce Bennett. "‘Celebrity Chav’: Fame, Femininity and Social Class." European Journal of Cultural Studies 13.3 (2010): 375-393.Webster, Colin. "Marginalized White Ethnicity, Race and Crime." Theoretical Criminology 12.3 (2008): 293-312.Young, Robert. "Can Neds (or Chavs) Be Non-Delinquent, Educated or Even Middle Class? Contrasting Empirical Findings with Cultural Stereotypes." Sociology 46.6 (2012): 1140-1160.

In Ireland today, we eat more pigmeat per capita, approximately 32.4 kilograms, than any other meat, yet you very seldom if ever see a pig (C.S.O.). Fat and flavour are two words that are synonymous with pig meat, yet scientists have spent the last thirty years cross breeding to produce leaner, low-fat pigs. Today’s pig professionals prefer to use the term “pig finishing” as opposed to the more traditional “pig fattening” (Tuite). The pig evokes many themes in relation to cuisine. Charles Lamb (1775-1834), in his essay Dissertation upon Roast Pig, cites Confucius in attributing the accidental discovery of the art of roasting to the humble pig. The pig has been singled out by many cultures as a food to be avoided or even abhorred, and Harris (1997) illustrates the environmental effect this avoidance can have by contrasting the landscape of Christian Albania with that of Muslim Albania.This paper will focus on the pig in Irish cuisine and culture from ancient times to the present day. The inspiration for this paper comes from a folklore tale about how Saint Martin created the pig from a piece of fat. The story is one of a number recorded by Seán Ó Conaill, the famous Kerry storyteller and goes as follows:From St Martin’s fat they were made. He was travelling around, and one night he came to a house and yard. At that time there were only cattle; there were no pigs or piglets. He asked the man of the house if there was anything to eat the chaff and the grain. The man replied there were only the cattle. St Martin said it was a great pity to have that much chaff going to waste. At night when they were going to bed, he handed a piece of fat to the servant-girl and told her to put it under a tub, and not to look at it at all until he would give her the word next day. The girl did so, but she kept a bit of the fat and put it under a keeler to find out what it would be.When St Martin rose next day he asked her to go and lift up the tub. She lifted it up, and there under it were a sow and twelve piglets. It was a great wonder to them, as they had never before seen pig or piglet.The girl then went to the keeler and lifted it, and it was full of mice and rats! As soon as the keeler was lifted, they went running about the house searching for any hole that they could go into. When St Martin saw them, he pulled off one of his mittens and threw it at them and made a cat with that throw. And that is why the cat ever since goes after mice and rats (Ó Conaill).The place of the pig has long been established in Irish literature, and longer still in Irish topography. The word torc, a boar, like the word muc, a pig, is a common element of placenames, from Kanturk (boar’s head) in West Cork to Ros Muc (headland of pigs) in West Galway. The Irish pig had its place in literature well established long before George Orwell’s English pig, Major, headed the dictatorship in Animal Farm. It was a wild boar that killed the hero Diarmaid in the Fenian tale The Pursuit of Diarmaid and Gráinne, on top of Ben Bulben in County Sligo (Mac Con Iomaire). In Ancient and Medieval Ireland, wild boars were hunted with great fervour, and the prime cuts were reserved for the warrior classes, and certain other individuals. At a feast, a leg of pork was traditionally reserved for a king, a haunch for a queen, and a boar’s head for a charioteer. The champion warrior was given the best portion of meat (Curath Mhir or Champions’ Share), and fights often took place to decide who should receive it. Gantz (1981) describes how in the ninth century tale The story of Mac Dathó’s Pig, Cet mac Matach, got supremacy over the men of Ireland: “Moreover he flaunted his valour on high above the valour of the host, and took a knife in his hand and sat down beside the pig. “Let someone be found now among the men of Ireland”, said he, “to endure battle with me, or leave the pig for me to divide!”It did not take long before the wild pigs were domesticated. Whereas cattle might be kept for milk and sheep for wool, the only reason for pig rearing was as a source of food. Until the late medieval period, the “domesticated” pigs were fattened on woodland mast, the fruit of the beech, oak, chestnut and whitethorn, giving their flesh a delicious flavour. So important was this resource that it is acknowledged by an entry in the Annals of Clonmacnoise for the year 1038: “There was such an abundance of ackornes this yeare that it fattened the pigges [runts] of pigges” (Sexton 45). In another mythological tale, two pig keepers, one called ‘friuch’ after the boars bristle (pig keeper to the king of Munster) and the other called ‘rucht’ after its grunt (pig keeper to the king of Connacht), were such good friends that the one from the north would bring his pigs south when there was a mast of oak and beech nuts in Munster. If the mast fell in Connacht, the pig-keeper from the south would travel northward. Competitive jealousy sparked by troublemakers led to the pig keepers casting spells on each other’s herds to the effect that no matter what mast they ate they would not grow fat. Both pig keepers were practised in the pagan arts and could form themselves into any shape, and having been dismissed by their kings for the leanness of their pig herds due to the spells, they eventually formed themselves into the two famous bulls that feature in the Irish Epic The Táin (Kinsella).In the witty and satirical twelfth century text, The Vision of Mac Conglinne (Aisling Mhic Conglinne), many references are made to the various types of pig meat. Bacon, hams, sausages and puddings are often mentioned, and the gate to the fortress in the visionary land of plenty is described thus: “there was a gate of tallow to it, whereon was a bolt of sausage” (Jackson).Although pigs were always popular in Ireland, the emergence of the potato resulted in an increase in both human and pig populations. The Irish were the first Europeans to seriously consider the potato as a staple food. By 1663 it was widely accepted in Ireland as an important food plant and by 1770 it was known as the Irish Potato (Mac Con Iomaire and Gallagher). The potato transformed Ireland from an under populated island of one million in the 1590s to 8.2 million in 1840, making it the most densely populated country in Europe. Two centuries of genetic evolution resulted in potato yields growing from two tons per acre in 1670 to ten tons per acre in 1800. A constant supply of potato, which was not seen as a commercial crop, ensured that even the smallest holding could keep a few pigs on a potato-rich diet. Pat Tuite, an expert on pigs with Teagasc, the Irish Agricultural and Food Development Authority, reminded me that the potatoes were cooked for the pigs and that they also enjoyed whey, the by product of both butter and cheese making (Tuite). The agronomist, Arthur Young, while travelling through Ireland, commented in 1770 that in the town of Mitchelstown in County Cork “there seemed to be more pigs than human beings”. So plentiful were pigs at this time that on the eve of the Great Famine in 1841 the pig population was calculated to be 1,412,813 (Sexton 46). Some of the pigs were kept for home consumption but the rest were a valuable source of income and were shown great respect as the gentleman who paid the rent. Until the early twentieth century most Irish rural households kept some pigs.Pork was popular and was the main meat eaten at all feasts in the main houses; indeed a feast was considered incomplete without a whole roasted pig. In the poorer holdings, fresh pork was highly prized, as it was only available when a pig of their own was killed. Most of the pig was salted, placed in the brine barrel for a period or placed up the chimney for smoking.Certain superstitions were observed concerning the time of killing. Pigs were traditionally killed only in months that contained the letter “r”, since the heat of the summer months caused the meat to turn foul. In some counties it was believed that pigs should be killed under the full moon (Mahon 58). The main breed of pig from the medieval period was the Razor Back or Greyhound Pig, which was very efficient in converting organic waste into meat (Fitzgerald). The killing of the pig was an important ritual and a social occasion in rural Ireland, for it meant full and plenty for all. Neighbours, who came to help, brought a handful of salt for the curing, and when the work was done each would get a share of the puddings and the fresh pork. There were a number of days where it was traditional to kill a pig, the Michaelmas feast (29 September), Saint Martins Day (11 November) and St Patrick’s Day (17 March). Olive Sharkey gives a vivid description of the killing of the barrow pig in rural Ireland during the 1930s. A barrow pig is a male pig castrated before puberty:The local slaughterer (búistéir) a man experienced in the rustic art of pig killing, was approached to do the job, though some farmers killed their own pigs. When the búistéirarrived the whole family gathered round to watch the killing. His first job was to plunge the knife in the pig’s heart via the throat, using a special knife. The screeching during this performance was something awful, but the animal died instantly once the heart had been reached, usually to a round of