R.a.W. Rhodes - Interpretive Political Science - Selected Essays, Volume II (2017, Oxford University Press)

INTERPRETIVE POLITICAL SCIENCE
Interpretive
Political Science
Selected Essays, Volume II
R. A. W. RHODES
1
3
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Preface
This collection of essays is in two volumes. Volume I is a retrospective. It

collects in one place for the first time the main articles I wrote on policy
networks and governance between 1990 and 2005. The introductory section
provides a short biography of my intellectual journey. Part I focuses on policy
networks. Part II focuses on governance. The conclusion provides the critical
commentary, both replying to my critics and reflecting on theoretical devel-
opments since publication. With the exceptions of Chapters 6, 7, and 10, none
of these articles and chapters appeared in my other books. Chapter 5 has not
been published before in English and Chapter 12 has not been published
before. The volume complements my other publications on networks and
governance. In effect, it updates Rhodes (1997a). Finally, where necessary,
I have written an afterword to a chapter setting out the context in which it was
written, and identifying what has changed empirically. I have reserved my
discussion of both the continuing relevance of my argument and the perspi-
cacity of my critics to Chapter 12.
Volume II is prospective in that it looks forward and explores the ‘inter-
pretive turn’ and its implications for the craft of political science, especially
public administration. It draws together articles from 2005 onwards written
between 2005 and 2015 on the theme of ‘the interpretive turn’ in political
science. In Part I, I provide a summary statement of the interpretive approach.
It provides the context for what follows. Part II develops the theme of blurring
genres and discusses a variety of research methods common in the humanities,
including: ethnographic fieldwork, focus groups, life history, and contempor-
ary history. Part III shows how the genres of thought and presentation found
in the humanities can be used in political science. It presents four examples of
such blurring ‘at work’ with studies of: applied anthropology and civil service
reform; women’s studies and government departments; storytelling and local
knowledge; and area studies and comparing Westminster governments. The
book concludes with a summary of what is edifying about an interpretive
approach, and why this approach matters. I revisit some of the more common
criticisms before indulging in plausible conjectures about the future of
interpretivism.
Volume II differs from my work with Mark Bevir in two significant ways.
First, it is not a book about interpretive theory. Briefly, I summarize the
theoretical case for interpretivism but my main concern is to make the case
for the approach by showing how it refreshes old topics and opens new
empirical topics. I seek new and interesting ways to explore governance,
vi Preface
high politics, public policies, and the study of public administration in general.
So, my emphasis falls on methods, and providing several examples of the
approach ‘at work’.
Second, with the exception of Volume II, Chapter 2, none of the articles was
co-written with Mark Bevir, although I acknowledge freely his influence
throughout Volume II. These essays complement but do not duplicate our
joint publications. None of these articles is in any of my single or co-authored
books, and Chapters 1 and 12 have not been published before. Volume II
draws together in one place for the first time my recent work applying
interpretivism to political science, especially public administration.
As the articles and chapters in Volume II are recent, I have not written an
afterword updating each chapter. Rather, I gather my reflections on the
chapters, with replies to my critics, in Chapter 12.
For Volume I, I have not changed the arguments in any chapter. However,
I have corrected factual mistakes and updated, standardized, and consolidated
the references. I am afraid I could not resist tinkering with my prose. Over the
years, I have acquired a growing aversion to the ‘hanging this’ and to long
sentences. I have pandered to both aversions. Inevitably with articles and
chapters written over 30 years, there is some duplication and overlap. At the
time, I could not assume that readers were familiar with earlier work. I have
eliminated most of the ‘catch-up’ passages in my previous work. For Volume
II, I revised every chapter because they are linked now by the twin themes of
‘blurring genres’ and ‘the interpretive turn’. I gave myself licence to revise
thoroughly and rewrite to ensure internal and thematic consistency. Also, for
the joint-authored chapters, I have switched from ‘we’ to ‘I’. It is clumsy when
chapters keep changing from the first to the third person, so I employ a first
person narrative throughout.
When writing, I do so to music, mainly folk, jazz and rock. It is the ever-
present backcloth to my working life. Occasionally, I succumb to the conceit
that in another life I was in a rock band, playing air guitar of course. The
articles are the singles. The books are the CDs. These two volumes and edited
collections are compilation CDs. The lecture tours are the gigs. The hotels are
the motels of rock’s road songs. Song titles and phrases seep into my con-
sciousness and onto the printed page. You will find echoes of Bob Dylan,
Jethro Tull, Prince, and many more throughout these pages. I enjoy listening
to them, and now they are part of the backdrop to your reading.
Acknowledgements
Volume II, Chapter 2 was written with Mark Bevir. Chapter 4 was written with
Paul ‘t Hart and Mirko Noordegraaf. Chapter 5 was written with Anne
Tiernan. Chapter 8 was written with Fiona MacKay. Chapter 11 was written
with John Wanna and Pat Weller. I thank all of them for their generosity in
allowing me to include these papers in this collection.
Many colleagues have given me the benefit of their comments and advice
over the years and the following list is an inadequate way of acknowledging my
debts and saying thank you. I must single out Jack Corbett, who read the
manuscript at short notice and gave me comments, big and little, that
improved the final version.
Claire Annesley (University of Sussex)
Chris Ansell (University of California, Berkeley, USA)
Ian Bache (University of Sheffield)
Mark Bevir (University of California, Berkeley, USA)
Karen Boll (Copenhagen Business School, Denmark)
John Boswell (University of Southampton)
George Boyne (University of Cardiff)
Judith Brett (LaTrobe University, Melbourne, Australia)
Dominic Byatt (Oxford University Press)
Neil Carter (University of York)
Louise Chappell (University of New South Wales, Sydney, Australia)
Jack Corbett (University of Southampton)
Charlotte Sausman (née Dargie) (University of Cambridge)
Carsten Daugbjerg (Australian National University, Canberra, Australia)
Patrick Dunleavy (LSE)
The late Andrew Dunsire (University of York)
Jenny Fleming (University of Southampton)
Francesca Gains (University of Manchester)
Andrew Gamble (Emeritus, University of Cambridge)
Stephen George (University of Sheffield)
Michael Goldsmith (University of Salford)
Bob Goodin (Australian National University, Canberra, Australia)
Brian Hardy (formerly Nuffield Institute for Health, University of Leeds)
Richard Harrington (Manchester Statistical Society)
Carolyn Hendriks (Australian National University, Canberra, Australia)
Susan Hodgett (University of Ulster)
Liesbet Hooghe (University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, USA)
viii Acknowledgements
Ingi Iusmen (University of Southampton)

Lotte Jensen (Copenhagen Business School, Denmark)
Bob Jessop (Lancaster University)
The late George Jones (LSE)
Josie Kelly (Aston Business School)
The late Adrian Leftwich (University of York)
David Levi-Faur (Hebrew University of Jerusalem)
Rodney Lowe (University of Bristol)
Fiona MacKay (University of Edinburgh)
David Marsh (University of Canberra, Australia)
Janice McMillan (Edinburgh Napier University)
Mick Moran (Manchester Business School)
Mirko Noordegraaf (Universiteit Utrecht, The Netherlands)
Johan Olsen (ARENA Centre for European Studies, Oslo, Norway)
The late Nelson Polsby (University of California, Berkeley, USA)
Alison Proctor (Australian National University, Canberra, Australia)
David Richards (University of Liverpool)
Ella Ritchie (University of Newcastle)
The late Jim Sharpe (Nuffield College, Oxford)
Martin Smith (University of York)
John Stewart (formerly INLOGOV, University of Birmingham)
Richard J. Stillman II (University of Colorado at Denver)
Gerry Stoker (University of Canberra, Australia)
Paul ‘t Hart (Universiteit Utrecht, The Netherlands)
Anne Tiernan (Griffith University, Brisbane, Australia)
Nick Turnbull (University of Manchester)
James Walter (University of Monash, Melbourne, Australia)
John Wanna (Australian National University, Canberra, Australia)
Georgina Waylen (University of Manchester)
Patrick Weller (Griffith University, Brisbane, Australia)
David Wilson (De Montfort University)
The late Vincent Wright (Nuffield College, Oxford)
Tamyko Ysa (ESADE, Universitat Ramon Llull, Barcelona, Spain)
Many institutions have helped over the years—too many to thank—but I must
single out the Institute of Public Administration Australia (IPAA) and its state
divisions for repeat invitations to speak, hospitality, questions, and unfailing
good humour. I hope they enjoyed my visits as much as I did.
I am grateful to the following publishers for their permission to reprint in
whole or in part the following articles and book chapters.
Allen & Unwin for: ‘Core Executives, Prime Ministers, Statecraft and Court
Politics: Towards Convergence’. In Glyn Davis and R. A. W. Rhodes (eds),
Acknowledgements ix
The Craft of Governing: The Contribution of Patrick Weller to Australian

Political Science. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2014, pp. 53–72.
Emerald Group publishing for: ‘Focus groups as Ethnography: the Case of
Prime Ministers’ Chiefs of Staff ’, Journal of Organizational Ethnography, 4
(2), 2015: 208–22.
Oxford University Press for: ‘From Prime Ministerial Leadership to Court
Politics’. In Paul Strangio, Paul ‘t Hart, and James Walter (eds), Under-
standing Prime Ministerial Performance: Comparative Perspectives. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2013, pp. 318–33.
Palgrave Macmillan for: ‘So What? The Prospects and Pitfalls of Being
There’. In R. A. W. Rhodes, Paul ‘t Hart, and M. Noordegraaf (eds),
Observing Government Elites: Up Close and Personal. Houndmills, Basing-
stoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007, pp. 206–33.
Policy Press for: ‘Reinventing Westminster—How Public Executives Reframe
Their World’, Policy and Politics, 36 (4), 2008: 461–79; and ‘Political Anthro-
pology and Public Policy: Prospects and Limits’, Policy and Politics, 41 (4),
2013: 481–96.
Sage for: ‘Theory, Method and British Political “Life History”’, Political
Studies Review, 10 (2), 2012: 161–76.
Springer for: ‘Defending Interpretation’, European Political Science, 5, 2006:
69–83.
Taylor & Francis/Routledge for: ‘Ethnography’. In Mark Bevir and
R. A. W. Rhodes (eds), The Routledge Handbook of Interpretive Political
Science. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015, pp. 171–85; ‘Executive Governance:
An Interpretive Analysis’. In N. Turnbull (ed.), Interpreting Governance, High
Politics and Public Policy. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2016, pp. 79–96;
and ‘Local Knowledge’. In M. Bevir and R. A. W. Rhodes (eds), Rethinking
Governance: Ruling Rationalities and Resistance. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge,
2016, pp. 198–215.
John Wiley for: ‘Gender, Greedy Institutions and the Departmental Court’,
Public Administration, 91 (3), 2013: 582–98.
There were too many conferences and workshops at which colleagues com-
mented on drafts of these several papers, and it is not feasible to list them all.
So, this general thank you must suffice. I should also thank the many an-
onymous referees. I obeyed the ‘rules of the game’ even when convinced the
revised version was no improvement; for example, there is no advantage in
using the third person over the first person. It proliferates passive verbs in
pursuit of a spurious detachment.
Finally, I must acknowledge financial support from The Australia and
New Zealand School of Government in writing Chapter 6; and the Arts and
Humanities Research School (Grant No. AH/N006712/1) in writing Chapter 12.
x Acknowledgements
These two volumes are dedicated to my mother. I will not try to describe the
stultifying claustrophobia of Bradford in the 1950s. In 1958, aged 14,
I preferred Lonnie Donegan to Elvis Presley if only because the latter was so
exotic he seemed to be from another planet; untouchable. At least Lonnie was
one of us. Everybody knew someone in a skiffle group. My mother, Irene
Rhodes (née Clegg), loathed the confines of the Rhodes’s extended family, of
chapel, and of the narrow horizons of a textile town. She insisted I think
beyond the confines of provincial Yorkshire, knowing the journey would take
me away from her. It was a precious and still valued gift.
Contents
INTRODUCTION
1. Further on Down the Road, Blurring Genres 3
PART I. THEORY
2. On Interpretation 17
PART II. METHODS

