A plea for critical thinking humans in our world of extremes

Laura Sangha

A companion piece to: What is history for? Or: Doing history/thinking historically

The train to Totnes this weekend was full of late holiday makers heading for Cornwall. They were gratifyingly impressed by one of the greatest rail journeys in England – the swoop down the Exe estuary coast where, if you are seated on the correct side of the train, there is nothing between you and the rippling water, scattered with gulls, oyster catchers, cormorants and mudlarks.

A photo taken from the bridge over the railway tracks at Starcross train station in Devon. The platform is to the left, immediately next to it is an expanse of exposed mud, with the Exe following beyond it. It's a grey day, boats can be seen on the river.
The view from Starcross train station on the Exe Estuary.

I was rather sadder to overhear the conversation as it turned to the climate crisis. Observing the rolling Devon hills, the shallow rooted grass now returned to a lush green after a couple of weeks of regular rain showers, one traveller compared it to their London experience. ‘I suppose it wasn’t as hot down here this summer’. The other, from Kent, agreed, adding ‘I expect it will be just like 1976. After that was all over things just returned to normal again very quickly’. The companion agreed wholeheartedly and conversation then moved on to the drought resistant planting that both travellers were beginning in their parched dust bowl gardens.

At first I was taken aback to again hear repeated the line about 1976. Although it was an idea that bounced around a lot during the first and second heatwaves, I felt that the persistent, life threatening heat that followed had rather snuffed it out. No doubt my own personal media bubble was to blame. But it soon got me thinking more generally about public or popular discourse, where ideas like ‘1976’ come from, and why they persist. Why can’t people see that this take on the exceptional, extra-ordinary weather we endured in England this summer is spectacularly wrong?

Of course, there are too many reasons to examine them all here, so I wish to focus on just one: a lack of critical thinking, and a particular subset of that, a failure to consider evidence. People are spectacularly wrong because they don’t have tools which allow them to weigh up an interpretation or an argument, to examine the evidence it is based on, to see it in a broader context, or to consider other interpretations and to compare and contrast them to conclude which is most persuasive.

Yes, that’s right (surprise!) I want to talk about the methods of historical study.

My job as a historian requires that I am an expert critical thinker. It is also my chief responsibility to my students to teach them how to become critical thinkers. Because I have been steeped in this way of interacting with the world since embarking on my undergraduate degree (mumble) decades ago, it’s too easy to forget that for many people it is just not something that they have been schooled in. Or if they were, it was too long ago to remember, or they weren’t listening, or they were absent that day. Or they went on to study a subject that didn’t value or prioritise it.

But in an increasingly unstable global context, a lack of critical thinking allows misinformation and lies to proliferate, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that something is a lie, that it is untrue, that it is not right. It is not right that 2026 was just the same thing as 1976, and critical thinking can prove it.

Two graphs which show the mean UK summer temperatures in 1976 and 2026. The mean temperatures were persistently higher in 2026. The graphs are from Met Office
Graphs from the Met Office article.

First, to the evidence itself. Anyone can google ‘1976 compared with 2026’ and find links to a range of articles comparing the weather conditions of the two. But you need to apply some critical thinking about the context of these articles to work out which of them is likely to contain evidence you can trust.  

All this means is asking some fundamental questions. Who wrote this? What are they saying? Why did they write it – what point are they trying to make? Who are they writing for, what’s their audience, what are they trying to persuade them of and why? What is their evidence for what they have written? Where did it come from? What are the problems and gaps in it? Who has a vested interest in what they are saying?

Might this person have a reason to exaggerate, to leave out some facts, or to tell a particular story? Is it likely that this person is misrepresenting the evidence to further their own ends?

Let’s apply these critical questions to our google list of articles about 1976.

Should I trust the Reddit thread ‘2026 is the new ’76. I will not be taking questions’? Well no – I don’t know who wrote this. I know that the social news website Reddit is full of amateur and expert opinion but how can I tell the difference from the info provided there? Just because millions of people voted a thread up, it doesn’t make it right.

How about this Reuters article then. A trusted news source, so that gives me more confidence. But the article is from July, so it can’t give me a full picture of the conditions across the summer.