applause from the onlookers. The animal was then draped across a pig-gib, a sort of bench, and had the fine hairs on its body scraped off. To make this a simple job the animal was immersed in hot water a number of times until the bristles were softened and easy to remove. If a few bristles were accidentally missed the bacon was known as ‘hairy bacon’!During the killing of the pig it was imperative to draw a good flow of blood to ensure good quality meat. This blood was collected in a bucket for the making of puddings. The carcass would then be hung from a hook in the shed with a basin under its head to catch the drip, and a potato was often placed in the pig’s mouth to aid the dripping process. After a few days the carcass would be dissected. Sharkey recalls that her father maintained that each pound weight in the pig’s head corresponded to a stone weight in the body. The body was washed and then each piece that was to be preserved was carefully salted and placed neatly in a barrel and hermetically sealed. It was customary in parts of the midlands to add brown sugar to the barrel at this stage, while in other areas juniper berries were placed in the fire when hanging the hams and flitches (sides of bacon), wrapped in brown paper, in the chimney for smoking (Sharkey 166). While the killing was predominantly men’s work, it was the women who took most responsibility for the curing and smoking. Puddings have always been popular in Irish cuisine. The pig’s intestines were washed well and soaked in a stream, and a mixture of onions, lard, spices, oatmeal and flour were mixed with the blood and the mixture was stuffed into the casing and boiled for about an hour, cooled and the puddings were divided amongst the neighbours.The pig was so palatable that the famous gastronomic writer Grimod de la Reyniere once claimed that the only piece you couldn’t eat was the “oink”. Sharkey remembers her father remarking that had they been able to catch the squeak they would have made tin whistles out of it! No part went to waste; the blood and offal were used, the trotters were known as crubeens (from crúb, hoof), and were boiled and eaten with cabbage. In Galway the knee joint was popular and known as the glúiníns (from glún, knee). The head was roasted whole or often boiled and pressed and prepared as Brawn. The chitterlings (small intestines) were meticulously prepared by continuous washing in cool water and the picking out of undigested food and faeces. Chitterlings were once a popular bar food in Dublin. Pig hair was used for paintbrushes and the bladder was occasionally inflated, using a goose quill, to be used as a football by the children. Meindertsma (2007) provides a pictorial review of the vast array of products derived from a single pig. These range from ammunition and porcelain to chewing gum.From around the mid-eighteenth century, commercial salting of pork and bacon grew rapidly in Ireland. 1820 saw Henry Denny begin operation in Waterford where he both developed and patented several production techniques for bacon. Bacon curing became a very important industry in Munster culminating in the setting up of four large factories. Irish bacon was the brand leader and the Irish companies exported their expertise. Denny set up a plant in Denmark in 1894 and introduced the Irish techniques to the Danish industry, while O’Mara’s set up bacon curing facilities in Russia in 1891 (Cowan and Sexton). Ireland developed an extensive export trade in bacon to England, and hams were delivered to markets in Paris, India, North and South America. The “sandwich method” of curing, or “dry cure”, was used up until 1862 when the method of injecting strong brine into the meat by means of a pickling pump was adopted by Irish bacon-curers. 1887 saw the formation of the Bacon Curers’ Pig Improvement Association and they managed to introduce a new breed, the Large White Ulster into most regions by the turn of the century. This breed was suitable for the production of “Wiltshire” bacon. Cork, Waterford Dublin and Belfast were important centres for bacon but it was Limerick that dominated the industry and a Department of Agriculture document from 1902 suggests that the famous “Limerick cure” may have originated by chance:1880 […] Limerick producers were short of money […] they produced what was considered meat in a half-cured condition. The unintentional cure proved extremely popular and others followed suit. By the turn of the century the mild cure procedure was brought to such perfection that meat could [… be] sent to tropical climates for consumption within a reasonable time (Cowan and Sexton).Failure to modernise led to the decline of bacon production in Limerick in the 1960s and all four factories closed down. The Irish pig market was protected prior to joining the European Union. There were no imports, and exports were subsidised by the Pigs and Bacon Commission. The Department of Agriculture started pig testing in the early 1960s and imported breeds from the United Kingdom and Scandinavia. The two main breeds were Large White and Landrace. Most farms kept pigs before joining the EU but after 1972, farmers were encouraged to rationalise and specialise. Grants were made available for facilities that would keep 3,000 pigs and these grants kick started the development of large units.Pig keeping and production were not only rural occupations; Irish towns and cities also had their fair share. Pigs could easily be kept on swill from hotels, restaurants, not to mention the by-product and leftovers of the brewing and baking industries. Ed Hick, a fourth generation pork butcher from south County Dublin, recalls buying pigs from a local coal man and bus driver and other locals for whom it was a tradition to keep pigs on the side. They would keep some six or eight pigs at a time and feed them on swill collected locally. Legislation concerning the feeding of swill introduced in 1985 (S.I.153) and an amendment in 1987 (S.I.133) required all swill to be heat-treated and resulted in most small operators going out of business. Other EU directives led to the shutting down of thousands of slaughterhouses across Europe. Small producers like Hick who slaughtered at most 25 pigs a week in their family slaughterhouse, states that it was not any one rule but a series of them that forced them to close. It was not uncommon for three inspectors, a veterinarian, a meat inspector and a hygiene inspector, to supervise himself and his brother at work. Ed Hick describes the situation thus; “if we had taken them on in a game of football, we would have lost! We were seen as a huge waste of veterinary time and manpower”.Sausages and rashers have long been popular in Dublin and are the main ingredients in the city’s most famous dish “Dublin Coddle.” Coddle is similar to an Irish stew except that it uses pork rashers and sausage instead of lamb. It was, traditionally, a Saturday night dish when the men came home from the public houses. Terry Fagan has a book on Dublin Folklore called Monto: Murder, Madams and Black Coddle. The black coddle resulted from soot falling down the chimney into the cauldron. James Joyce describes Denny’s sausages with relish in Ulysses, and like many other Irish emigrants, he would welcome visitors from home only if they brought Irish sausages and Irish whiskey with them. Even today, every family has its favourite brand of sausages: Byrne’s, Olhausens, Granby’s, Hafner’s, Denny’s Gold Medal, Kearns and Superquinn are among the most popular. Ironically the same James Joyce, who put Dublin pork kidneys on the world table in Ulysses, was later to call his native Ireland “the old sow that eats her own farrow” (184-5).The last thirty years have seen a concerted effort to breed pigs that have less fat content and leaner meat. There are no pure breeds of Landrace or Large White in production today for they have been crossbred for litter size, fat content and leanness (Tuite). Many experts feel that they have become too lean, to the detriment of flavour and that the meat can tend to split when cooked. Pig production is now a complicated science and tighter margins have led to only large-scale operations being financially viable (Whittemore). The average size of herd has grown from 29 animals in 1973, to 846 animals in 1997, and the highest numbers are found in counties Cork and Cavan (Lafferty et al.). The main players in today’s pig production/processing are the large Irish Agribusiness Multinationals Glanbia, Kerry Foods and Dairygold. Tuite (2002) expressed worries among the industry that there may be no pig production in Ireland in twenty years time, with production moving to Eastern Europe where feed and labour are cheaper. When it comes to traceability, in the light of the Foot and Mouth, BSE and Dioxin scares, many feel that things were much better in the old days, when butchers like Ed Hick slaughtered animals that were reared locally and then sold them back to local consumers. Hick has recently killed pigs for friends who have begun keeping them for home consumption. This slaughtering remains legal as long as the meat is not offered for sale.Although bacon and cabbage, and the full Irish breakfast with rashers, sausages and puddings, are considered to be some of Ireland’s most well known traditional dishes, there has been a growth in modern interpretations of traditional pork and bacon dishes in the repertoires of the seemingly ever growing number of talented Irish chefs. Michael Clifford popularised Clonakilty Black Pudding as a starter in his Cork restaurant Clifford’s in the late 1980s, and its use has become widespread since, as a starter or main course often partnered with either