3. On Ethnography 39
4. On Being There? 57
5. On Focus Groups 81
6. On Life History 96
7. On Court Politics 115
PART III. APPLICATIONS

8. On Greedy Institutions 133
9. On Reform 152
10. On Local Knowledge 168
11. On Westminster 184
CONCLUSION
12. What is New About the ‘Interpretive Turn’ and Why
Does it Matter? 207
Appendix: Bibliography on the Interpretive Debate 227

References 229
Author Index 257
Subject Index 263
Introduction
1
Further on Down the Road,

Blurring Genres
For some 25 years, my research focused on policy networks and governance

(see Rhodes 2017, Volume I). In the 2000s, my theoretical interests became
more diverse. I adopted an interpretive approach and favoured ethnography as
my main research tool. I reached the conclusion that philosophers had
delivered a lethal attack on ‘naturalism’; on using the methods of the natural
sciences in the human and social sciences.1 My break with modernist-
empiricism puzzled colleagues. This book seeks to convince readers that
there is much edification to be found from wearing interpretive spectacles. It
tells the story of how I sought to work out the implications of this philosoph-
ical shift for the study of politics, especially British government and public
administration.
I begin with this short autobiographical excursion before providing a brief
summary of my preferred version of interpretive theory in Part I. In Part II
I discuss the methods I have found most useful in this interpretive venture:
ethnographic fieldwork, biography, focus groups, and contemporary history.
In Part III I provide four cases of the approach ‘in action’; examining gender
in the everyday life of British government departments; using ethnography in
administrative reform; rethinking governance with an interpretive analysis of
local knowledge; and comparing Westminster governments. In the conclu-
sions I summarize what is new about the interpretive turn; explain why it
matters; respond to my several critics; and offer some plausible conjectures on
the future for an interpretive political science. As in Volume I, I deploy
several narrative devices to encapsulate my argument and grab the reader’s
attention. This time I talk about the interpretive turn, blurring genres, plausible
1
There are also political science critics of ‘naturalist’ political science (see Johnson 1989;
Oakeshott 1991). For example, Cowling (1963: 209) considers political science as hypothesis and
experiments ‘an impossibility’; ‘political explanation exists . . . as philosophy and history, and
nothing else’; and the social sciences ‘when looked at critically, dissolve into these two disciplines:
and if they do not, they have not been looked at critically enough’.
4 Interpretive Political Science
conjectures, greedy institutions, and court politics; all are this scriptor’s latest
hostages to fortune (Barthes 1977: 145–6).
THE I NTERPRETIVE TURN
The shift to interpretive theory coincided with my move to the University of

Newcastle. I love this vibrant city with its challenging mix of poverty (West
End) and middle-class affluence (Jesmond); of urban grime and the austere
splendour of the Northumberland coast. Between the Town Hall and the
Newcastle Arena, I saw some great rock concerts. Bryan Ferry’s tour support-
ing his As Time Goes By album was especially memorable. I was a regular
traveller on GNER’s London train where I discovered ‘savouries’ for dessert,
notably Scotch Woodcock (or scrambled eggs with anchovies, cayenne, and
capers). Just as enjoyable, yet contrary, I suspect, to many people’s expect-
ations, my move to the ‘Neanderthal North’ led to a dramatic broadening of
my intellectual horizons.
Colleagues have asked me why my interests became more diverse and my
horizons broader. The short answer is happenstance. I met Mark Bevir and he
piqued my curiosity. You can read and write books about policy networks and
governance only for so long before the grass not only looks greener elsewhere
but it is greener. My reading now extended to political philosophy (Bevir 1999;
Bernstein 1976, 1991); historiography (Collingwood 1939, 1993; White 1973,
1987); cultural anthropology (Geertz 1973; Van Maanen 1988); governmen-
tality (Foucault 1991a, 1991b); and the just plain unclassifiable (Berman 1982).
I had discovered the human sciences.
The long answer to the question about my move to Newcastle revolves
around the stage I had reached in my career, and the machinations of
university management.
Charles Edward Lindblom was an American scholar whose work I admired.
On looking back on his ‘conventional career’, he observed that it involved
‘some prudent adaption to its milieu, a confining set of disciplinary traditions,
and a willingness to disregard them growing only slowly with age and security’
(Lindblom 1988: 19). I too was prudent. I sought to meet the expectations of
my profession. I worked in the modernist-empiricist tradition on the topics
that form Volume I of this collection. However, like Lindblom, with age and
security I too became dissatisfied with my inherited disciplinary tradition.
Frankly, I was bored. Enter the managers of the corporatized university.
In 1994 I was professor and head of department at the University of York.
It had been a good year. We had improved from the grade 2 that I had
inherited to a grade 4 (out of 5) in the national assessment of our research
quality. Also, I had just become Director of the Economic and Social Science
Blurring Political Genres 5
Research Council’s (ESRC) Whitehall programme. My elation changed liter-

ally overnight. I thought I had a clear understanding with the Vice-Chancellor
(VC), Ron Cooke, that, if I got the ESRC job, I could stand down as head
of department. He struggled to find a successor so took the easy option of
insisting that I stay on as head of department. I was furious.
Licking my wounds, I went to Florence with my wife for a week’s holiday.
Lounging in our hotel room, I received a telephone call from the VC of the
University of Newcastle, James Wright. I did not know him. I do not know
how he knew he could poach me from York. I do not know how he found me
in Florence, but he did. He asked what would tempt me to the University of
Newcastle. I told him I would move for a Research Professorship. There was
a polite, perfunctory but pleasant interview a few weeks later. There were
ill-tempered skirmishes at York as the VC tried to persuade me to stay, even
suggesting that the ESRC grant should remain at York. In October 1994 I took
up my new position (with the grant), inheriting a Victorian sitting room from
my predecessor, Hugh Berrington. It was a gorgeous room with an enormous
bay window. Its splendour was not obscured even when buried under Hugh’s
voluminous detritus. James was my perfect VC because he let me get on with
my work, requesting only the occasional update.
So, happenstance led me to Mark Bevir, who was the Sir James Knott Fellow
in the department, writing his The Logic of the History of Ideas (1999). We did
not work in the same field of political science. He specialized in the philosophy
of ideas. I specialized in public policy and administration. It looked as if
we had nothing in common. For God’s sake, he was a lifelong Chelsea
supporter—in Newcastle! I prefer rugby and supported Newcastle Falcons.2
He gave me an offprint of his article on ‘Objectivity in History’ (Bevir 1994).
I was impressed and the influence of that article on me is obvious from my
discussion of a postmodern public administration (Rhodes 1997a: 191–2).
Now, we had a shared reading list. We discussed Collingwood and others
over liquid lunches in ‘The Hotspur’ pub in Percy Street. With Mark Bevir,
I started to work on what became a ten-year project developing an interpretive
approach to the study of British government. Old certainties faded. The story
of the 2000s is the story of the interpretive turn in my work. For me, the
excitement was palpable and the first products of our collaboration were
published in 1998 (Bevir and Rhodes 1998a, 1998b); heady times.
Our interpretive approach starts with the insight that to understand actions,
practices, and institutions, we need to grasp the relevant meanings, beliefs, and
preferences of the people involved. Bevir and Rhodes 2003, 2006a, 2010 argue
that individuals are situated in webs of beliefs handed down as traditions and
these beliefs and associated practices are changed by the dilemmas people
2
See http://www.newcastlefalcons.co.uk/Pages/Club/History.
confront. To explain individual actions, we must identify the set of reasons
that led to the particular action. To understand an institution and its pro-
cesses, we must understand the beliefs and practices of its members and the
traditions that inform those beliefs and practices. We summarize this
approach as ‘situated agency’. Interpreting British Governance (2003) developed
the theory of ‘situated agency’ and used it to explore British governance.
We emphasized the importance of interpreting governance by examining
practices from the bottom up, and noted the lack of such studies. In Governance
Stories (2006), we sought to fill that gap with ethnographic fieldwork on the
civil service, the police, and doctors in the National Health Service. We located
these studies in a broader account of governmental traditions. In The State as
Cultural Practice (2010), we developed a theory of the state as a diverse set of
practices rooted in varied beliefs about the public sphere, authority, and power.
All are constructed differently in contending traditions. Our stories show how
ministers, civil servants, and citizens construct and reconstruct the state in their
everyday lives (and for a fuller account of our interpretive approach, see
Chapter 2, this volume).
THE MANAGEMENT YEARS
Ever peripatetic, academic life took me to Australia. I had been going there
regularly since 1991 thanks largely to Pat Weller, who was Director of the
Centre of Australian Public Sector Management (CAPSM) and Professor of
Politics and Public Policy at Griffith University. We met first at the University
of Essex in the 1980s. It was a fleeting encounter. Pat had come to see
Professor Anthony King, an Essex grandee, and I was the barely adequate
substitute. We next met at the Public Administration Committee annual
conference held at York on 3–5 September 1990. Or to be more precise, we
met at 2.00 p.m. in the Deramore Arms in Heslington after the conference.
I have the diary. The result was an invitation for me and my family to go to
Australia, which we did in July and August 1991. I reciprocated by inviting
John Wanna and Jenny Craik from Griffith to the University of York for a
sabbatical term. With Pat, in April 1992, they attended a workshop I organized
on the ‘Changing Role of the Executive in British Government’, a precursor of
the Whitehall programme. I did not realize that I would revisit executive
studies throughout the rest of my career. I did not expect so many of these
adventures to be with Pat Weller (see Davis and Rhodes 2014; and Chapter 7,
this volume). We have collaborated for nigh on 25 years and continue to do so.
I remember vividly my first visit to Griffith University. I discovered the
beauty of the Jacaranda tree, which turns Brisbane purple in spring. It is well
captured in Richard Godfrey Rivers’s painting Under the Jacaranda (1903) on
permanent exhibition at Queensland Art Gallery.3 Also, at six in the morning,