What about a Mirror article from mid-August then? Again, it’s not what I am looking for. Tabloid and broadsheet content is always likely to provide an interpretation that will resonate with its presumed audience or advertisers, it follows an editorial line, and it will likely lack the detailed scientific evidence I am looking for.

Ah ha, further down the results page is a Met Office article from 4 September. That’s the ticket – the Met are a professional, trusted institution with their own archive of data. Click.

And there is the evidence, all the statistics from both years, neatly summed up in the first paragraph: ‘summer 2026 has rewritten the record books, becoming the UK’s warmest summer on record for mean, maximum and minimum temperatures, while also recording more tropical nights than 1976.’

A table showing various statistics relating to the weather in 1976 and 2026. Generally the temperature stats are slightly higher for 2026. It is also notable that 1976 had 22 days above 30 degrees, 2026 had 33 days above 30 degrees.
A table from the Met Office article

Since 1976 is just my case study I won’t go into lots of detail, but a critical thinker would immediately be able to identify the key points supporting the Met article argument ‘Summer 2026 has not only rivalled 1976 but exceeded it in several ways.’ The section that my fellow train travellers need to read is ‘Similar impacts, different climate’.

Just a little more digging might bring our reader to the open access online evidence of scientists who monitor climatic conditions, such as the Climate Lab Book on Substack. Importantly the site includes information about the author and his credentials, giving us confidence in his knowledge: it is by Ed Hawkins, a climate scientist at the University of Reading, an MBE recipient who invented the ‘climate stripes’. There you can see some quite terrifying graphic evidence of the differences:

Two graphics from the Climate Lab article showing an outline map focused on the UK and France. They are coloured to represent the temperature difference from average in the summers of 1976 and 2026. There is a lot more blue on the 1976 map (cooler) and a lot more dark red on the 2026 map (hot).
Graphics from Ed Hawkins’ Climate Lab Book.

(of course the critical thinker in me also notes that using a different colour scheme would make this graphic look very different …)

Returning to our train travellers, had they dug a little deeper they would now be able to test their hypothesis against the evidence:

‘I suppose it wasn’t as hot down here this summer’ – actually the evidence shows it was very hot throughout all of the south and midlands, not just in the south east. And since the threshold for a heatwave in the southwest is 25 degrees, it too experienced heatwave conditions throughout all the summer months.

‘I expect it will be just like 1976. After that was all over things just returned to normal again very quickly’ – actually the evidence shows that ‘while extremes have happened in the past, our warmer climate is making them even more extreme’. ‘The summer of 1976 remains one of the UK’s most iconic heatwaves, but it also provides a benchmark for understanding how extreme heat may evolve in a warming climate.’

Screenshot from the Met article. Text reads 'The season's mean temperature was made around 130 times more likely due to human-induced climate change'.

Critical thinking has revealed that anecdotal evidence (this is just like what I experienced in 1976) is weak because it may not be representative, and it won’t reveal the full picture. It can also show the illogical reasoning at the heart things. This is just an extraordinary year like in 1976 / in future I need to plant in anticipation of drought conditions becoming the norm – these are contradictory positions. The thinker’s ideas and interpretation is at odds with their behaviour, logic show that their ideas are out of step with the reality experienced around them.

This case study is an example of why the rigorous, original, critical thinking fostered by the humanities must go hand in hand with the methods of scientists and engineers. For there are many many reasons for rich and powerful people to misrepresent evidence of all kinds. The world as it is now has made them rich and powerful, so naturally they want to keep it that way. Scientific data might shows us the dangers of failing to change our world, but that data is useless unless people see it, are convinced by it, and want to act in light of it. Arts, humanities and social sciences can ensure that people have the critical ability to see it, perceive it, and be persuaded by it.

Tl;dr: Save Arts and Humanities

Is Walking Research? A Methodological Ramble

Mark Hailwood

I needed to try something to get me writing again. Blessed with a period of research leave to resume work on my book – Everyday Life in the Seventeenth Century English Village – I found staring at a blank Word document wasn’t doing the trick. So, I decided to go for a walk.