caramelised apples or red onion marmalade. Crubeens (pigs trotters) have been modernised “a la Pierre Kaufman” by a number of Irish chefs, who bone them out and stuff them with sweetbreads. Kevin Thornton, the first Irish chef to be awarded two Michelin stars, has roasted suckling pig as one of his signature dishes. Richard Corrigan is keeping the Irish flag flying in London in his Michelin starred Soho restaurant, Lindsay House, where traditional pork and bacon dishes from his childhood are creatively re-interpreted with simplicity and taste.Pork, ham and bacon are, without doubt, the most traditional of all Irish foods, featuring in the diet since prehistoric times. Although these meats remain the most consumed per capita in post “Celtic Tiger” Ireland, there are a number of threats facing the country’s pig industry. Large-scale indoor production necessitates the use of antibiotics. European legislation and economic factors have contributed in the demise of the traditional art of pork butchery. Scientific advancements have resulted in leaner low-fat pigs, many argue, to the detriment of flavour. Alas, all is not lost. There is a growth in consumer demand for quality local food, and some producers like J. Hick & Sons, and Prue & David Rudd and Family are leading the way. The Rudds process and distribute branded antibiotic-free pig related products with the mission of “re-inventing the tastes of bygone days with the quality of modern day standards”. Few could argue with the late Irish writer John B. Keane (72): “When this kind of bacon is boiling with its old colleague, white cabbage, there is a gurgle from the pot that would tear the heart out of any hungry man”.ReferencesCowan, Cathal and Regina Sexton. Ireland's Traditional Foods: An Exploration of Irish Local & Typical Foods & Drinks. Dublin: Teagasc, 1997.C.S.O. Central Statistics Office. Figures on per capita meat consumption for 2009, 2010. Ireland. http://www.cso.ie.Fitzgerald, Oisin. "The Irish 'Greyhound' Pig: an extinct indigenous breed of Pig." History Ireland13.4 (2005): 20-23.Gantz, Jeffrey Early Irish Myths and Sagas. New York: Penguin, 1981.Harris, Marvin. "The Abominable Pig." Food and Culture: A Reader. Eds. Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik. New York: Routledge, 1997. 67-79.Hick, Edward. Personal Communication with master butcher Ed Hick. 15 Apr. 2002.Hick, Edward. Personal Communication concerning pig killing. 5 Sep. 2010.Jackson, K. H. Ed. Aislinge Meic Con Glinne, Dublin: Institute of Advanced Studies, 1990.Joyce, James. The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, London: Granada, 1977.Keane, John B. Strong Tea. Cork: Mercier Press, 1963.Kinsella, Thomas. The Táin. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970.Lafferty, S., Commins, P. and Walsh, J. A. Irish Agriculture in Transition: A Census Atlas of Agriculture in the Republic of Ireland. Dublin: Teagasc, 1999.Mac Con Iomaire, Liam. Ireland of the Proverb. Dublin: Town House, 1988.Mac Con Iomaire, Máirtín and Pádraic Óg Gallagher. "The Potato in Irish Cuisine and Culture."Journal of Culinary Science and Technology 7.2-3 (2009): 1-16.Mahon, Bríd. Land of Milk and Honey: The Story of Traditional Irish Food and Drink. Cork:Mercier, 1998.Meindertsma, Christien. PIG 05049 2007. 10 Aug. 2010 http://www.christienmeindertsma.com.Ó Conaill, Seán. Seán Ó Conaill's Book. Bailie Átha Cliath: Bhéaloideas Éireann, 1981.Sexton, Regina. A Little History of Irish Food. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1998.Sharkey, Olive. Old Days Old Ways: An Illustrated Folk History of Ireland. Dublin: The O'Brien Press, 1985.S.I. 153, 1985 (Irish Legislation) http://www.irishstatutebook.ie/1985/en/si/0153.htmlS.I. 133, 1987 (Irish Legislation) http://www.irishstatuebook.ie/1987/en/si/0133.htmlTuite, Pat. Personal Communication with Pat Tuite, Chief Pig Advisor, Teagasc. 3 May 2002.Whittemore, Colin T. and Ilias Kyriazakis. Whitmore's Science and Practice of Pig Production 3rdEdition. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2006.

Introduction Crime fiction is one of the world’s most popular genres. Indeed, it has been estimated that as many as one in every three new novels, published in English, is classified within the crime fiction category (Knight xi). These new entrants to the market are forced to jostle for space on bookstore and library shelves with reprints of classic crime novels; such works placed in, often fierce, competition against their contemporaries as well as many of their predecessors. Raymond Chandler, in his well-known essay The Simple Art of Murder, noted Ernest Hemingway’s observation that “the good writer competes only with the dead. The good detective story writer […] competes not only with all the unburied dead but with all the hosts of the living as well” (3). In fact, there are so many examples of crime fiction works that, as early as the 1920s, one of the original ‘Queens of Crime’, Dorothy L. Sayers, complained: It is impossible to keep track of all the detective-stories produced to-day [sic]. Book upon book, magazine upon magazine pour out from the Press, crammed with murders, thefts, arsons, frauds, conspiracies, problems, puzzles, mysteries, thrills, maniacs, crooks, poisoners, forgers, garrotters, police, spies, secret-service men, detectives, until it seems that half the world must be engaged in setting riddles for the other half to solve (95). Twenty years after Sayers wrote on the matter of the vast quantities of crime fiction available, W.H. Auden wrote one of the more famous essays on the genre: The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on the Detective Story, by an Addict. Auden is, perhaps, better known as a poet but his connection to the crime fiction genre is undisputed. As well as his poetic works that reference crime fiction and commentaries on crime fiction, one of Auden’s fellow poets, Cecil Day-Lewis, wrote a series of crime fiction novels under the pseudonym Nicholas Blake: the central protagonist of these novels, Nigel Strangeways, was modelled upon Auden (Scaggs 27). Interestingly, some writers whose names are now synonymous with the genre, such as Edgar Allan Poe and Raymond Chandler, established the link between poetry and crime fiction many years before the publication of The Guilty Vicarage. Edmund Wilson suggested that “reading detective stories is simply a kind of vice that, for silliness and minor harmfulness, ranks somewhere between crossword puzzles and smoking” (395). In the first line of The Guilty Vicarage, Auden supports Wilson’s claim and confesses that: “For me, as for many others, the reading of detective stories is an addiction like tobacco or alcohol” (406). This indicates that the genre is at best a trivial pursuit, at worst a pursuit that is bad for your health and is, increasingly, socially unacceptable, while Auden’s ideas around taste—high and low—are made clear when he declares that “detective stories have nothing to do with works of art” (406). The debates that surround genre and taste are many and varied. The mid-1920s was a point in time which had witnessed crime fiction writers produce some of the finest examples of fiction to ever be published and when readers and publishers were watching, with anticipation, as a new generation of crime fiction writers were readying themselves to enter what would become known as the genre’s Golden Age. At this time, R. Austin Freeman wrote that: By the critic and the professedly literary person the detective story is apt to be dismissed contemptuously as outside the pale of literature, to be conceived of as a type of work produced by half-educated and wholly incompetent writers for consumption by office boys, factory girls, and other persons devoid of culture and literary taste (7). This article responds to Auden’s essay and explores how crime fiction appeals to many different tastes: tastes that are acquired, change over time, are embraced, or kept as guilty secrets. In addition, this article will challenge Auden’s very narrow definition of crime fiction and suggest how Auden’s religious imagery, deployed to explain why many people choose to read crime fiction, can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment. This latter argument demonstrates that a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. Crime Fiction: A Type For Every Taste Cathy Cole has observed that “crime novels are housed in their own section in many bookshops, separated from literary novels much as you’d keep a child with measles away from the rest of the class” (116). Times have changed. So too, have our tastes. Crime fiction, once sequestered in corners, now demands vast tracts of prime real estate in bookstores allowing readers to “make their way to the appropriate shelves, and begin to browse […] sorting through a wide variety of very different types of novels” (Malmgren 115). This is a result of the sheer size of the genre, noted above, as well as the genre’s expanding scope. Indeed, those who worked to re-invent crime fiction in the 1800s could not have envisaged the “taxonomic exuberance” (Derrida 206) of the writers who have defined crime fiction sub-genres, as well as how readers would respond by not only wanting to read crime fiction but also wanting to read many different types of crime fiction tailored to their particular tastes. To understand the demand for this diversity, it is important to reflect upon some of the appeal factors of crime fiction for readers. Many rules have been promulgated for the writers of crime fiction to follow. Ronald Knox produced a set of 10 rules in 1928. These included Rule 3 “Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable”, and