Brisbane has perfect weather for running along the footpaths and boardwalks
of the Brisbane River. Such delights were incidental. I was there to work.
Like so many regional universities in Australia, Griffith’s reputation barely
extended beyond its state of origin but it had a first-class public policy and
public management group. I visited them for three months a year on and off
throughout the 1990s but, in 2003, there was a significant change. I migrated
to Australia to take up the post of Professor and Head of the Department of
Political Science in the Research School of Social Sciences (RSSS) at the
Australian National University (ANU) in Canberra.
Canberra has an undeserved reputation for boredom. As Bill Bryson (2000:
127) wrote, ‘Canberra–Why Wait for Death?’ In fact, my suburb of Hawker
bordered on the Pinnacle Nature Reserve that overlooked the Brindabella
mountain range; splendid running guaranteed. As I trotted around the nature
reserve in the early hours, I heard a trundling noise behind me and I was
overtaken by a mob of roos. Where else on the planet? Running was not
without its irritations. Canberra was an old sheep station. There are still many
sheep. With sheep comes the Australian sheep blowfly. The back of a white
running vest will be covered with them, literally, at the end of a run, attracted
by the sweat and salt. Not even the dangling corks on a string of the caricature
Australian will deter them.
The RSSS was the best place to study social science in the southern
hemisphere until VC whim merged it with a teaching faculty to no beneficial
effect for either. My managerial duties were a distraction from my compara-
tive work with Pat. We made some progress, taking the ideas of traditions,
practices, beliefs, and dilemmas, and writing Comparing Westminster (Rhodes
et al. 2009). It was a comparative analysis of why the Westminster govern-
ments of the old dominion countries had changed since their inception. We
explored five recurring dilemmas: the growth of prime ministerial power, the
decline in individual and collective responsibility, the politicization of the
public service, executive dominance of the legislature, and the effectiveness
of Westminster governments. Reviewers told us it was not political science.
We are convinced the book is a clear illustration of the Thomas Theorem that
‘if men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences’ (Thomas
and Thomas 1928: 572). The beliefs of Westminster governments may seem
an antiquated, inaccurate description of everyday practices but these beliefs,
myths if you will, continue to shape political practice. If my early focus had
been on the changing patterns of British governance, with Pat Weller and
other colleagues, we could show that these ideas have purchase beyond that
3
See http://www.watermarkpublishing.com.au/product/under-the-jacaranda-print/.
tiny country across the Channel from the Continent (see also Bevir, Rhodes,
and Weller 2003b; and Chapter 11, this volume).
ANU was the most baronial of universities. Managing the RSSS was worse
than herding cats as wilful professors went their own way, thinking only of
their own departments and research centres. I was no exception. After yet
another round of spats, the VC grew tired of our shenanigans and commis-
sioned an external review. Its report was as unflattering as it was inaccurate.
I became Director of the RSSS with the job of implementing that report. I did
so after a fashion, adapting the report’s recommendations to my understand-
ing of RSSS and its ways. I led from behind, convinced that without agreement
no reforms would stick. It was working until my wife became a Research
Professor at the University of Tasmania (UTas). After 18 months of living
apart and a ‘commute’ of some 1,400 kilometres each way, we despaired. It was
no way to live. I moved to UTas.
RSSS at ANU had the best university faculty with whom I have worked. My
colleagues were world-class. Their productivity was exceptional. Any univer-
sity would be proud to employ the likes of John Braithwaite, John Dryzek, Bob
Goodin, and Ian McAllister; my list could go on and on. It was also the worst-
run university I have worked in, and there is stiff competition for that
accolade. I found the diplomatic skills needed a trial. I had to deal with too
many people overly concerned with managing up rather than helping me run
the Department and latterly the School. I was frustrated because I had too little
time for my own work. So, moving to UTas was a blessing.
THE E THNOGRAPHIC YEARS
Hobart is an attractive port at the foot of Mount Wellington with many

fine restaurants and excellent local Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. I quaffed
wine from Apsley Gorge, Josef Chromy, Freycinet, Holme Hill, and Stefano
Lubiana. I recommend them all. Aynsley Kellow and Keith Jacob apart, UTas
was less to my taste. Its chief virtue was I was left alone, for which I remain
deeply grateful. Unexpectedly, it was also the location for one of the best rock
concerts I ever attended—Leonard Cohen. Few stars of his stature came to
Tasmania. We were appreciative. He wove his spell and we were in awe.
I returned to my own work with some trepidation. I had developed a short
span of attention as a manager. I was used to spending short periods of time on
many topics, always moving on to the next item. My working life had become
a committee agenda. Now I needed to concentrate on a single topic for long
periods. It took me three months to get back into that groove. The realization
that I could still concentrate and write for a whole day was a huge relief. I was
flying again.
The long-distance flight was my book on Everyday Life in British Govern-

ment. At the end of the Whitehall programme, Sir Richard Wilson, then Head
of the Home Civil Service, gave me permission to approach ten permanent
secretaries for interviews. Obviously some interviews were better than others.
Rapport varied. But when there was rapport, I asked if I could observe
the permanent secretary’s private office. Many permanent secretaries were
remarkably open and helpful. I had extensive access to three of their
private offices. Once I was known, and to a degree trusted, they helped me
gain access to the minister’s private office. I conducted the interviews in 2002.
The observational fieldwork was carried out in 2003. There were several
repeat interviews and occasional visits in 2004. I observed the office of two
ministers and three permanent secretaries for two days each, totalling some
120 hours. I also shadowed two ministers and three permanent secretaries for
five working days each, totalling some 300 hours. I had repeat interviews with:
ten permanent secretaries, five secretaries of state, three ministers, and twenty
other officials, totalling some 67 hours of interviews. Also, I gave an under-
taking that I would not publish in the life of the 2001–5 parliament (and for
more details on how I conducted the study, see Rhodes 2011a: ch. 1).
The gap between the fieldwork and writing up was not ideal, although it had
three advantages. Every person I interviewed or observed had retired or
changed jobs. I could distance myself from people and events. I had access
to the many memoirs and diaries published by New Labour ministers about
the 2001–5 Blair government. I spent the next 18 months immersed in
fieldwork notes and interview transcripts writing the book. It was all-absorbing.
Days would disappear; the writing equivalent of running in the zone.
The origins of the book and its approach were the Whitehall programme
and my interpretive work with Mark. Almost imperceptibly, my interest was
shifting to ethnographic fieldwork. I edited a book with Paul ‘t Hart and Mirko
Noordegraaf (Rhodes et al. 2007b) on observing government elites, and gave
several invited public lectures (Rhodes 2003; 2008). After the publication of
Everyday Life, I turned increasingly to using ethnography to study political
and administrative elites, and blurring genres in political science (Rhodes
2015). Much political anthropology involves ‘studying down’, focusing on,
for example, street-level bureaucrats. My focus is ‘studying up’, focusing on
who governs.
As Geertz (1983a: 21) points out, ‘there has been an enormous amount of
genre mixing in intellectual life’ as ‘social scientists have turned away from a
laws and instances ideal of explanation towards a cases and interpretations
one’ towards ‘analogies drawn from the humanities’. This ‘refiguration of
social theory represents . . . a sea change in our notion not so much of what
knowledge is but of what it is that we want to know’ (Geertz 1983a: 34).
I posed myself the question, ‘what are the implications of blurring genres for
the study of policy and politics?’
Blurring genres involves analogies and metaphors from the humanities.
Geertz argues ‘theory, scientific or otherwise, moves mainly by analogy’ and
increasingly these analogies are drawn from theatre, painting, literature. We
no longer see society as a machine but ‘as a serious game, a sidewalk drama, or
a behavioural text’. With this shift to the analogies of game, drama, and
text, the social sciences are no longer burdened by naturalism. Social scientists
are ‘free to shape their work in terms of its necessities rather than according
to received ideas as to what they ought and ought not to be doing’ (Geertz
1983a: 21).
This book explores that freedom and breaches the conventional rules of the
game about what political scientists do, how we do it, and for whom. In
particular, genre blurring refers to presenting research as if it is a game,
a drama, or a text. Geertz (1983a 19–20) gives several examples including
baroque fantasies presented as deadpan empirical observations (Jorge Luis
Borges); parables presented as ethnographies (Carlos Castenada); and epis-
temological studies presented as political tracts (Paul Feyerabend). As yet,
I know of no biographies written in algebra (but see Chapter 4, this volume).
That is not all. The phrase also refers to genres of thought such as hermeneut-
ics, structuralism, neo-Marxism, and, in particular, interpretive explanation
(Geertz 1983a: 21). Denzin and Lincoln (2005b) itemize feminist, ethnic,
Marxist, post-structuralist, cultural studies, and the several personality theor-
ies. I do not deny that some political scientists draw on some of these genres of
thought but genre blurring, whether one refers to genres of presentation or
of thought, does not occupy the mainstream. They are much more a feature of
the humanities.
The term ‘the humanities’ refers to:
That collection of disciplines which attempt to understand . . . the actions and
creations of other human beings considered as bearers of meaning, where the
emphasis falls on matters to do with individual or cultural distinctiveness (Collini
2012: 64, emphasis added).
The common aim is to:

Explore what it means to be human: the words, ideas, narratives and the art and
artefacts that help us to make sense of our lives and the world we live in; how we
have created it and are created by it (British Academy 2010: 2).
It encompasses the disciplines of architecture, literature, history, anthropol-
ogy, classics, languages, music, philosophy, religion, and the visual and per-
forming arts. As convenient shorthand, I use disciplinary labels but my
concern is with the genres of presentation and thought used in those discip-
lines. Clearly, not all of these fields are equally relevant to political science. To
be precise, I am interested in the interpretive turn in cultural anthropology
(Chapter 3), historiography (Chapters 6 and 7), women’s studies (Chapter 8),
and area studies (Chapter 11). For my purposes, I do not need to cover the
several disciplines.4 I can answer the question of what can be learnt from
the humanities by providing examples and encouraging others to explore the
genres of presentation and of thought in other disciplines. If I cannot
persuade the reader there are many ways of telling political tales and of
explaining politics from these examples, then adding more examples will
achieve nowt.
And there’s more. With Anne Tiernan (Griffith University), I wrote two
books about the chiefs of staff to Australian prime ministers based on two
focus groups and elite interviews (Tiernan and Rhodes 2014a, 2014b). Back
in Europe, I have a Danish-based network with Karen Boll (Copenhagen
Business School), Nina Holm Vohnsen (Aarhus University), and their col-
leagues throughout Scandinavia. I bore them with my opinions on Scandi-
navian Noir. I love The Bridge and The Killing but find Stieg Larsson’s
Millennium trilogy long-winded to the point of tedium, and cumbersomely
written (or translated). Just as much fun, our network on ‘Political and
Administrative Ethnography’ ran three workshops by 2017.5 We published
a symposium in the Journal of Organizational Ethnography (Boll and Rhodes
2015). I edit a series on ‘Political and Administrative Ethnography’ for
Manchester University Press. With Susan Hodgett (University of Ulster),
I ran an Arts and Humanities Research Council seminar series on ‘Blurring
Genres: Recovering the Humanities for Political Science and Area Studies’.
This research network brought together an interdisciplinary and inter-
national group of experts to explore the ways in which the interpretive
research methodologies usually associated with the Arts and Humanities
are being recovered by political scientists, and area studies scholars. Finally,
the University of Southampton set up a Centre for Political Ethnography
(CPE) and I am its Director. I teach master classes on fieldwork in political
science. The postgraduate students with whom I work in Copenhagen
and Utrecht are a joy. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, there can be no question
marks about their commitment or work ethic. Compared to the bureaucrat-
ized nonsense that surrounds much teaching in the UK under the misleading
label of quality assurance, teaching is a pleasure not a chore. Even in
my seventies, academic life continues to be a great big adventure and,
above all, fun.
4
Philosophy would be another obvious inclusion but political philosophy is a well-
established subfield in political science (see Klosko 2011); and Bevir and Rhodes 2003,
2006a, 2010 illustrate its relevance in the study of British government (see also Chapter 2,
this volume).
5
See http://www.cbs.dk/node/340196/.
Any adventure has its risks. Ethnographic fieldwork is no exception. During