I don’t need much of an excuse to go walking. I often do so to get my thoughts in order and my creativity sparked. But going for a turn around the block just wasn’t cutting it this time. Thankfully the answer was right in front of me: I had been transcribing a case from the 1620s that I planned to use for the book, which detailed the ‘beating of the bounds’ of the Somerset parish of Portishead, my hometown. I’d had the idea of writing up an imaginative recreation of this walk around the parish boundaries to introduce the landscape of a typical seventeenth century English village to my readers. What better way to get this chapter moving than to set about actually retracing the walk myself? This would not be any old walk; it would be a ‘research walk’. And a good excuse to have a pub lunch on a workday.

One walk turned into four, and throughout the dreary days of December and January, I used them to kick start periods of intense writing. I took photos on the way around, and compiled threads on Bluesky as a way of creating notes on what I had seen and thought. You can find them, and relive the walks yourself, via the links below:

Walk One: The Moors

Walk Two: The Church and the Mill

Walk Three: Up the Down

Walk Four: Around the Headland

If you are primarily interested in the history of Portishead, or just fancy a circuit of a seventeenth century village, then I would suggest heading to these threads now – the rest of this post is about to take a methodological turn that is only likely to be of interest to historians and other academics. If that is your bag though, read on. 

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A new life for ‘British Printed Images to 1700’

Laura Sangha

This post introduces our new mini-series Visual Culture in early modern England. Guest posts in the mini-series will be published over the course of the next month – we will add links to this page as the post are published. The series celebrates the re-launch of the vital online primary source collection ‘British Printed Images to 1700’. It hopes to encourage use of the BPI archive and to promote conversation about the deployment of visual sources in the study of the past more broadly.

Adam Morton, Printed Images, Laughter and Early Modern History

Helen Pierce, Building Your Own Book: Printed Images, Producers and Buyers in early modern London

Malcolm Jones, Cut, copy, paste: What People Did with Early Modern Images

Adam Morton, Teaching with Early Modern Sources

Something to remember, or more likely forget

In the distant past, time out of memory of man, when I was writing an essay as part of my Postgraduate Certificate in Academic Practice (teaching training), I spent a week reading lots of articles about teaching and learning History. I remember very little about that immersion in the scholarship, but strangely the one article that stuck around in my mind was a study examining what students remembered about a lecture after they had heard it. The article described an experiment where students were asked to complete a questionnaire about the content of a lecture immediately after they walked out of it, and then they were asked to complete the same questionnaire again, after two weeks had passed.

The exact details of the results escape me, but the headlines were relatively pessimistic – students remembered little content, however basic, immediately after a lecture, and this diminished to almost nothing two weeks later. The one exception was that many of them could remember some of the images they had seen in the lecture, and in some cases, why they were shown – i.e. the idea that the lecturer was communicating by showing the image. Ergo: image memory is often superior to word memory.

Theories of cognition come to similar conclusions. According to Allan Paivio’s Dual Code Theory, images elicit words (verbal labels) so that they are stored in the memory twice. By contrast words do not automatically elicit images, a relatively impoverished memory representation that may make the retrieval of words less probable. Though more recent scholarship has nuanced these findings and would allow more scope for varying results according to different learning styles, on average many people retain more from images than they do from texts.

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Reflecting on Habib’s Black Lives in the English Archives: An Online Symposium

trumpeters-cropped

The many-headed monster is delighted to bring you a series of posts responding to Imtiaz Habib’s Black Lives in the English Archives, 1500-1677: Imprints of the Invisible (Ashgate: 2008, Routledge: 2020). The posts are part of Rebecca Adusei and Jamie Gemmell’s multi-event symposium, which brings together scholars working at the forefront of early modern Black history and premodern race studies to discuss the vital importance and continuing legacy of Habib’s text.

Rebecca and Jamie will introduce the blog series on Thursday 4 May, and we will then publish two posts a week over the following month – links to all the posts will be added to this page as we go, so you can bookmark it now if you want to follow along.