Rule 10 “Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them” (194–6). In the same year, S.S. Van Dine produced another list of 20 rules, which included Rule 3 “There must be no love interest: The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar”, and Rule 7 “There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better” (189–93). Some of these directives have been deliberately ignored or have become out-of-date over time while others continue to be followed in contemporary crime writing practice. In sharp contrast, there are no rules for reading this genre. Individuals are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction. There are, however, different appeal factors for readers. The most common of these appeal factors, often described as doorways, are story, setting, character, and language. As the following passage explains: The story doorway beckons those who enjoy reading to find out what happens next. The setting doorway opens widest for readers who enjoy being immersed in an evocation of place or time. The doorway of character is for readers who enjoy looking at the world through others’ eyes. Readers who most appreciate skilful writing enter through the doorway of language (Wyatt online). These doorways draw readers to the crime fiction genre. There are stories that allow us to easily predict what will come next or make us hold our breath until the very last page, the books that we will cheerfully lend to a family member or a friend and those that we keep close to hand to re-read again and again. There are settings as diverse as country manors, exotic locations, and familiar city streets, places we have been and others that we might want to explore. There are characters such as the accidental sleuth, the hardboiled detective, and the refined police officer, amongst many others, the men and women—complete with idiosyncrasies and flaws—who we have grown to admire and trust. There is also the language that all writers, regardless of genre, depend upon to tell their tales. In crime fiction, even the most basic task of describing where the murder victim was found can range from words that convey the genteel—“The room of the tragedy” (Christie 62)—to the absurd: “There it was, jammed between a pallet load of best export boneless beef and half a tonne of spring lamb” (Maloney 1). These appeal factors indicate why readers might choose crime fiction over another genre, or choose one type of crime fiction over another. Yet such factors fail to explain what crime fiction is or adequately answer why the genre is devoured in such vast quantities. Firstly, crime fiction stories are those in which there is the committing of a crime, or at least the suspicion of a crime (Cole), and the story that unfolds revolves around the efforts of an amateur or professional detective to solve that crime (Scaggs). Secondly, crime fiction offers the reassurance of resolution, a guarantee that from “previous experience and from certain cultural conventions associated with this genre that ultimately the mystery will be fully explained” (Zunshine 122). For Auden, the definition of the crime novel was quite specific, and he argued that referring to the genre by “the vulgar definition, ‘a Whodunit’ is correct” (407). Auden went on to offer a basic formula stating that: “a murder occurs; many are suspected; all but one suspect, who is the murderer, are eliminated; the murderer is arrested or dies” (407). The idea of a formula is certainly a useful one, particularly when production demands—in terms of both quality and quantity—are so high, because the formula facilitates creators in the “rapid and efficient production of new works” (Cawelti 9). For contemporary crime fiction readers, the doorways to reading, discussed briefly above, have been cast wide open. Stories relying upon the basic crime fiction formula as a foundation can be gothic tales, clue puzzles, forensic procedurals, spy thrillers, hardboiled narratives, or violent crime narratives, amongst many others. The settings can be quiet villages or busy metropolises, landscapes that readers actually inhabit or that provide a form of affordable tourism. These stories can be set in the past, the here and now, or the future. Characters can range from Edgar Allan Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin to Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, from Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple to Kerry Greenwood’s Honourable Phryne Fisher. Similarly, language can come in numerous styles from the direct (even rough) words of Carter Brown to the literary prose of Peter Temple. Anything is possible, meaning everything is available to readers. For Auden—although he required a crime to be committed and expected that crime to be resolved—these doorways were only slightly ajar. For him, the story had to be a Whodunit; the setting had to be rural England, though a college setting was also considered suitable; the characters had to be “eccentric (aesthetically interesting individuals) and good (instinctively ethical)” and there needed to be a “completely satisfactory detective” (Sherlock Holmes, Inspector French, and Father Brown were identified as “satisfactory”); and the language descriptive and detailed (406, 409, 408). To illustrate this point, Auden’s concept of crime fiction has been plotted on a taxonomy, below, that traces the genre’s main developments over a period of three centuries. As can be seen, much of what is, today, taken for granted as being classified as crime fiction is completely excluded from Auden’s ideal. Figure 1: Taxonomy of Crime Fiction (Adapted from Franks, Murder 136) Crime Fiction: A Personal Journey I discovered crime fiction the summer before I started high school when I saw the film version of The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. A few days after I had seen the film I started reading the Raymond Chandler novel of the same title, featuring his famous detective Philip Marlowe, and was transfixed by the second paragraph: The main hallway of the Sternwood place was two stories high. Over the entrance doors, which would have let in a troop of Indian elephants, there was a broad stained-glass panel showing a knight in dark armour rescuing a lady who was tied to a tree and didn’t have any clothes on but some very long and convenient hair. The knight had pushed the visor of his helmet back to be sociable, and he was fiddling with the knots on the ropes that tied the lady to the tree and not getting anywhere. I stood there and thought that if I lived in the house, I would sooner or later have to climb up there and help him. He didn’t seem to be really trying (9). John Scaggs has written that this passage indicates Marlowe is an idealised figure, a knight of romance rewritten onto the mean streets of mid-20th century Los Angeles (62); a relocation Susan Roland calls a “secular form of the divinely sanctioned knight errant on a quest for metaphysical justice” (139): my kind of guy. Like many young people I looked for adventure and escape in books, a search that was realised with Raymond Chandler and his contemporaries. On the escapism scale, these men with their stories of tough-talking detectives taking on murderers and other criminals, law enforcement officers, and the occasional femme fatale, were certainly a sharp upgrade from C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia. After reading the works written by the pioneers of the hardboiled and roman noir traditions, I looked to other American authors such as Edgar Allan Poe who, in the mid-1800s, became the father of the modern detective story, and Thorne Smith who, in the 1920s and 1930s, produced magical realist tales with characters who often chose to dabble on the wrong side of the law. This led me to the works of British crime writers including Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy L. Sayers. My personal library then became dominated by Australian writers of crime fiction, from the stories of bushrangers and convicts of the Colonial era to contemporary tales of police and private investigators. There have been various attempts to “improve” or “refine” my tastes: to convince me that serious literature is real reading and frivolous fiction is merely a distraction. Certainly, the reading of those novels, often described as classics, provide perfect combinations of beauty and brilliance. Their narratives, however, do not often result in satisfactory endings. This routinely frustrates me because, while I understand the philosophical frameworks that many writers operate within, I believe the characters of such works are too often treated unfairly in the final pages. For example, at the end of Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, Frederick Henry “left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain” after his son is stillborn and “Mrs Henry” becomes “very ill” and dies (292–93). Another example can be found on the last page of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four when Winston Smith “gazed up at the enormous face” and he realised that he “loved Big Brother” (311). Endings such as these provide a space for reflection about the world around us but rarely spark an immediate response of how great that world is to live in (Franks Motive). The subject matter of crime fiction does not easily facilitate fairy-tale finishes, yet, people continue to read the genre because, generally, the concluding chapter will show that justice, of some form, will be done. Punishment will be meted out to the ‘bad characters’ that have broken society’s moral or legal laws; the ‘good characters’ may experience hardships