‘shadowing’, elites can refuse to cooperate and withdraw support at any point.
‘Snowballing’ from interviewee to interviewee means there can be no definitive
list of interviewees until the interviews are finished. ‘Going where you are led’
means that a detailed schedule of fieldwork is nearly impossible. ‘Deep
immersion’ means the research is led by the research subjects rather than
the researcher. I tell my students about the anxieties of fieldwork. Will your
informants be welcoming, friendly, or slightly suspicious? What concerns your
informants? Will it be awkward? You worry about all this and more. Once you
start the fieldwork you wonder where you should sit or stand in the room with
your pen and notepad. How many notes should you take? You wonder if you
can take photos or tape conversations. You worry that your presence disturbs
your informants and they behave differently. In the evening, you think about
the day’s events. You begin to feel inadequate. What was it that she said to me
in the car? Why did they react in that way? Will it be possible to attend more of
these meetings? Was that information confidential? What did I miss? You
worry about specific individuals. Did she like me? Did I make a good impres-
sion? Will she let me shadow her again? Indeed, there is so much to worry
about that you worry you are worrying too much. Ethnographers know all
these feelings. Fieldwork churns around in the head. You get tired—fieldwork
is a physical and emotional experience. Also, you get ‘curiouser and curiouser’.
You want to know more. There is a rush of excitement as you await your next
surprise; the pleasure and the pain of agency.
Then, you leave the field. You leave your new acquaintances knowing they
must become strangers in your head. You look at your copious fieldwork notes
and think, ‘how will I ever make sense of this?’ You write drafts searching for a
way of telling your stories from the field. Your colleagues may not like it. Your
informants claim you have misunderstood. You try again. There is the day that
just disappears as you get into the zone for writing. One day, you don’t know
how, it is there sitting on your desk—a manuscript. You stroke it. You made it.
Ethnographic fieldwork may give rise to much anxiety, but there is also the
elation of surprises in the field and getting your stories down on paper.
Ethnography is a fun and fundamental way to do political science yet is not
widespread. For example, Auyero and Joseph (2007: 2) examined 1,000 articles
published in the American Journal of Political Science and the American
Political Science Review between 1996 and 2005. They found that ‘only one
article relies on ethnography as a data-production technique’. The dominant
research idiom of much present-day political science in Britain and America is
rooted in rational choice theory and quantitative studies. Back in 1990,
Richard Fenno observed ‘not enough political scientists are presently engaged
in observation’, and it would seem that little has changed (Fenno 1990: 128).
The problem is greater than political scientists’ lack of interest in observation.
Taylor (2014) argued ethnography was ‘endangered’ because it took a long time,
was ethically sensitive, and had difficulty in securing funds. In addition, he

emphasized the harmful effects of the performance assessment regime to
which universities in the UK were subjected:
it is difficult to believe that many academic researchers would choose to embark
on a three-year qualitative study when they could gain all the REF credit they
needed by placing three short articles in peer-reviewed journals (Taylor 2014).
The managerial pressures of the UK higher education system are not felt
throughout Europe. In my experience, there are many young scholars looking
for new and different ways to do political science. But these young plants need
nourishment.
CONCLUSIONS
One referee asked what was novel about my arguments for ethnography.
He commented that the French anthropologist Marc Abélès (1991, 1997,
2004) has been doing this work for years. Correct, but where is the Anglo-
Saxon equivalent in political science? Like it or not, there is a dominant
social science, mainly modernist-empiricist, tradition of study in the
Anglo-Saxon world (see, for example, Dowding 2016: Goodin 2009). It
has turned its back on the genre blurring that characterizes the Continental
human sciences. So, my argument for an interpretive approach is an argu-
ment for genre blurring. I encourage a willingness to learn from the human
sciences and their genres of presentation and thought because the more sides
of the story we can tell the greater our capacity to understand the human
experience.
The same referee also asked what political anthropology added to the study
of public administration. Turning to political anthropology has several advan-
tages. As Agar (1996: 27) comments, ‘no understanding of a world is valid
without representation of those members’ voices’. So, ‘thick descriptions’ get
below and behind the surface of official accounts by providing texture, depth,
and nuance (Geertz 1973: ch. 1). They are creative treatments of actuality.
Observations are a cross-check on interviews; we compare saying and seeing.
Both allow people to explain the meaning of their actions, providing an
authenticity that can only come from the main characters involved in the
story. The approach also leads to many a surprise, because you go where you
are led and take what you can get. It explores the negotiated, symbolic, and
ritual elements of political life (and for a more detailed discussion, see
Chapter 4 and the summary in Chapter 12, this volume).
Above all, to continue with a theme from Volume I, an interpretive approach
grounded in observational fieldwork is about ‘edification’—a way of finding
‘new, better, more interesting, more fruitful ways of speaking about’ politics
and government (Rorty 1980: 360). I believe an interpretive approach provides
a new and better way of speaking about political science and public adminis-
tration. I am also convinced that observation continues to be an underused but
vital part of the political scientists’ toolkit.
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 31/5/2017, SPi
Part I
Theory
2
On Interpretation
Over the centuries, political science has spanned the social and human sciences
but over recent decades the natural science approach to the study of political
science has laid claim to the whole discipline.1 Political science is increasingly
institutionalized, specialized, and professionalized.2 There are disagreements
over the intellectual core of the discipline but, although labels vary, a pre-
eminent recurring theme is modernist-empiricism, and the exemplar is
American political science (Goodin et al. 2009: 8). Modernist-empiricism
treats institutions such as legislatures, constitutions, and executives as dis-
crete, atomized objects to be compared, measured, and classified. It adopts
comparisons across time and space as a means of uncovering regularities
and probabilistic explanations to be tested against neutral evidence (see
Bevir 2001). It is often referred to as ‘naturalism’. Whenever there is such a
mainstream, there are casualties. We find a ‘passive pluralism’ or ‘patterned
isolationism’ that marginalizes areas of inquiry which do not ‘fit’. At best,
these alternative theories and methods sit alongside, and at worst outside,
established disciplines and departments (Collini 2001: 299).
Interpretive theory takes several guises (and, for a survey of this variety, see
Bevir and Rhodes 2015: part II). In political science, it is an instance of patterned
isolationism. However, in the humanities, it is a common approach (see, for
example, Lodge and Wood 2000). Here, I focus on the interpretive approach as
an example of a genre of thought that has much to contribute to political science.
Mark Bevir and I have not only provided book-length accounts of our
interpretive approach but we have written many a summary. Colleagues of a
modernist-empiricist persuasion rarely have to defend their philosophical roots.
1
This chapter is a revised version of Mark Bevir and R. A. W. Rhodes (2006) ‘Defending
Interpretation’, European Political Science, 5 (1): 69–83. Reprinted with permission of Springer.
A substantially longer version was published as Mark Bevir and R. A. W. Rhodes (2005)
‘Interpretation and Its Others’, Australian Journal of Political Science 40 (2): 169–87. Reprinted
with permission of Taylor and Francis.
2
All disciplines are contested. There is no given or ‘natural’ intellectual agenda because
disciplines are ‘unstable compounds’; they are ‘a complex set of practices’ and any unity is a
function of ‘historical accident and institutional convenience’ (Collini 2001: 298). The current
term of historical accident and institutional convenience for my subject is ‘political science’.
They have the luxury that their assumptions are not just accepted but are taken
for granted. Much of the time, when we write an article or book chapter, the
referees and the editor want a defence of our epistemology. Frankly, such
repetition is tedious. There is a temptation to resort to the peremptory ‘read
the book’. However, more often than not, we accommodate the reader if
only because we cannot expect everyone to know our previous work. So, we
repeat ourselves. It is no different here. If you want to persuade readers that an
interpretive approach brings edification, first you must explain that approach.
Interpretation is perhaps ubiquitous. Accounts of actions and practices are
interpretations of interpretations. I tell my story of other people’s stories of
what is going on around here. Beliefs and discourses are themselves ways of
making sense of the world; they are interpretations. So, when we explore
actions or practices as informed by beliefs or discourses, we interpret inter-
pretations. An interpretive approach to political science does just this. The
details of an interpretive approach are, however, often misunderstood. It is
these details I want to explore. To begin, I will suggest that an interpretive
approach focuses on meanings because its analysis of beliefs treats them as
constitutive of actions and as holistic in nature. Next, I will try to resolve
debates among proponents of an interpretive approach by defending situated
agency. However, my main concern is not just to provide a brief introduction
to interpretation (see Bevir and Rhodes 2003) but to explain it in some depth
by responding to the more common criticisms. I explain how an interpretive
approach can avoid the problems ascribed to it by others.3
MEANING I N ACTION
All political scientists offer us interpretations. Interpretive approaches differ in

offering interpretations of interpretations. They concentrate on meanings,
beliefs, and discourses, as opposed to laws and rules, correlations between
social categories, or deductive models. Of course, the distinction between
interpretive approaches and others is fuzzy. After all, laws, social categories,
and models are, as proponents of an interpretive approach would point out,
matters of belief or language. Sensible institutionalists, behaviouralists, and
rational choice theorists recognize that typologies, correlations, and models do
explanatory work only when unpacked in terms of the beliefs and desires of
3
Although this chapter concentrates on political science, interpretive approaches are wide-
spread across the human sciences. Useful collections include Rabinow and Sullivan 1979;
Rabinow and Sullivan 1987; Scott and Keates 2001. Much of the movement charted by these
collections derives from the philosophical repudiation of positivism in the 1960s and 1970s.
See Bernstein 1976; Fay 1975.
On Interpretation 19
the actors. Nonetheless, there is a family of interpretive approaches to political

science that stand out in their focus on meanings.4 This family includes at
least decentred theory, poststructuralism, and social constructivism (see, for
example, Bevir and Rhodes 2003; Burchell et al. 1991; Berger and Luckman
1971). It overlaps with other approaches, including those strands of the new
institutionalism concerned with the impact of ideas (see, for example, Berman
2001; Hay 2000; Lieberman 2002; Finnemore and Sikkink 2001).
An interpretive approach is not alone in paying attention to meanings. It is
distinctive because of the extent to which it privileges meanings as ways to
grasp actions. Its proponents privilege meanings because they hold, first, that
beliefs have a constitutive relationship to actions and, secondly, that beliefs are
inherently holistic (cf. Taylor 1971).
First, an interpretive approach holds that beliefs and practices are consti-
tutive of each other. When other political scientists study voting behaviour
using attitude surveys or models of rational action, they separate beliefs from
actions to find a correlation or deductive link between the two. In contrast, an
interpretive approach suggests such surveys and models cannot tell us why,
say, raising one’s hand should amount to voting, or why there would be uproar
if someone forced someone else to raise their hand against their will. We can
explain such behaviour only if we appeal to the intersubjective beliefs that
underpin the practice. We need to know that voting is associated with free
choice and with a particular concept of the self. Practices could not exist if
people did not have the appropriate beliefs. Beliefs or meanings would not
make sense without the practices to which they refer.
Second, an interpretive approach argues that meanings or beliefs are holistic
(on holism, see Fodor and LePore 1992). We can make sense of someone’s
beliefs only by locating them in the wider web of other beliefs that provide the
reasons for their holding them. So, even if political scientists found a correl-
ation between a positive attitude to social justice and voting Labour, they could
not properly explain people’s voting Labour by reference to this attitude. After
all, people who have a positive attitude to social justice might vote Conserva-
tive if, say, they believe Labour will not implement policies promoting social
justice. To explain why someone with a positive attitude to social justice votes
Labour, we have to unpack the other relevant beliefs that link the attitude to
the vote. To explain an action, we cannot merely correlate it with an isolated
attitude. Rather, we must interpret it as part of a web of beliefs.
Many political scientists typically treat beliefs, meanings, ideas, and norms
as if they can be differentiated from actions and related individually to actions.
In contrast, an interpretive approach holds that meanings or beliefs form webs
that are constitutive of actions and practices. This philosophical analysis of
4
See Foucault 1972, 1980. For varied assessments of the continuing impact of structuralism
upon poststructuralism, see Dreyfus and Rabinow 1982; Gutting 1989; and Harland 1988.
meaning in action informs other aspects of an interpretive approach, includ-