Rebecca and Jamie celebrated the publication of the blog series on Friday 19 May, at the London Metropolitan Archives, to tie in with their ‘Unforgotten Lives’ exhibition. This exhibition presents the stories of Londoners of African, Caribbean, Asian and Indigenous heritage who lived and worked in the city between 1560 and 1860 and are recorded in London’s archives.

The Suspicious Smell of Witchcraft

This post is part of the Monster Carnival 2022: Why Early Modern History Matters Now. Jordan Graham graduated from Cardiff University with a BA in History in the summer of 2022.

Jordan Graham

Over the last few years it is likely that you or someone you know has had Covid-19. One of the common side of effects has been loss of taste or smell, so much so that often when someone tells you they had Covid it may be one of the questions you ask. Could you smell anything? Could you taste anything? While the thought of not being able to taste your food is dreadful, how often have we really thought about how our sense of smell affects our daily lives? How did smell affect those who lived before us? How did smell help people decide between what was good or bad? The early modern witch offers an unexpected case study.

Throughout history the sense of smell has been viewed as nothing more than average. Even Aristotle put it in the middle of his hierarchy of the senses, behind sight, and hearing, but before taste and touch. When we think of the early modern witch we similarly often privilege how she looked or sounded. But smell mattered too. Early modern medical texts, plays, demonological texts and trial records all show that the witch’s foul-smelling qualities permeated society. This influenced early modern individuals to suspect and accuse others of witchcraft based merely on their personal odour.

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Blogging and the Day Job: Tales from the Blarchive

Jonathan Willis

In a series of recent posts marking the tenth anniversary of the many-headed monster, my co-bloggers have reflected on a number of themes. Mark has discussed the transition of the blog from what seemed (at the time at least) to be a series of topical yet ephemeral interventions into something more permanent: a blog archive or ‘blarchive’ if you will. I fear the term probably won’t enter the running for OED word of the year, and if I’m being completely honest it puts me in mind of early 1990s children’s TV presenter Timmy Mallett (if you were a UK child born in the ‘80s you’ll know what I mean, if not, don’t worry about it!). Laura then highlighted a series of posts relating to the recurring theme of the relationship between historical writing and fiction, and Brodie explored how another prominent series of posts reflect the turbulent history of the historical discipline itself in UKHE and beyond over the past decade.

Parochial – geddit??

This post feels a little more ‘parochial’ (good reformation pun, that) in comparison, because looking back at my contributions to the blog has really given me pause to reflect on what blogging has meant to me at different stages of my career over the past ten years. So in some way this is quite a personal – really rather self-indulgent – set of autobiographical musings, but I hope it is also an interesting dive back into older content on the ‘monster, as well as a potentially useful series of thoughts about what the process of blogging can look like at different times and in different contexts.

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Jobbing Historians: Tales from the Blarchive

Brodie Waddell

The world of UK universities has changed dramatically in the ten years since our first post appeared on the Many-Headed Monster, and it feels like the pace of change has recently accelerated.

So, while my co-bloggers are looking back at hangovers, Marxists, plebs and creative histories, I want to indulge in a bit of navel gazing. How has the role of the historian as a job been changing over the last decade? Much of my evidence comes from a sample size of one, but I think the sorts of things we’ve been talking about on the blog over the years give some sense of the wider climate.

I vividly remember my own circumstances in July 2012, when we started the blog, because it was a moment of personal chaos but also optimism. I was finishing up a postdoc and had recently been offered a three-year lectureship at Birkbeck, while at the same time trying to juggle the demands of a new baby. I have no idea why I thought it would be a good time to launch a new project, but I’m glad I did. Meanwhile, things were less chaotic but also less optimistic at the national level. The UK was in the midst of the Cameron-Clegg coalition government, and it was pretty clear that universities were generally going in the wrong direction, most obviously with annual tuition fees rising from £3,000 to £9,000 that very year.