and may suffer but they will, generally, prevail. Crime Fiction: A Taste For Justice Superimposed upon Auden’s parameters around crime fiction, are his ideas of the law in the real world and how such laws are interwoven with the Christian-based system of ethics. This can be seen in Auden’s listing of three classes of crime: “(a) offenses against God and one’s neighbor or neighbors; (b) offenses against God and society; (c) offenses against God” (407). Murder, in Auden’s opinion, is a class (b) offense: for the crime fiction novel, the society reflected within the story should be one in “a state of grace, i.e., a society where there is no need of the law, no contradiction between the aesthetic individual and the ethical universal, and where murder, therefore, is the unheard-of act which precipitates a crisis” (408). Additionally, in the crime novel “as in its mirror image, the Quest for the Grail, maps (the ritual of space) and timetables (the ritual of time) are desirable. Nature should reflect its human inhabitants, i.e., it should be the Great Good Place; for the more Eden-like it is, the greater the contradiction of murder” (408). Thus, as Charles J. Rzepka notes, “according to W.H. Auden, the ‘classical’ English detective story typically re-enacts rites of scapegoating and expulsion that affirm the innocence of a community of good people supposedly ignorant of evil” (12). This premise—of good versus evil—supports Auden’s claim that the punishment of wrongdoers, particularly those who claim the “right to be omnipotent” and commit murder (409), should be swift and final: As to the murderer’s end, of the three alternatives—execution, suicide, and madness—the first is preferable; for if he commits suicide he refuses to repent, and if he goes mad he cannot repent, but if he does not repent society cannot forgive. Execution, on the other hand, is the act of atonement by which the murderer is forgiven by society (409). The unilateral endorsement of state-sanctioned murder is problematic, however, because—of the main justifications for punishment: retribution; deterrence; incapacitation; and rehabilitation (Carter Snead 1245)—punishment, in this context, focuses exclusively upon retribution and deterrence, incapacitation is achieved by default, but the idea of rehabilitation is completely ignored. This, in turn, ignores how the reading of crime fiction can be incorporated into a broader popular discourse on punishment and how a taste for crime fiction and a taste for justice are inextricably intertwined. One of the ways to explore the connection between crime fiction and justice is through the lens of Emile Durkheim’s thesis on the conscience collective which proposes punishment is a process allowing for the demonstration of group norms and the strengthening of moral boundaries. David Garland, in summarising this thesis, states: So although the modern state has a near monopoly of penal violence and controls the administration of penalties, a much wider population feels itself to be involved in the process of punishment, and supplies the context of social support and valorization within which state punishment takes place (32). It is claimed here that this “much wider population” connecting with the task of punishment can be taken further. Crime fiction, above all other forms of literary production, which, for those who do not directly contribute to the maintenance of their respective legal systems, facilitates a feeling of active participation in the penalising of a variety of perpetrators: from the issuing of fines to incarceration (Franks Punishment). Crime fiction readers are therefore, temporarily at least, direct contributors to a more stable society: one that is clearly based upon right and wrong and reliant upon the conscience collective to maintain and reaffirm order. In this context, the reader is no longer alone, with only their crime fiction novel for company, but has become an active member of “a moral framework which binds individuals to each other and to its conventions and institutions” (Garland 51). This allows crime fiction, once viewed as a “vice” (Wilson 395) or an “addiction” (Auden 406), to be seen as playing a crucial role in the preservation of social mores. It has been argued “only the most literal of literary minds would dispute the claim that fictional characters help shape the way we think of ourselves, and hence help us articulate more clearly what it means to be human” (Galgut 190). Crime fiction focuses on what it means to be human, and how complex humans are, because stories of murders, and the men and women who perpetrate and solve them, comment on what drives some people to take a life and others to avenge that life which is lost and, by extension, engages with a broad community of readers around ideas of justice and punishment. It is, furthermore, argued here that the idea of the story is one of the more important doorways for crime fiction and, more specifically, the conclusions that these stories, traditionally, offer. For Auden, the ending should be one of restoration of the spirit, as he suspected that “the typical reader of detective stories is, like myself, a person who suffers from a sense of sin” (411). In this way, the “phantasy, then, which the detective story addict indulges is the phantasy of being restored to the Garden of Eden, to a state of innocence, where he may know love as love and not as the law” (412), indicating that it was not necessarily an accident that “the detective story has flourished most in predominantly Protestant countries” (408). Today, modern crime fiction is a “broad church, where talented authors raise questions and cast light on a variety of societal and other issues through the prism of an exciting, page-turning story” (Sisterson). Moreover, our tastes in crime fiction have been tempered by a growing fear of real crime, particularly murder, “a crime of unique horror” (Hitchens 200). This has seen some readers develop a taste for crime fiction that is not produced within a framework of ecclesiastical faith but is rather grounded in reliance upon those who enact punishment in both the fictional and real worlds. As P.D. James has written: [N]ot by luck or divine intervention, but by human ingenuity, human intelligence and human courage. It confirms our hope that, despite some evidence to the contrary, we live in a beneficent and moral universe in which problems can be solved by rational means and peace and order restored from communal or personal disruption and chaos (174). Dorothy L. Sayers, despite her work to legitimise crime fiction, wrote that there: “certainly does seem a possibility that the detective story will some time come to an end, simply because the public will have learnt all the tricks” (108). Of course, many readers have “learnt all the tricks”, or most of them. This does not, however, detract from the genre’s overall appeal. We have not grown bored with, or become tired of, the formula that revolves around good and evil, and justice and punishment. Quite the opposite. Our knowledge of, as well as our faith in, the genre’s “tricks” gives a level of confidence to readers who are looking for endings that punish murderers and other wrongdoers, allowing for more satisfactory conclusions than the, rather depressing, ends given to Mr. Henry and Mr. Smith by Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell noted above. Conclusion For some, the popularity of crime fiction is a curious case indeed. When Penguin and Collins published the Marsh Million—100,000 copies each of 10 Ngaio Marsh titles in 1949—the author’s relief at the success of the project was palpable when she commented that “it was pleasant to find detective fiction being discussed as a tolerable form of reading by people whose opinion one valued” (172). More recently, upon the announcement that a Miles Franklin Award would be given to Peter Temple for his crime novel Truth, John Sutherland, a former chairman of the judges for one of the world’s most famous literary awards, suggested that submitting a crime novel for the Booker Prize would be: “like putting a donkey into the Grand National”. Much like art, fashion, food, and home furnishings or any one of the innumerable fields of activity and endeavour that are subject to opinion, there will always be those within the world of fiction who claim positions as arbiters of taste. Yet reading is intensely personal. I like a strong, well-plotted story, appreciate a carefully researched setting, and can admire elegant language, but if a character is too difficult to embrace—if I find I cannot make an emotional connection, if I find myself ambivalent about their fate—then a book is discarded as not being to my taste. It is also important to recognise that some tastes are transient. Crime fiction stories that are popular today could be forgotten tomorrow. Some stories appeal to such a broad range of tastes they are immediately included in the crime fiction canon. Yet others evolve over time to accommodate widespread changes in taste (an excellent example of this can be seen in the continual re-imagining of the stories of Sherlock Holmes). Personal tastes also adapt to our experiences and our surroundings. A book that someone adores in their 20s might be dismissed in their 40s. A storyline that was meaningful when read abroad may lose some of its magic when read at home. Personal events, from a change in employment to the loss of a loved one, can also impact upon what we want to read. Similarly, world events, such as economic crises and military conflicts, can also influence our reading preferences. Auden professed an almost insatiable appetite for crime