ing bottom-up modes of inquiry and critiques that expose unquestioned
assumptions and inconsistencies.
Proponents of an interpretive approach incline to bottom-up forms of social
inquiry. They usually believe that people in the same situation can hold different
beliefs because their experiences of that situation can be laden with different
prior theories. No abstract concept, such as a class or institution, can explain
people’s beliefs, interests, or actions. Such a concept can represent only an
abstract proxy for the multiple, complex beliefs and actions of all the individuals
we classify under it. For these reasons, practices need bottom-up studies of the
actions and beliefs out of which they emerge. An interpretive approach explores
the ways in which social practices are created, sustained, and transformed
through the interplay and contest of the beliefs embedded in human activity.
Another shared interpretive theme is an emphasis on the contingency of
political life. Typically an interpretive approach holds that people in any given
situation can interpret that situation and their interests in many ways. So,
political scientists must allow that no practice or norm can fix the ways its
participants will act, let alone how its participants will innovate in new circum-
stances. An interpretive approach concludes that our practices are radically
contingent. Our practices lack a fixed essence or given path of development.
An emphasis on contingency explains why an interpretive approach often
questions alternative theories. Its proponents believe political scientists efface
the contingency of social life when they attempt to ground their theories in
apparently given facts about the nature of reasoning, the path-dependence of
institutions, or the inexorability of social developments. They try to expose the
contingency of those facets of political life that other political scientists mistakenly
represent as natural or inexorable (see, for example, Kass and Catron 1990).
SITUATED AGENCY
Interpretivism itself consists of a diverse cluster of traditions. There are

important differences among its several proponents, in particular over aggre-
gating practices. Proponents of an interpretive approach can seem confused
about the nature of the meanings that inform practices. Poststructuralists
sometimes imply that meanings exist as quasi-structures governed by a semi-
otic code or random fluctuations of power. Others analyse meanings as the
beliefs of individuals; they take ideology, discourse, or language to refer only to
a cluster of intersubjective beliefs.
When poststructuralists imply that meanings stem from quasi-structures,
they usually do so because they want to stress how beliefs and subjectivity are
constructed out of social backgrounds. They want to reject a strong notion of

autonomy. However, we can distinguish between autonomy and agency.
Autonomous individuals can, at least in principle, have experiences, reason,
adopt beliefs, and act, outside all contexts. Agents can reason and act in novel
ways but they can do so only in the context of a discourse or tradition. Most
poststructuralists reject autonomy because they believe all experiences and
reasoning embody theories. Thus, people can adopt beliefs only against the
background of a prior set of theories, which at least initially must be made
available to them by a discourse or tradition. However, a rejection of auton-
omy does not entail a rejection of agency. We can accept that people always
start with a discourse or tradition and still see them as agents who can act and
reason in novel ways to vary this background. Proponents of an interpretive
approach have no reason to throw agency out with autonomy. When they
defend a capacity for agency, however, they recognize that it always occurs in a
social context that influences it. Agency is not autonomous—it is situated.
The notion of situated agency resolves confusion among proponents of an
interpretive approach about aggregating studies of practices.5 At the moment,
poststructuralists sometimes rely on concepts such as discourse to aggregate
their accounts of practices. These concepts appear to treat meanings as if fixed
by quasi-structures. The idea that quasi-structures fix meanings surely falls foul,
however, of the poststructuralists’ own emphasis on contingency and particu-
larity. The greater the stress we place on the contingency and particularity of
beliefs, actions and practices, the harder it is to explain them with aggregate
concepts. Indeed, if an interpretive approach relies on discourse to do explana-
tory work, this concept can suggest a worrying neglect of agency. If a discourse
claims to explain patterns of belief or speech, the implication is that the
discourse fixes the content of the beliefs or intentions people hold. What is
more, if poststructuralists use discourse as an explanatory concept, they adopt a
determinism that cannot account for change. If individuals arrive at beliefs by a
fixed and disembodied ideology, they lack the capacity to change that ideology.
Any such changes will seem inexplicable. Of course, poststructuralists often
criticize structuralism for displaying just such determinism, while arguing that
they themselves view such transformations as instabilities inherent in structures.
Alas, however, this claim merely elides the question of whether we are to
understand instabilities, contradictions, and transformations as necessary qual-
ities of a disembodied discourse or as contingent properties and products of
individual subjects, their beliefs, and their actions.
5
When I follow the logic of disaggregating concepts like voting or a policy network, I end up
with micro-level stories of individual actions based on one person’s set of beliefs. Although such
stories are interesting as cases, there are times when I want to tell more general stories, for
example about governance. To do so, I need aggregate concepts like tradition and dilemma.
An interpretive approach often struggles to aggregate accounts of prac-

tices in ways that have explanatory power. The problem can be resolved by
the idea of situated agency (Bevir 1999: chs 5 and 6). To reject autonomy is to
accept that traditions and discourses influence individuals. Explanatory
concepts must suggest, therefore, how social influences permeate beliefs
and actions even when actors do not recognize such influence. To accept
agency is, however, to imply that people have the capacity to adopt beliefs
and actions, even novel ones, for reasons of their own. In so doing, they can
transform the social background. The idea of tradition covers both inheriting
beliefs and transforming them as they are handed down from generation to
generation. It is evocative of a social structure in which individuals are born,
which then acts as the background to their beliefs and actions even while
they might adapt, develop, and reject much of this inheritance. Similarly, an
interpretive approach could usefully explore change by focusing on dilem-
mas. Change arises as situated agents respond to novel ideas or problems
posed by other traditions. It is a result of people’s ability to adopt beliefs
and perform actions through a reasoning that is embedded in the tradition
they inherit.
INTERPRETATION AND COMMON SENSE
An interpretive approach rests, first, on a philosophical analysis of meaning in

action. An analysis of the constitutive relation of meanings to actions implies
that we can grasp actions properly only by examining the beliefs embodied in
them. It prompts us to offer interpretations of interpretations. An interpretive
approach rests, second, on a philosophical analysis of the holistic nature of
meanings. An analysis of meanings as holistic, rather than tied individually to
referents, implies we can grasp beliefs properly only as part of the wider webs
of which they are part. We have suggested that it prompts us to explain beliefs
by reference to webs of belief, traditions, and dilemmas.
One criticism of an interpretive approach is to say that it is mere common
sense. Indeed, in a sense, interpretivism is common sense. It derives from a
philosophical analysis of the theories that make up our everyday way of
discussing actions. Wittgenstein ((1972)[1953]: 109) argued that ‘philosophy
is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language’.
Similarly, I use philosophical analysis to dispel the bewitching effects of other
ways of discussing actions. Such analysis returns us to our everyday concepts
to challenge positivist attempts to discuss actions as if they were akin to the
physical phenomena studied by natural scientists. It undermines claims there
is a superior scientific language.
Critics bewitched by allegedly scientific languages have rejected an inter-

pretive approach by making misleading comparisons with other approaches.
They set up dichotomies to contrast interpretation with several others. They
suggest interpretation focuses on meanings not practices, beliefs not rhetoric,
or discourse not power. Alternatively, critics wrongly equate an interpretive
approach with a particular mode of inquiry rather than a philosophical
analysis of meaning in action. They set up dichotomies between interpretive
modes of inquiry and those adopted by other political scientists. They contrast
interpretation with spurious others; interpretation is about understanding not
explanation, elucidation not critique, relativism not objectivity, or empathy
not rigour. I consider these several misconceptions in some detail.
PRACTICES
One common claim about an interpretive approach is that it concerns only

beliefs or discourses, not actions or practices. This misconception implies that
an interpretive approach might be a reasonable way of recovering the froth of
political ideas but that it does not help us to understand the real word lurking
underneath such froth. This misconception only makes sense, however, if we
draw a false dichotomy between beliefs and actions. If beliefs and actions were
unrelated to each other, it might make sense to suggest we could recover one
without exploring the other. In contrast, an interpretive approach rests on
the claim that beliefs are constitutive of actions. Interpretivism implies we
cannot properly understand actions except by recovering the beliefs that
animate them. Far from neglecting practices, an interpretive approach typic-
ally explores meanings or beliefs precisely to grasp better the practices that
embody them.
Of course, ideas such as belief, tradition, and dilemma could be seen as too
abstract. They ignore the way meanings are always embedded in habits and
social interactions. But I introduced the notion of tradition precisely to capture
the embedded nature of individuals and their beliefs. What is more, although
tradition refers mainly to beliefs, these beliefs need not be especially conscious
or rational.6 An interpretive approach allows that beliefs and traditions do not
exist as disembodied but become concrete in actions and practices. It suggests
we can ascribe beliefs to people, including ourselves, only by interpreting
actions, including, of course, speech-acts.
6
That said, I can make sense of someone’s beliefs only by postulating them as a web that
exhibits some kind of consistency and rationality. For a discussion of the various principles by
which we can ascribe some kind of conceptual priority to rational beliefs, see Bevir 1999: 158–71;
Davidson 1984b; and McGinn 1977.
Although an interpretive approach explores practices by unpacking the

relevant beliefs, it does conceive of practices in a different way from other
political scientists. The difference appears in the way other political scientists
often prefer to see practices as institutions (cf. March and Olsen 1989). One
difference arises over what it means to say that practices or institutions are
concrete social realities. Proponents of an interpretive approach rarely see
practices as natural or discrete chunks of social reality. Practices do not have
boundaries that make them discrete entities. They do not have natural or given
limits by which we might separate them out from the general flux of human life.
For example, the boundary of a political party does not clearly lie with those
who attend weekly committee meetings, those who attend once a year for the
annual general meeting, those who go to fund-raising events organized by the
party, or those who participate in direct action over a political grievance. For a
researcher using an interpretive approach, the limits of a practice are decided
pragmatically, justified by the purposes of their inquiry. Practices are concrete
social realities, but they are not natural kinds. It is political scientists as observers
who separate particular practices, and they do so to suit their research purposes.
Proponents of an interpretive approach also differ from other political
scientists in their analysis of conventions, shared understandings, or inter-
actions in practices or institutions. Although practices display conventions,
this does not mean conventions constitute the practices. No doubt many
participants often seek to conform to the conventions of a practice. Nonethe-
less, first, they do not always do so, and, second, even when they do, they might
misunderstand the conventions. As a result, conventions cannot be constitutive
of practices. The situated agency of participants constitutes practices, and such
agency is creative, not fixed by rules. Situated agents as individuals necessarily
interpret the conventions that characterize the practices in which they are
engaged, and who can vary the conventions. This appeal to situated agency
does not imply that all people are heroic individuals who have great impact on
the historical direction of a practice. It implies only that they have the capacity
to adapt their inheritance and act in novel ways. When they do, they are
unlikely significantly to alter a practice unless others also adjust their beliefs
and actions in a related fashion. Even then, the changes in the practice are
unlikely to correspond to any they might have intended. Practices rarely, if
ever, depend directly on the actions of any given individual. They do consist of
nothing but the changing actions of various individuals.
STRUCTURES
For many political scientists, this analysis of practices contrasts sharply with
approaches that rely on concepts of social structure. At issue here is how
political scientists should think about the nature of social contexts and their
impact on people. I have emphasized situated agency, arguing that traditions
only influence but do not define the beliefs individuals come to adopt and the
actions they attempt to perform. I have also emphasized that traditions are not
natural, arguing that observers construct them out of an undifferentiated
context to explain whatever interests them. Critical realists worry that these
emphases neglect the influence and the constraining effect cultural schemes
or structures exercise on people (see, for example, McAnulla 2006a; Reckwitz
2002; and Chapter 12, this volume).
An interpretive approach might allow for the influence and the constraining
effects of social contexts. It just will refuse to reify practices or traditions by
treating them as structures or cultural schemes. To begin, although an inter-
pretive approach might defend the capacity of the individual for situated
agency, commonly it rejects the idea of autonomy. I have suggested that
people only ever come to hold beliefs or perform actions against the back-
ground of a tradition that influences them. Appeals to traditions go a long way
to explaining why individuals hold the beliefs they do and act in the ways they
do. In addition, although proponents of an interpretive approach argue that
tradition does not constrain beliefs, they recognize that practices can have a
limiting effect on actions. Individuals are situated agents in that they have a
creative ability to adopt beliefs or attempt actions for reasons of their own.
However, they do not necessarily succeed in the actions they attempt. The
results of their actions typically depend on how others act. Practices constrain
the actions people can successfully make.
An interpretive approach can allow that traditions influence people, and
that practices constrain the actions people can perform successfully. Where
proponents of an interpretive approach still differ from critical realists is
in the logical content they attribute to such concepts. I prefer the terms
‘tradition’ and ‘practice’ to ‘cultural scheme’ and ‘structure’ precisely because
the latter two neglect situated agency and reify social contexts. The term
‘tradition’ captures an analysis of individuals who inherit a set of beliefs
that forms the background to their later reasoning. It inevitably influences
them even though they might transform it over time through their local
reasoning. On the other hand, the term ‘cultural scheme’ suggests a disem-
bodied structure of ideas that sets clear limits to the beliefs and agency of
individuals by fixing the ways they experience the world.7 Similarly, the
term ‘practice’ captures an analysis of how social contexts constrain actions.
7
I would draw attention, more generally, to the difficulties that confront any dualism of
‘scheme’ and ‘content’, or ‘paradigm’ and ‘experience’, given the implausibility of an uninter-
preted reality (see Davidson 1984a). Such difficulties affect even those who emphasize meanings
only to conceive of them as schemes, paradigms, or frames, including, for example, Schon and
Rein 1994.
Practices constrain the actions people attempt to perform if they enter the
subjective reasoning of the actors. Practices also constrain the effectiveness
of actions because they consist of the actions of others: politicians might try
to lower inflation only to find that the actions of business organizations and
citizens prevent them. While an interpretive approach can allow practices to
act as constraints, it does so in ways that make practices reducible to the
contingent actions of other individuals. In contrast, the term ‘structure’
invokes a physical object that constrains people in its own right, rather as
the Atlantic Ocean stops us driving backwards and forwards between London
and New York.
EXPLANATION
Another related misconception is that interpretive approaches aim only to