What is intriguing, however, is that there is almost no evidence of this on the Many-Headed Monster. Posts from our first few years touched on lots of different historical topics, but very little on the job itself. That said, Laura’s reflections on conferences as ‘communitas’ and my complaints about boring exam questions are probably a fair reflection of the sort of day-to-day concerns of new lecturers, then and now, even if we somehow avoided mentioning the fact that we were then all currently or recently precariously employed. The closest we came to dealing with our jobs directly was ‘The Future of History from Below’ symposium in 2013, which included reflections on who we were writing for and why, an issue that we would now probably call ‘public history’, but which was barely discussed in academic circles just ten years ago. A couple years later, Laura set out her thinking on ‘What is history for?’ which again highlighted how we were increasingly questioning the purpose of our discipline in the wider world.

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Creativity and history: tales from the blarchive

Laura Sangha

This summer we are marking the ten-year anniversary of the many-headed monster blog with a collection of posts that highlight older material in our blog archive (or our ‘blarchive’, as Mark has christened it, to the great and growing pain of the other monster heads).

In my piece I want to pull at a thread that has run through our output over the years, that is, posts that sit on the fence between history and fiction.

Are you a fan of analogies, however laboured? Read on!

Of course, there isn’t really a fence betweenthese two spaces. Or at least, if there is, it was only erected recently, and in fact it’s pretty shoddy work, full of gaps and holes, plus one part of it blew down in a winter storm a few years back, while another is so deeply lost in the undergrowth it’s no longer effective, or even particularly visible. But anyway, let’s not get lost in the encroaching greenery trying to pinpoint the boundary, but rather, let’s consider the fruitful relationship between history and fiction by revisiting some of our related content.

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the many-headed monster is 10: looking back

When Brodie and Mark quietly announced the birth of the many-headed monster to the world in July 2012, little did they know how big their baby would grow or just how many readers and contributors the behemoth would ensnare. But it’s been quite a ride.

four photos of the monster heads when they were young
monster heads when they were young

It’s possibly obvious to our readers, but we have never had a strict editorial line, preferring the blog to develop organically and to lead us in whatever direction seems promising. We share a consensus that we want to reach broader audiences than journal articles and academic monographs can, and that the types of history that we discuss, the format, and particularly the tone of our writing is intended to be accessible and engaging for non-specialists, but beyond that, there aren’t really any rules. Indeed, until we four co-authors met late in 2021 to discuss how to mark our ten year anniversary we’d never had an editorial meeting, rather we very satisfactorily conducted matters via email, or a scatter of shared google docs for when we were feeling fancy.

This informal approach is perhaps one of our great strengths. For one thing, it keeps editorial and administrative duties to the barest minimum. Just as importantly, it has allowed us to develop ways of publishing content online that retains the quick blog post format, but which expand and adapt it for different purposes. At its simplest, this might mean breaking a longer post into more easily digestible chunks and posting each chunk individually across a week or a fortnight, as Mark did with his posts on the application of theory to the history of food and drink.

More distinctively, our ‘Monster Mini-Series’ quickly became a feature of our output. These are both finite and current/long-running collections of posts focused around a particular theme or topic. Laura’s posts on the history of the Tudor Southwest is an example of the former, and our co-authored series ‘On Periodisation’ of the latter.  

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Paper Trails CfP: ‘Hidden Voices’

Laura Sangha

You may know that last year saw the triumphant release of the first cluster of publications for Paper Trails: The Social Life of Archives and Collections. Paper Trails is a BOOC (Book as Open Online Content) published by UCL Press: a fully open access platform that allows for multi-form contributions across time. The BOOC offers space for contributions both from practitioners who study the past, as well as those who make the study of the past possible. So if you are an educator, librarian, historian, curator, collections manager, archivist or just someone interested in critical histories as well as reflections on practice, sources and materials – read on!

Paper Trails image

I am privileged to sit on the editorial board of the BOOC and in our most recent meeting we had a noteworthy discussion about how to describe the innovative format to others. One of the things we worried at was the extent to which we wanted people to think of Paper Trails as being a bit like an online journal – so for instance, when we add our second, new cluster of publications, we could call this a new ‘volume’ or a new ‘issue’ of the BOOC, and allocate numbers to different articles accordingly. By making an association with such a well-established format we could familiarise the BOOC concept, and I suppose the comparison could in some way lend it more academic ‘legitimacy’. Continue reading →