fiction, describing the reading of detective stories as an addiction, and listed a very specific set of criteria to define the Whodunit. Today, such self-imposed restrictions are rare as, while there are many rules for writing crime fiction, there are no rules for reading this (or any other) genre. People are, generally, free to choose what, where, when, why, and how they read crime fiction, and to follow the deliberate or whimsical paths that their tastes may lay down for them. Crime fiction writers, past and present, offer: an incredible array of detective stories from the locked room to the clue puzzle; settings that range from the English country estate to city skyscrapers in glamorous locations around the world; numerous characters from cerebral sleuths who can solve a crime in their living room over a nice, hot cup of tea to weapon wielding heroes who track down villains on foot in darkened alleyways; and, language that ranges from the cultured conversations from the novels of the genre’s Golden Age to the hard-hitting terminology of forensic and legal procedurals. Overlaid on these appeal factors is the capacity of crime fiction to feed a taste for justice: to engage, vicariously at least, in the establishment of a more stable society. Of course, there are those who turn to the genre for a temporary distraction, an occasional guilty pleasure. There are those who stumble across the genre by accident or deliberately seek it out. There are also those, like Auden, who are addicted to crime fiction. So there are corpses for the conservative and dead bodies for the bloodthirsty. There is, indeed, a murder victim, and a murder story, to suit every reader’s taste. References Auden, W.H. “The Guilty Vicarage: Notes on The Detective Story, By an Addict.” Harper’s Magazine May (1948): 406–12. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.harpers.org/archive/1948/05/0033206›. Carter Snead, O. “Memory and Punishment.” Vanderbilt Law Review 64.4 (2011): 1195–264. Cawelti, John G. Adventure, Mystery and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and Popular Culture. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1976/1977. Chandler, Raymond. The Big Sleep. London: Penguin, 1939/1970. ––. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Christie, Agatha. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. London: HarperCollins, 1920/2007. Cole, Cathy. Private Dicks and Feisty Chicks: An Interrogation of Crime Fiction. Fremantle: Curtin UP, 2004. Derrida, Jacques. “The Law of Genre.” Glyph 7 (1980): 202–32. Franks, Rachel. “May I Suggest Murder?: An Overview of Crime Fiction for Readers’ Advisory Services Staff.” Australian Library Journal 60.2 (2011): 133–43. ––. “Motive for Murder: Reading Crime Fiction.” The Australian Library and Information Association Biennial Conference. Sydney: Jul. 2012. ––. “Punishment by the Book: Delivering and Evading Punishment in Crime Fiction.” Inter-Disciplinary.Net 3rd Global Conference on Punishment. Oxford: Sep. 2013. Freeman, R.A. “The Art of the Detective Story.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1924/1947. 7–17. Galgut, E. “Poetic Faith and Prosaic Concerns: A Defense of Suspension of Disbelief.” South African Journal of Philosophy 21.3 (2002): 190–99. Garland, David. Punishment and Modern Society: A Study in Social Theory. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1993. Hemingway, Ernest. A Farewell to Arms. London: Random House, 1929/2004. ––. in R. Chandler. The Simple Art of Murder. New York: Vintage Books, 1950/1988. Hitchens, P. A Brief History of Crime: The Decline of Order, Justice and Liberty in England. London: Atlantic Books, 2003. James, P.D. Talking About Detective Fiction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. Knight, Stephen. Crime Fiction since 1800: Death, Detection, Diversity, 2nd ed. New York: Palgrave Macmillian, 2010. Knox, Ronald A. “Club Rules: The 10 Commandments for Detective Novelists, 1928.” Ronald Knox Society of North America. 1 Dec. 2013 ‹http://www.ronaldknoxsociety.com/detective.html›. Malmgren, C.D. “Anatomy of Murder: Mystery, Detective and Crime Fiction.” Journal of Popular Culture Spring (1997): 115–21. Maloney, Shane. The Murray Whelan Trilogy: Stiff, The Brush-Off and Nice Try. Melbourne: Text Publishing, 1994/2008. Marsh, Ngaio in J. Drayton. Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime. Auckland: Harper Collins, 2008. Orwell, George. Nineteen Eighty-Four. London: Penguin Books, 1949/1989. Roland, Susan. From Agatha Christie to Ruth Rendell: British Women Writers in Detective and Crime Fiction. London: Palgrave, 2001. Rzepka, Charles J. Detective Fiction. Cambridge: Polity, 2005. Sayers, Dorothy L. “The Omnibus of Crime.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 71–109. Scaggs, John. Crime Fiction: The New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge, 2005. Sisterson, C. “Battle for the Marsh: Awards 2013.” Black Mask: Pulps, Noir and News of Same. 1 Jan. 2014 http://www.blackmask.com/category/awards-2013/ Sutherland, John. in A. Flood. “Could Miles Franklin turn the Booker Prize to Crime?” The Guardian. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/25/miles-franklin-booker-prize-crime›. Van Dine, S.S. “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1928/1947. 189-93. Wilson, Edmund. “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd.” The Art of the Mystery Story: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Howard Haycraft. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1944/1947. 390–97. Wyatt, N. “Redefining RA: A RA Big Think.” Library Journal Online. 1 Jan. 2014 ‹http://lj.libraryjournal.com/2007/07/ljarchives/lj-series-redefining-ra-an-ra-big-think›. Zunshine, Lisa. Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Columbus: Ohio State UP, 2006.

Like any genre or mode, the Gothic is malleable, changing according to time and place. This is particularly apparent when what is considered Gothic in one era is compared with that of another. The giant helmet that falls from the sky in Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto (1764) is a very different threat to the ravenous vampires that stalk the novels of Anne Rice, just as Ann Radcliffe’s animated portraits may not inspire anxiety for a contemporary reader of Stephen King. The mutability of Gothic is also apparent across various versions of national Gothic that have emerged, with the specificities of place lending Gothic narratives from countries such as Ireland, Scotland and Australia a distinctive flavour. In New Zealand, the Gothic is most commonly associated with Pakeha artists exploring extreme psychological states, isolation and violence. Instead of the haunted castles, ruined abbeys and supernatural occurrences of classic Gothics of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, such as those produced by writers as diverse as Charles Brockden Brown, Matthew Lewis, Edgar Allen Poe, Radcliffe, Bram Stoker and Walpole, New Zealand Gothic fiction tends to focus on psychological horror, taking its cue, according to Jenny Lawn, from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), which ushered in a tendency in the Gothic novel to explore the idea of a divided consciousness. Lawn observes that in New Zealand “Our monsters tend to be interior: they are experiences of intense psychological states, often with sexual undertones within isolated nuclear families” (“Kiwi Gothic”). Kirsty Gunn’s novella Rain (1994), which focuses on a dysfunctional family holidaying in an isolated lakeside community, exemplifies the tendency of New Zealand Gothic to omit the supernatural in favour of the psychological, with its spectres being sexual predation, parental neglect and the death of an innocent. Bronwyn Bannister’s Haunt (2000) is set primarily in a psychiatric hospital, detailing various forms of psychiatric disorder, as well as the acts that spring from them, such as one protagonist’s concealment for several years of her baby in a shed, while Noel Virtue’s The Redemption of Elsdon Bird (1987) is another example, with a young character’s decision to shoot his two younger siblings in the head as they sleep in an attempt to protect them from the religious beliefs of his fundamentalist parents amply illustrating the intense psychological states that characterise New Zealand Gothic. Although there is no reason why Gothic literature ought to include the supernatural, its omission in New Zealand Gothic does point to a confusion that Timothy Jones foregrounds in his suggestion that “In the absence of the trappings of established Gothic traditions – castles populated by fiendish aristocrats, swamps draped with Spanish moss and possessed by terrible spirits” New Zealand is “uncertain how and where it ought to perform its own Gothic” (203). The anxiety that Jones notes is perhaps less to do with where the New Zealand Gothic should occur, since there is an established tradition of Gothic events occurring in the bush and on the beach, while David Ballantyne’s Sydney Bridge Upside Down (1968) uses a derelict slaughterhouse as a version of a haunted castle and Maurice Gee successfully uses a decrepit farmhouse as a Gothic edifice in The Fire-Raiser (1986), but more to do with available ghosts. New Zealand Gothic literature produced in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries certainly tends to focus on the psychological rather than the supernatural, but earlier writing that utilises the Gothic mode is far more focused on spooky events and ghostly presences. There is a tradition of supernatural Gothic in New Zealand, but its representations of Maori ghosts complicates the processes