understand actions and practices, not to explain them. The dichotomy
between understanding and explanation again makes sense only if we falsely
separate actions from beliefs. An interpretive approach rests on a philosoph-
ical analysis of actions as constituted by beliefs. This analysis implies that other
political scientists go awry when they try to explain actions in ways that do not
appeal to beliefs. Any satisfactory explanation of actions or practices must
refer to the beliefs that animate them. To understand the relevant beliefs is to
explain the action or practice. What is more, when proponents of an inter-
pretive approach argue that beliefs are inherently holistic, they imply that we
can explain them by locating them as part of the web of meanings or beliefs
that give them their character. To locate beliefs in webs of belief, and to locate
webs of belief against the background of traditions and dilemmas, is to explain
those beliefs and the actions and practices they inspire.
The philosophical analysis of meaning in action that informs an interpretive
approach suggests, however, that human sciences rely on a distinctive form of
explanation; narrative (see Bevir 1999; Czarniawska 2004). When we explain
actions by beliefs and desires, we rely on a concept of choice and on criteria of
reasonableness that have no place in natural science (see Davidson 1980). Rather,
the natural and human sciences use different concepts of causation. This differ-
ence does not mean the human sciences have no interest in causal analysis. To
the contrary, the human sciences explain actions and practices in narratives that
point to the beliefs and desires that cause the actions.
Narratives distinguish an interpretive approach from those approaches
that treat meanings or beliefs merely as ‘ideational variables’ alongside
other factors (as in, for example, Gerring 1999; Wendt 1999). An interpretive
approach suggests other variables do explanatory work only if they are
unpacked as beliefs. Equally, its proponents argue that it is a mistake to ask
how they would specify the precise links between independent variables.
Critics might say that actions and beliefs, or beliefs and traditions, cannot be
identified independently as they should be in explanations. All proponents of
an interpretive approach offer, they might conclude, are re-descriptions.
However, an interpretive approach rests on a philosophical analysis of mean-
ing in action that invalidates the methodological rigour—the specification
of independent variables—that prompts the criticism. This philosophical
analysis implies actions are intentional, which means they are necessarily
performed for reasons or beliefs. Similarly, this philosophical analysis implies
that people are not autonomous. They necessarily reach beliefs against the
background of tradition. These philosophical arguments provide the causal
mechanisms at work in a narrative. They indicate that actions and beliefs, and
beliefs and traditions, are entwined. So, when political scientists try to specify
them independently of one another, they are misled by a spurious concept of
scientific rigour into adopting a form of explanation that is inappropriate for
political science.
METHO D
Yet another misconception equates an interpretive approach with certain

techniques of data generation (and on the misleading distinction between
‘qualitative’ and ‘quantitative’ methods, see Schwartz-Shea and Yanow
2002). An interpretive approach is said to be limited to textual readings and
small-scale observations, excluding survey research and quantitative studies.
However, a concern to offer interpretations of interpretations does not neces-
sarily favour particular methods. To the contrary, proponents of an interpret-
ive approach might construct their interpretations using data generated by
various techniques. They can draw on participant observation, interviews,
questionnaires, mass surveys, statistical analysis, and formal models as well
as reading memoirs, newspapers, and official and unofficial documents. The
philosophical analysis underpinning an interpretive approach does not pre-
scribe a particular methodological toolkit for producing data. Instead, it
prescribes a particular way of treating data of any type. Proponents of an
interpretive approach argue that political scientists should treat data in ways
consistent with the task of interpreting interpretations. They should treat data
as evidence of the meanings or beliefs embedded in actions. Political scientists
should not try to bypass meanings or beliefs by reducing them to principles of
rationality, fixed norms, or social categories.
The interpretive view of how we should treat data does, of course, have
some implications for methods of data collection. It leads, in particular, to
greater emphasis on qualitative methods than is usual among political
scientists. Suppose that the data provided by models, formal constitutions, or

large-scale surveys leads us to assign certain beliefs to a group of people.
Because such data typically abstracts from individual circumstances to find
patterns, it elides differences between people, lumping together individuals
who act in broadly similar ways for different reasons. Therefore, an interpret-
ive approach often favours more detailed studies of the beliefs of the relevant
people using textual analysis, participant observation, and interviews. Much
present-day political science prefers quantitative ‘scientific’ techniques and
ignores, or even denigrates, the other methods. In contrast, an interpretive
approach does not require an exclusive use of any one method. However, it
does redress the balance to the qualitative analysis more often associated with
cultural anthropology and contemporary history than with political science.
RHETORIC
The case for anthropological and historical studies should not be confused
with the claim that political scientists must accept actors’ own accounts of
their beliefs. Obviously people’s statements about what they believe offer
significant evidence about what they believe. Equally, however, people can
be deliberately misleading. Admittedly, people do act sometimes on political
commitments they have agonized over. However, they also act on habitual,
unreflective beliefs about the nature of the world and about what is right in a
given context. So, we might explain an action using beliefs other than the
stated beliefs of the actors.
Another misconception is, therefore, that interpretive approaches cannot
deal adequately with rhetoric (see Dowding 2004). We can explore rhetoric
using forms of explanation based on the concepts of belief, tradition, and
dilemma. When people use a rhetorical pattern, they do so because they
believe it will get a suitable response to their ideas. A political scientist can
explain people’s choice of rhetoric by identifying their relevant beliefs and
preferences about different patterns of rhetoric, their appropriateness, and
their probable effectiveness. This analysis will involve placing people’s beliefs
about rhetoric in their wider webs of belief before relating these wider webs of
belief to traditions and dilemmas.
Critics worry that if we are to invoke beliefs other than those stated by the
actors, we need criteria for identifying beliefs (see Brown 2002). They worry
that an interpretive approach guesses people’s beliefs rather than finding hard
evidence of them. Proponents of an interpretive approach might reply that all
experiences, not just experiences of others’ beliefs, are guesses in that they are
theory-laden. People always construct the content of their experiences through
the prior theories they bring to bear on them; knowledge is the father of guesses.
All too often, however, this insistence on the constructed nature of experience
leads critics of an interpretive approach to assimilate it to a postmodern denial
of any object outside the ‘text’. Most supporters of an interpretive approach
would deny entrapment in texts. For instance, I propose using philosophical
reasoning to defend a commitment to the existence of general classes of objects,
including beliefs.
Thus, whenever we act, we commit ourselves to certain concepts. For
example, if we use a pen to fill in our tax form, take it to the tax office, and
pay by cheque, we commit ourselves to beliefs about the existence of certain
objects such as forms and money. We also commit ourselves to beliefs about
the nature of these objects—for example, that paying tax avoids interest and
even fines for late or non-payment, and that others accept authorized cheques
as discharging our liabilities. Finally, we often commit ourselves to beliefs
about ourselves—for example, that we can attempt to pay, or not to pay, taxes.
Philosophy can go to work on the concepts we commit ourselves to in our
actions. It can analyse the implications of these concepts to provide an account
of the classes of objects with which we populate the world and the forms of
reasoning suitable for such objects. For example, our acceptance of tax forms
and use of pens suggests we populate the world with physical objects. Our
convictions about the utility of money suggest we populate the world with
objects that gain significance through intersubjective beliefs. Our convictions
about our ability to act for reasons of our own suggest we populate the world
with beliefs.
While philosophical reflection on the ideas embedded in our actions pro-
vides us with good reasons for proposing the existence of beliefs, it cannot
justify ascribing particular beliefs in any particular case. Nonetheless, an
interpretive approach can justify attributing particular beliefs to people by
claiming that it provides the best explanation of the facts on which we agree.
Although political scientists do not have direct access to people’s beliefs, they
can justify ascribing beliefs to people by saying that it best explains the
evidence on which we agree.
POWER
Poststructuralists sometimes imply that other interpretive approaches are

insensitive to the ways in which relations of power constitute individuals
including their beliefs. However, the concept of tradition can do much the
same work as does the poststructuralist one of power. Tradition asserts that
individuals, far from being autonomous, always come into being in a social
context, which influences the beliefs they come to hold. People inherit con-
cepts, values, and practices from society. They can reflect on this inheritance
and even modify it, but they can do so only in the context of other beliefs they
adopt against the background of a social inheritance. If ‘power’ is the influence
society inevitably exerts on individuals, then a concept of tradition similarly
covers the effects of society. I prefer the concept of tradition.
An interpretive approach avoids a concept of power that refers to social
relations based on the interests that people allegedly have outside the particular
traditions through which they make sense of the world. People always construct
their understanding of their interests against the background of a tradition.
Rather, power refers to the way in which traditions impact on individuals’
beliefs helping to define them, their actions, and the world. Power refers here
to the constitutive role played by tradition in giving us our beliefs and actions,
and in making our world. An interpretive approach is all about power so
conceived, since it explains actions and practices by reference to contingent
beliefs formed against the background of traditions; by situated agency.
In addition, power can refer to the restrictive consequences of the actions of
others in defining what we can and cannot do. Restrictive power works across
intricate webs. Actors such as elected politicians, senior civil servants, doctors,
police officers, and everyday citizens all find their possibilities for action
restricted by what others do. In these terms, an interpretive approach shows
how various actors restrict what others can do in ways that thwart the intentions
of policy actors. Interpretive studies can show how local actors—Whitehall
bureaucrats, doctors, and police officers—are able to draw on their own tradi-
tions to resist policies inspired by the narratives of others in the policy cascade.
Tradition need not be conceived of as uniform. Rather, I can disaggregate it
into conflicting strands. Nor need I think it is ever natural. Rather, I can seek
to question the unquestioned and show how any tradition arises as a contin-
gent product of struggles over different ways of conceiving of and responding
to constructed dilemmas. These political conflicts and contests are not con-
fined to government. Rather, I might use the word governance to stress that
such contests take place throughout society.
If I conceive of tradition in this way, then my narratives often will be
critiques. My narratives often will unmask the partiality of a political inter-
pretation by showing how it arose against the background of a particular
tradition. And my narratives often will unmask the contingency of traditions
by showing them to be just one among several historical possibilities. They
might seek to reveal the contingency and contestability of narratives that
present themselves as natural and fixed.
OBJECTIVITY
Perhaps the most prevalent misconception about an interpretive approach is

that it is inherently relativist. Because this claim remains so prevalent, I devote
some space to countering it and outlining my preferred epistemology (see