through which contemporary writers might build on that tradition. The stories in D. W. O. Fagen’s collection Tapu and Other Tales of Old New Zealand (1952) illustrate the tendency in colonial New Zealand literature to represent Maori in supernatural terms expressive both of anxieties surrounding Maori agency and indigeneity, as well as Western assumptions regarding Maori culture. In much colonial Gothic, Maori ghosts, burial grounds and the notion of tapu express settler anxieties while also working to contain those anxieties by suggesting the superstitious and hence backward nature of indigenous culture. In Fagan’s story “Tapu”, which first appeared in the Bulletin in 1912, the narrator stumbles into a Maori burial ground where he is confronted by the terrible sight of “two fleshless skeletons” that grin and appear “ghastly in the dim light” (37). The narrator’s desecration of land deemed tapu fills him with “a sort of nameless terror at nothing, a horror of some unknown impending fate against which it was useless to struggle and from which there was no escape” (39). This expresses a sense of the authenticity of Maori culture, but the narrator’s thought “Was there any truth in heathen devilry after all?” is quickly superseded by the relegation of Maori culture as “ancient superstitions” (40). When the narrator is approached by a tohunga following his breach of tapu, his reaction is outrage: "Here was I – a fairly decent Englishman, reared in the Anglican faith and living in the nineteenth century – hindered from going about my business, outcast, excommunicated, shunned as a leper, my servant dying, all on account of some fiendish diablerie of heathen fetish. The affair was preposterous, incredible, ludicrous" (40). Fagan’s story establishes a clear opposition between Western rationalism and “decency”, and the “heathen fetishes” associated with Maori culture, which it uses to infuse the story with the thrills appropriate to Gothic fiction and which it ultimately casts as superstitious and uncivilised. F. E. Maning’s Old New Zealand (1863) includes an episode of Maori women grieving that is represented in terms that would not be out of place in horror. A group of women are described as screaming, wailing, and quivering their hands about in a most extraordinary manner, and cutting themselves dreadfully with sharp flints and shells. One old woman, in the centre of the group, was one clot of blood from head to feet, and large clots of coagulated blood lay on the ground where she stood. The sight was absolutely horrible, I thought at the time. She was singing or howling a dirge-like wail. In her right hand she held a piece of tuhua, or volcanic glass, as sharp as a razor: this she placed deliberately to her left wrist, drawing it slowly upwards to her left shoulder, the spouting blood following as it went; then from the left shoulder downwards, across the breast to the short ribs on the right side; then the rude but keen knife was shifted from the right hand to the left, placed to the right wrist, drawn upwards to the right shoulder, and so down across the breast to the left side, thus making a bloody cross on the breast; and so the operation went on all the time I was there, the old creature all the time howling in time and measure, and keeping time also with the knife, which at every cut was shifted from one hand to the other, as I have described. She had scored her forehead and cheeks before I came; her face and body was a mere clot of blood, and a little stream was dropping from every finger – a more hideous object could scarcely be conceived. (Maning 120–21) The gory quality of this episode positions Maori as barbaric, but Patrick Evans notes that there is an incident in Old New Zealand that grants authenticity to indigenous culture. After being discovered handling human remains, the narrator of Maning’s text is made tapu and rendered untouchable. Although Maning represents the narrator’s adherence to his abjection from Maori society as merely a way to placate a local population, when a tohunga appears to perform cleansing rituals, the narrator’s indulgence of perceived superstition is accompanied by “a curious sensation […] like what I fancied a man must feel who has just sold himself, body and bones, to the devil. For a moment I asked myself the question whether I was not actually being then and there handed over to the powers of darkness” (qtd. in Evans 85). Evans points out that Maning may represent the ritual as solely performative, “but the result is portrayed as real” (85). Maning’s narrator may assert his lack of belief in the tohunga’s power, but he nevertheless experiences that power. Such moments of unease occur throughout colonial writing when assertions of European dominance and rational understanding are undercut or threatened. Evans cites the examples of the painter G. F. Angus whose travels through the native forest of Waikato in the 1840s saw him haunted by the “peculiar odour” of rotting vegetation and Edward Shortland whose efforts to remain skeptical during a sacred Maori ceremony were disturbed by the manifestation of atua rustling in the thatch of the hut in which it was occurring (Evans 85). Even though the mysterious power attributed to Maori in colonial Gothic is frequently represented as threatening, there is also an element of desire at play, which Lydia Wevers highlights in her observation that colonial ghost stories involve a desire to assimilate or be assimilated by what is “other.” Wevers singles out for discussion the story “The Disappearance of Letham Crouch”, which appeared in the New Zealand Illustrated Magazine in 1901. The narrative recounts the experiences of an overzealous missionary who is received by Maori as a new tohunga. In order to learn more about Maori religion (so as to successfully replace it with Christianity), Crouch inhabits a hut that is tapu, resulting in madness and fanaticism. He eventually disappears, only to reappear in the guise of a Maori “stripped for dancing” (qtd. in Wevers 206). Crouch is effectively “turned heathen” (qtd. in Wevers 206), a transformation that is clearly threatening for a Christian European, but there is also an element of desirability in such a transformation for a settler seeking an authentic New Zealand identity. Colonial Gothic frequently figures mysterious experiences with indigenous culture as a way for the European settler to essentially become indigenous by experiencing something perceived as authentically New Zealand. Colonial Gothic frequently includes the supernatural in ways that are complicit in the processes of colonisation that problematizes them as models for contemporary writers. For New Zealanders attempting to produce a Gothic narrative, the most immediately available tropes for a haunting past are Maori, but to use those tropes brings texts uncomfortably close to nineteenth-century obsessions with Maori skeletal remains and a Gothicised New Zealand landscape, which Edmund G. C. King notes is a way of expressing “the sense of bodily and mental displacement that often accompanied the colonial experience” (36). R. H. Chapman’s Mihawhenua (1888) provides an example of tropes particularly Gothic that remain a part of colonial discourse not easily transferable into a bicultural context. Chapman’s band of explorers discover a cave strewn with bones which they interpret to be the remains of gory cannibalistic feasts: Here, we might well imagine, the clear waters of the little stream at our feet had sometime run red with the blood of victims of some horrid carnival, and the pale walls of the cavern had grown more pale in sympathy with the shrieks of the doomed ere a period was put to their tortures. Perchance the owners of some of the bones that lay scattered in careless profusion on the floor, had, when strong with life and being, struggled long and bravely in many a bloody battle, and, being at last overcome, their bodies were brought here to whet the appetites and appease the awful hunger of their victors. (qtd. in King) The assumptions regarding the primitive nature of indigenous culture expressed by reference to the “horrid carnival” of cannibalism complicate the processes through which contemporary writers could meaningfully draw on a tradition of New Zealand Gothic utilising the supernatural. One answer to this dilemma is to use supernatural elements not specifically associated with New Zealand. In Stephen Cain’s anthology Antipodean Tales: Stories from the Dark Side (1996) there are several instances of this, such as in the story “Never Go Tramping Alone” by Alyson Cresswell-Moorcock, which features a creature called a Gravett. As Timothy Jones’s discussion of this anthology demonstrates, there are two problems arising from this unprecedented monster: firstly, the story does not seem to be a “New Zealand Gothic”, which a review in The Evening Post highlights by observing that “there is a distinct ‘Kiwi’ feel to only a few of the stories” (Rendle 5); while secondly, the Gravatt’s appearance in the New Zealand landscape is unconvincing. Jones argues that "When we encounter the wendigo, a not dissimilar spirit to the Gravatt, in Ann Tracy’s Winter Hunger or Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, we have a vague sense that such beings ‘exist’ and belong in the American or Canadian landscapes in which they are located. A Gravatt, however, has no such precedent, no such sense of belonging, and thus loses its authority" (251). Something of this problem is registered in Elizabeth Knox’s vampire novel Daylight (2003), which avoids the problem of making a vampire “fit” with a New Zealand landscape devoid of ancient architecture by setting all the action in Europe. One of the more successful stories in Cain’s collection demonstrates a way of engaging with a specifically New Zealand tradition of supernatural Gothic, while also illustrating some of the potential pitfalls in utilising colonial Gothic tropes of menacing bush, Maori burial caves and skeletal remains. Oliver Nicks’s “The House” focuses on a writer who takes up residence in an isolated “little old colonial cottage in the bush” (8). The strange “odd-angled walls”, floors that seem to slope downwards and the “subterranean silence” of the cottage provokes anxiety in the first-person narrator who admits his thoughts “grew increasingly dark and chaotic” (8). The strangeness of the house is only intensified by the isolation of its surroundings, which are fertile but nevertheless completely uninhabited. Alone and unnerved by the oddness of the house, the narrator listens to the same “inexplicable night screeches and rustlings of the bush” (9) that furnish so much New Zealand Gothic. Yet it is not fear inspired by the menacing bush that troubles the narrator as much as the sense that there was more in this darkness, something from which I felt a greater need to be insulated than the mild horror of mingling with a few wetas, spiders, bats, and other assorted creepy-crawlies. Something was subtlely wrong here – it was not just the oddness of the dimensions and angles. Everything seemed slightly off, not to add up somehow. I could not quite put my finger on whatever it was. (10) When the narrator escapes the claustrophobic house for a walk in the bush, the natural environment is rendered in spectral terms. The narrator is engulfed by the “bare bones of long-dead forest giants” (11) and “crowding tree-corpses”, but the path he follows in order to escape the “Tree-ghosts” is no more comforting since it winds through “a strange grey world with its shrouds of hanging moss, and mist” (12). In the midst of this Gothicised environment the narrator is “transfixed by the intersection of two overpowering irrational forces” when something looms up out of the mist and experiences “irresistible curiosity, balanced by an equal and opposite urge to turn and run like hell” (12). The narrator’s experience of being deep in the threatening bush continues a tradition of colonial writing that renders the natural environment in Gothic terms, such as H. B. Marriot Watson’s The Web of the Spider: A Tale of Adventure (1891), which includes an episode that sees the protagonist Palliser become lost in the forest of Te Tauru and suffer a similar demoralization as Nicks’s narrator: “the horror of the place had gnawed into his soul, and lurked there, mordant. He now saw how it had come to be regarded as the home of the Taniwha, the place of death” (77). Philip Steer points out that it is the Maoriness of Palliser’s surroundings that inspire his existential dread, suggesting a certain amount of settler alienation, but “Palliser’s survival and eventual triumph overwrites this uncertainty with the relegation of Maori to the past” (128). Nicks’s story, although utilising similar tropes to colonial fiction, attempts to puts them to different ends. What strikes such fear in Nicks’s narrator is a mysterious object that inspires the particular dread known as the uncanny: I gave myself a stern talking to and advanced on the shadow. It was about my height, angular, bony and black. It stood as it now stands, as it has stood for centuries, on the edge of a swamp deep in the heart of an ancient forest high in this remote range of hills forming a part of the Southern Alps. As I think of it I cannot help but shudder; it fills me even now with inexplicable awe. It snaked up out of the ground like some malign fern-frond, curving back on itself and curling into a circle at about head height. Extending upwards from the circle were three odd-angled and bent protuberances of unequal length. A strange force flowed from it. It looked alien somehow, but it was man-made. Its power lay, not in its strangeness, but in its unaccountable familiarity; why did I know – have I always known? – how to fear this… thing? (12) This terrible “thing” represents a return of the repressed associated with the crimes of colonisation. After almost being devoured by the malevolent tree-like object the narrator discovers a track leading to a cave decorated with ancient rock paintings that contains a hideous wooden creature that is, in fact, a burial chest. Realising that he has discovered a burial cave, the narrator is shocked to find more chests that have been broken open and bones scattered over the floor. With the discovery of the desecrated burial cave, the hidden crimes of colonisation are brought to light. Unlike colonial Gothic that tends to represent Maori culture as threatening, Nicks’s story represents the forces contained in the cave as a catalyst for a beneficial transformative experience: I do remember the cyclone of malign energy from the abyss gibbering and leering; a flame of terror burning in every cell of my body; a deluge of shrieking unreason threatening to wash away the bare shred that was left of my mind. Yet even as each hellish new dimension yawned before me, defying the limits even of imagination, the fragments of my shattered sanity were being drawn together somehow, and reassembled in novel configurations. To each proposition of demonic impossibility there was a surging, answering wave of kaleidoscopic truth. (19) Although the story replicates colonial writing’s tendency to represent indigenous culture in terms of the irrational and demonic, the authenticity and power of the narrator’s experience is stressed. When he comes to consciousness following an enlightenment that sees him acknowledging that the truth of existence is a limitless space “filled with deep coruscations of beauty and joy” (20) he knows what he must do. Returning to the cottage, the narrator takes several days to search the house and finally finds what he is looking for: a steel box that contains “stolen skulls” (20). The narrator concludes that the “Trophies” (20) buried in the collapsed outhouse are the cause for the “Dark, inexplicable moods, nightmares, hallucinations – spirits, ghosts, demons” that “would have plagued anyone who attempted to remain in this strange, cursed region” (20). Once the narrator returns the remains to the burial cave, the inexplicable events cease and the once-strange house becomes an ideal home for a writer seeking peace in which to work. The colonial Gothic mode in New Zealand utilises the Gothic’s concern with a haunting past in order to associate that past with the primitive and barbaric. By rendering Maori culture in Gothic terms, such as in Maning’s blood-splattered scene of grieving or through the spooky discoveries of bone-strewn caves, colonial writing compares an “uncivilised” indigenous culture with the “civilised” culture of European settlement. For a contemporary writer wishing to produce a New Zealand supernatural horror, the colonial Gothic is a problematic tradition to work from, but Nicks’s story succeeds in utilising tropes associated with colonial writing in order to reverse its ideologies. “The House” represents European settlement in terms of barbarity by representing a brutal desecration of sacred ground, while indigenous culture is represented in positive, if frightening, terms of truth and power. Colonial Gothic’s tendency to associate indigenous culture with violence, barbarism and superstition is certainly replicated in Nicks’s story through the frightening object that attempts to devour the narrator and the macabre burial chests shaped like monsters, but ultimately it is colonial violence that is most overtly condemned, with the power inhabiting the burial cave being represented as ultimately benign, at least towards an intruder who means no harm. More significantly, there is no attempt in the story to explain events that seem outside the understanding of Western rationality. The story accepts as true what the narrator experiences. Nevertheless, in spite of the explicit engagement with the return of repressed crimes associated with colonisation, Nicks’s engagement with the mode of colonial Gothic means there is a replication of some of its underlying notions relating to settlement and belonging. The narrator of Nicks’s story is a contemporary New Zealander who is placed in the position of rectifying colonial crimes in order to take up residence in a site effectively cleansed of the sins of the past. Nicks’s narrator cannot happily inhabit the colonial cottage until the stolen remains are returned to their rightful place and it seems not to occur to him that a greater theft might underlie the smaller one. Returning the stolen skulls is represented as a reasonable action in “The House”, and it is a way for the narrator to establish what Linda Hardy refers to as “natural occupancy,” but the notion of returning a house and land that might also be termed stolen is never entertained, although the story’s final sentence does imply the need for the continuing placation of the powerful indigenous forces that inhabit the land: “To make sure that things stay [peaceful] I think I may just keep this story to myself” (20). The fact that the narrator has not kept the story to himself suggests that his untroubled occupation of the colonial cottage is far more tenuous than he might have hoped. References Ballantyne, David. Sydney Bridge Upside Down. Melbourne: Text, 2010. Bannister, Bronwyn. Haunt. Dunedin: University of Otago Press, 2000. Calder, Alex. “F. E. Maning 1811–1883.” Kotare 7. 2 (2008): 5–18. Chapman, R. H. 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