Bevir 1999; and also Lakatos 1978; Wittgenstein 1974).
All political scientists confront epistemological issues about how to evaluate
narratives, models, correlations, and typologies. Many positivist political sci-
entists imply that we can justify claims to truth using logics of vindication or
refutation (Carnap 1937; Popper 1959; Ricci 1984). Logics of vindication
would tell us how to decide whether a statement is true. Logics of refutation
would tell us how to decide whether a statement is false. Advocates of
verification argue that we can decode all reasonable theories into a series of
observational statements, and we can determine if these are true because they
refer to pure perceptions. They conclude that a theory is true if it consists
of observational statements that are true. Or, it is more or less probably
true according to the nature and number of observational statements in
accord with it.
Advocates of falsification deny that positive observations can prove a theory
to be true no matter how many facts we obtain. They defend an ideal of
refutation, arguing the objective status of theories derives from our ability to
make observations that show other statements to be false. Both logics ground
objectivity or truth in confrontations with basic facts. All logics of vindication
and refutation believe that we can confront accounts of the world with basic
facts in a test to prove them to be either true or false. Their proponents
typically defend the idea of basic facts by arguing that we have pure experi-
ences of the external world. They disagree about whether the pure experiences
that decide issues of truth are the particular experiences of individuals or the
intersubjective experiences of a community. But they almost always defend
some version of pure experience as the grounds of their logics of vindication
or refutation.
An interpretive approach can move beyond vindication and refutation by
drawing on its holistic analysis of meaning. Philosophical holism implies, in
contrast to positivist approaches, that we do not have pure experiences.
Because meanings are holistic, experiences always embody prior theories. So,
we cannot determine whether an individual statement is true or false because
any such conclusion has to take for granted various theoretical assumptions
embodied in our experiences. An interpretive approach typically adopts a
holism that implies all knowledge always might be mistaken. However, to
reject the idea of certainty is not necessarily to adopt a relativist position.
Proponents of an interpretive approach repudiate relativism. They define
objectivity as evaluation by comparing rival stories using reasonable criteria.
Sometimes there might be no way of deciding between two or more interpret-
ations, but this will not always be the case. Even when it is the case, we still will
be able to decide between these two or more interpretations and many
inferior ones.
Objectivity arises from using agreed facts to criticize and compare rival
interpretations. A fact is a piece of evidence that nearly everyone in the given
community would accept as true. This definition of a fact follows from

recognition of the role of theory in observation. Because theory is integral to
observation, we cannot describe a fact as a statement of how things are.
Observation and description entail categorization. All facts come with points
of view, so they are not certain truths.
Narratives explain shared facts by postulating significant relationships,
connections, or similarities between them. A fact gains a particular character
because of its relationship to other facts. Narratives reveal the particular
character of facts by uncovering their relationships to one another. Indeed,
when narratives reveal the particular character of a fact, they typically help to
define the content of that fact. In this sense, narratives not only reveal the
character of facts but they also create their character, and guide our decisions
about what counts as a fact. Because there are no pure observations, political
scientists partly construct the character of a fact through the theories they
incorporate in their observations. Thus, we cannot say simply that such and
such a narrative either does or does not fit the facts. Instead, we must compare
bundles of narratives by assessing their success in relating facts to one another,
highlighting similarities and differences, and exploring continuities and
disjunctions.
Objectivity arises from using agreed facts to compare and criticize rival
narratives. Criticism plays a pivotal role in such an evaluation. Critics of a
narrative can point to facts that its proponents have not considered. They can
highlight what they take to be facts that contradict that narrative. In short, a
narrative must meet tests set by its critics. So, proponents of an interpretive
approach defend objective knowledge as comparison between rival stories.
This notion of objectivity raises the question of what criteria decide between
rival stories. We propose criteria or rules of thumb that treat objective
behaviour as intellectual honesty in responding to criticism. The first rule is
that objective behaviour requires taking criticism seriously. If people do not
take criticism seriously, we will consider them biased. The second rule is that
objective behaviour presupposes a preference for established standards of
evidence and reason. It also assumes that challenges to settled standards
should rest on impersonal and consistent criteria of evidence and reason.
The third rule is that objective behaviour implies a preference for positive,
speculative responses that produce exciting new stories, not ones that merely
block off criticism of existing stories. We should try to adjust our narratives in
ways that extend their range and vigour.
This account of intellectual honesty results in criteria for comparing stories.
Because we should respect set standards of evidence and reason, we will
prefer narratives that are accurate, comprehensive, and consistent. Our stand-
ards of evidence require us to try to support our narratives with clearly
identified facts. An accurate narrative fits the facts supporting it closely.
A comprehensive narrative fits many facts with few outstanding exceptions.
Similarly, our standards of reasoning require us to endeavour to make our

narratives clear and coherent. A consistent web of narratives holds together
without going against principles of logic. Because we should favour positive
speculative responses, we will prefer narratives that are progressive, fruitful,
and open.
Proponents of an interpretive approach can defend accounts of objective
knowledge as a comparison of rival narratives. Positivist political scientists
might reject such an epistemology as relativist because it gives us no reason to
assume the narratives that we select as objective will correspond to truth. They
might argue that, even if we agree on the facts and we have criteria for
comparing narratives, we still cannot declare any narrative to be true. After
all, facts might be widely accepted without being true. We would agree that our
epistemology does not allow us to assign truth, understood as certainty, to
objective knowledge. In our view, however, that is not a problem. It merely
restates what should be a commonplace—knowledge is provisional.
POLICY ADVICE
Yet another misconception about an interpretive approach is that it cannot

produce policy relevant knowledge. Critics suggest policy relevant knowledge
comes from prediction based on models or correlations between independent
variables. Before addressing this misconception directly, I need to confront the
notion that scientific expertise and prediction are the correct way of thinking
about the advice political scientists might offer practitioners. An interpretive
approach typically rejects the possibility of prediction—as opposed to the
looser idea of plausible conjecture—since it is incompatible with the narrative
form of explanation. Its proponents usually portray change as a product of
the ways in which people change inherited traditions and practices, and the
ways in which they adapt them are open-ended and, therefore, not amenable
to prediction.
Because traditions and practices do not fix the ways people might develop
them when confronted with new circumstances, I cannot know in advance
how people will develop their beliefs and actions in response to a dilemma.
Therefore, political scientists cannot predict how people will respond to a
dilemma. Whatever limits they built into their predictions, people could
always arrive at new beliefs and actions outside those limits. Political scientists
cannot predict. However, they can offer plausible conjectures that seek to
explain practices and actions by pointing to the conditional connections
between actions, beliefs, traditions, and dilemmas. Their conjectures are
stories, understood as provisional narratives about possible futures. These
stories make general statements that are plausible because they rest on good
reasons and the reasons are good because they are inferred from relevant
information (paraphrased from Boudon 1993).
At this point I can directly address the issue of how an interpretive
approach contributes to policy advice. Most policy-oriented work on govern-
ance seeks to improve the ability of the state to manage the markets, bureau-
cracies and networks that have flourished since the 1980s. Typically, this work
treats hierarchies, markets, and networks as fixed structures that governments
can manipulate if they use the right tools. An interpretive approach undercuts
this idea of a set of tools that we can use to manage governance. Because
governance is constructed differently, contingently, and continuously, we
cannot have toolkits with which to manage it. An interpretive approach
encourages us to foreswear management techniques and strategies. Crucially,
it replaces such tools with learning by telling stories and listening to them.8
Other commentators have traced the rediscovery of storytelling in the
subfield of public administration (Van Eeten et al. 1996). They sometimes
distinguish between storytelling by administrators and storytelling by scholars
to make the important point that this intellectual fashion has its feet firmly on
the ground. In both public and private organizations managers use stories not
only to gain and pass on information and to inspire involvement but also as
the repository of the organization’s institutional memory. Rein (1976: 266)
points out that the central thread in a policy narrative is metaphor, which
makes the unfamiliar analogous to familiar situations: ‘The simplest stories
are proverbs and parables, used to justify policy relevant stories’ (and see
Rhodes 2017, Volume I, Chapter 12).
While statistics, models, and claims to expertise all have a place in such
stories, we should not become too preoccupied with them. We should recog-
nize that they too are narratives about how people have acted or will react
given their beliefs and desires. No matter what rigour or expertise we bring to
bear, all we can do is tell a story and judge what the future might bring.
CONCLUSIONS
When critics contrast an interpretive approach with others, they are often
groping for a way of expressing their sense that an interpretive approach lacks
rigour. They invoke the same basic dichotomy. They want to dismiss inter-
pretation as fuzzy, subjective, and impressionistic. They want to defend a
8
There is a literature that explicitly applies an interpretive approach to policy analysis. Early
examples include Dryzek 1993, 2006; Fischer and Forester 1993; Healy 1986; Hummel 1991;
Jennings 1987; Van Eeten et al. 1996; and Yanow 1999. More recently, see Fischer 2003, 2006;
Hajer and Wagenaar 2003; Hajer 2009; Wagenaar 2011.
political science that relies on hard data, experimental testing, and methodo-
logical rigour. In this chapter, I have challenged this dichotomy by giving
details of the data, methods, and even epistemology associated with an inter-
pretive approach. More importantly, I have given reasons to renounce the false
idols of hard data, experimental tests, and rigorous methods.
Critics of interpretivism rarely avow positivism. Surely, though, their idols
of hard data, experimental tests, and methodological rigour lose all allure once
one renounces a positivist faith in pure experience? If we cannot have pure
experiences, all data is soft because it presupposes prior theories that are
themselves contestable. If all data is soft, we cannot evaluate particular narra-
tives or theories using experiments. Instead, all knowledge arises from com-
parisons between rival theories or narratives that are based on at least partly
constructed facts. Also, we can challenge the idol of methodological rigour.
Often methodological rigour is held up as a way of producing secure facts that
others can replicate and accept. In contrast, we might suggest that methods
and the facts they construct should be evaluated together as parts of larger
narratives or theories. We will accept methods as ‘rigorous’—or to use a more
accurate term, ‘appropriate’—only if we adopt philosophical theories that
imply that the relevant methods are suitable for the objects to which they
are applied. Judgements about methodological rigour or appropriateness
always depend on logically prior judgements about philosophical rigour or
appropriateness.
The idol of methodological rigour typically acts to obscure prior philosoph-
ical issues or even to prejudge such issues to support positivism. An interpretive
approach, in contrast, gives primary importance to philosophical rigour. It
highlights the importance of political science meeting the logical requirements
of our concepts. It rejects the stress on methodological rigour as a bewitching
effect of the positivist philosophy of the natural sciences.
I return to many of these issues throughout Part II, in which I give examples
of interpretive methods in action and discuss their strengths and limits. I cover
ethnographic fieldwork, focus groups, biography, and contemporary history.
Part II
Methods
3
On Ethnography
Part II of the book turns to the genres of thought in the humanities and
explores their relevance to political science. I focus on cultural anthropology,
life history, contemporary history, gender studies, and area studies. I ask the
simple question of ‘what can we learn from them?’
Anthropology comes in many guises, often referred to as the four pillars of:
archaeology, physical anthropology, anthropological linguistics, and cultural
anthropology. Here, I focus on the latter. By long association, participant
observation has been a defining characteristic of ethnography and the dom-
inant method in cultural anthropology.1
Political anthropology is a minority sport and until recently there was little
work by political scientists (Aronoff and Kubik 2013: 19; Schatz 2009: 1; and
Auyero and Joseph 2007: 2) There are no chapters on political science in the
comprehensive surveys of ethnography by, for example, Atkinson et al. (2007)
and Bryman (2001). There are no schools of thought about the theory or
methods of political ethnography. Auyero and Joseph (2007: 2) conclude there
is a ‘double absence: of politics in ethnographic literature and of ethnography
in the study of politics’ (emphasis in the original).
In the 2000s, the interpretive approach became more prominent in political
science notably in the fields of comparative politics (for surveys of the field see
Aronoff and Kubik 2013; Schatz 2009; Wedeen 2010), and public policy
analysis (for a survey of the field see Wagenaar 2011). Elsewhere in Anglo-
phone political science, there are only pockets of ethnographic work on, for
example: parliament (Crewe 2005); party conferences (Faucher-King 2005);
street-level bureaucrats (Maynard-Moody and Musheno 2003); and ministers
and public servants (Rhodes 2011a; Richards and Smith 2004). In sum,
‘political science has yet to embrace ethnography and participant observation
wholeheartedly’ (Kaposzewski et al. 2015: 234).
1
A revised version of R. A. W. Rhodes, ‘Ethnography’. In Mark Bevir and R. A. W. Rhodes (eds)
(2015) The Routledge Handbook of Interpretive Political Science. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge,
pp. 171–85. Reprinted with permission of Taylor and Francis.
Table 3.1. Varieties of ethnography
Naturalist Interpretive
Studying down Kaufman 1961 Maynard-Moodie and Musheno 2003

Studying up Fenno 1978 and 1990 Rhodes 2011a
Kaufman 1981
There are some defining debates in the political ethnography literature and
I organize my discussion around these debates. I begin by distinguishing
between naturalist and interpretive ethnography. I also distinguish between
studying down and studying up, providing an example each (see Table 3.1).
Second, I review the shared toolkit, focusing on fieldwork, participant
observation, and ethnographic interviewing. Third, and at the heart of the
chapter, I survey the defining debates surrounding ethnographic methods
arising from the ‘culture wars’ of the 1980s in cultural anthropology. Finally,
I offer some comments on future trends in political ethnography, focusing on,
for example, hit-and-run ethnography, and ‘new’ methods for recovering data.
NATURALIST ETHNOGRAPHY
Naturalism refers to the idea that ‘the human sciences should strive to develop
predictive and causal explanations akin to those found in the natural sciences’
(Bevir and Kedar 2008: 503; and Chapter 2, this volume). Over the years, there
has been some impressive naturalist political ethnography in political science.
I give examples of studying down and street-level bureaucrats, and of studying
up and governing elites.
The term ‘street-level bureaucrat’ was coined by Michael Lipsky (1980: xii)
and refers to teachers, police officers and social workers, and any other semi-
profession in face-to-face contact with clients of state services. Although the term
‘street-level bureaucrat’ was not in common currency, Kaufman’s The Forest
Ranger (1960) pioneered the topic. He studied forest rangers and their super-
visors in five districts. He visited the first district for seven weeks and the other
districts for one week each. There were also social visits to their families in the
evening. He calls the rangers ‘switchboards’, adapting general directives to
specific conditions and areas. It is a pivotal position. Anyone who tries ‘to direct
activities on a Ranger district without going through the Ranger can be sure of
swift and vehement objection by the field officer’ (Kaufman 1960: 210). It is a
classic example of the street-level bureaucrat, only they patrol trails, not streets.
In his analysis of central bureaux chiefs, Kaufman (1981) studied six federal
agencies for 14 months, including 31 full days when he observed the bureaux
chiefs sitting in their offices and at meetings. The conventional wisdom is that
On Ethnography 41
these officials have much power and independence. Kaufman (1981: ch. 3)
highlights the ‘confines of leadership’. He compares it to ‘stepping into a large
fast-flowing river’ and contending with ‘an array of forces not of his own
making that carried him and his organisation along—sometimes at an
unwanted rate and in an unwanted direction’ (Kaufman 1981: 134). So,
‘they make their marks in inches, not miles’. He suggests that, ‘for all the
power and influence attributed to their office and for all their striving, [bureau
chiefs] could not make a big difference in what their organisations did during
the period in which they served’ (Kaufman 1981: 174 and 139, emphasis
added). Getting up close and personal changes the angle of vision and leads,
as Kaufman freely admits, to surprises, especially about the confines of
administrative leadership (see also Kaufman 2006 [1960]).
For nearly eight years, Fenno (1990) shadowed 18 US members of Congress
in their Districts. He made 36 separate visits to the districts and spent 110
working days with them. The length of his visits varied from three to 11 days.
In 11 cases, he supplemented the visits with ‘a lengthy interview’ in Washington.
He seeks to answer two questions. What does an elected representative see
when he or she sees a constituency? What are the consequences of these
perceptions for his or her behaviour? Fenno (1990: 27) paints a picture of
the constituency as four concentric circles: the geographic district;
re-election (or electoral supporters); primary (or people who will work for
his or her re-election); and personal (or family friends and trusted advisers).
Each member of Congress had strategies for managing each of these circles
and developing ‘home style’; a way of presenting themselves to their constitu-
ency. This home style helps the member of Congress to achieve the three goals
of re-election, power in Congress, and good public policy (Fenno 1990: 137).
Developing a recognized home style and trust with constituents helps the
member of Congress to get re-elected, the essential first step to achieving the
other goals. Fenno focuses on the constituency and freely admits (Fenno 1990:
214) that he paid ‘insufficient attention’ to Washington. No matter, he opened
new ground in the study of Congressional members. The presentation of
self by members of Congress in their everyday constituency life was the
surprise finding.
Naturalist ethnographies treat ethnography as a method for collecting data.
The emphasis falls on systematic data collection, validating that data, avoiding
observer bias, and writing up in the third person (and see Werner and
Schoepfle 1987 for a detailed account of how to achieve rigour in ‘ethno-
science’). They also seek to test mainstream political science theories. For
example, Kaufman explores the ideas of control and coordination from the
public administration literature. Fenno (1978: xii–xiii) locates his study in the
literature on representative–constituency relationships. Finally, for proponents
of naturalist ethnography, the researcher’s role is that of detached observer
(Fenno 1990: 79).
INTERPRETIVE ETHNOGRAPHY
Interpretive political studies draw on anti-naturalist philosophical thinking

and emphasize the importance of meanings in the study of human life (see
Bevir and Rhodes 2003; and Chapter 2, this volume). It shifts analysis away
from institutions, functions, and roles to understanding the beliefs, actions,
and practices of actors. We need to grasp the relevant meanings, the beliefs,
and preferences of the people involved.
So, returning to street-level bureaucrats, Maynard-Moody and Musheno
(2003: ch. 3 and 167–77) spent six to ten months in five research sites
interviewing and observing cops, teachers, and counsellors. They collected
157 everyday work stories from 48 street-level workers. Their narrative ana-
lysis showed that street-level bureaucrats ‘actually make policy choices rather
than simply implement the decisions of elected officials’. Their beliefs about
clients fixed client identities, often stereotyping them, which, in turn fixed the
beliefs of street-level bureaucrats about their occupational identity as, for
example, bleeding-heart or hard-nosed. Maynard-Moody and Musheno
describe the practices of street-level bureaucrats in managing the ‘irreconcil-
able’ dilemmas posed by clients’ needs, administrative supervision (of rules
and resources), and the exercise of state power.
Returning to elites, I drew on three sources of information: the pattern of
practice (or 420 hours of observation), talk (or 67 hours of interviews), and
considered writing (or official documents and memoirs) in my study of life at the
top of three British government departments (Rhodes 2011a; Oakeshott 1996: x).
Observation produced several surprises; for example, I found that a key task of
civil servants and ministers was to steer other actors using storytelling. Storytell-
ing organizes dialogues, fosters meanings, beliefs, and identities among the
relevant actors. It seeks to influence what actors think and do, and fosters shared
narratives of continuity and change. It is about ‘willed ordinariness’ or continu-
ities. It is about preserving the departmental philosophy and its everyday (or folk)
theories. It is about shared languages that enable a retelling of yesterday to make
sense of today. This portrait of a storytelling political-administrative elite, with
beliefs and practices rooted in the nineteenth-century Westminster constitution,
that uses protocols and rituals to domesticate rude surprises and recurrent
dilemmas, overturns the conventional portrait (and see Chapter 8, this volume).
Interpretive ethnographies treat ethnography as a way of recovering mean-
ing; that is, beliefs and practices. The researcher writes ‘our own construction
of the other people’s constructions of what they and their compatriots are up
to’ (Geertz 1973: 9). The knower and the known are inseparable, interacting
and influencing one another, leading to shared interpretations (Lincoln and
Guba 1985). The emphasis falls on writing up fieldwork that has an ‘inherently
story-like character’ and authors have ‘inevitable choices’ to make about how
they will present their findings (Van Maanen 1988).
On Ethnography 43
THE TOOLKIT
Interpretivists will object to my using the toolkit metaphor as irredeemably

naturalist. Rather, they see ethnographic methods as analogous to bricolage,
quilt-making, or montage:
The interpretive bricloeur produces a bricolage; that is a pieced together set of
representations that are fitted to the specifics of a complex situation (Denzin and
Lincoln 2011: 4; and Levi-Strauss 1966).
However, the bricoleur also has a set of tools, so the question stands: how do
we recover the data? The specific practices of the bricoleurs’ trade are field-
work, participant observation, and ethnographic interviewing.
Fieldwork or ‘Being There’
Any account of fieldwork starts with the puzzle of ‘what do ethnographers do?’
For Hammersley and Atkinson (2007: 2), ‘ethnography does not have a
standard, well-defined meaning’. Nonetheless, some words and phrases
recur. The ethnographer studies people’s everyday lives. Such fieldwork is
unstructured. The aim is to recover the meaning of their actions by deep
immersion, whether looking at a Congressional district, a government depart-
ment or a tribe in Africa. Historically, it meant going to another country,
learning the language and studying the everyday lives of the inhabitants of a
village, tribe, or whatever unit of social organization had been selected. For the
novitiate, it was the only way to become a cultural anthropologist; ‘you can’t
teach fieldwork, you have to do it’. For Wood (2007: 123), it is ‘research based
on personal interaction with research subjects in their own setting’, not in the
laboratory, the library, or one’s office. It is deep hanging out or intensive
immersion in the everyday lives of other people in their local environment
normally for a substantial period of time.
Of course, fieldwork has various pen names such as the ‘thick descriptions’
(Geertz 1973: ch. 1) and ‘the extended case study’ (Aronoff and Kubik 2013:
56–7). On the face of it, there are affinities with the case studies common in
political science which are in-depth studies of a single unit or event. The
method was criticized often for being idiographic and not fostering general-
izations. Latterly, political scientists have devoted much effort to assimilating
the case method to naturalism and its language of variables and hypothesis
testing. For example, Wood analysed five case studies of peasant support for
insurgent groups explicitly ‘sacrificing ethnographic depth of analysis for
analytical traction through comparison of cases that vary in the extent of
mobilisation observed’. It was her way of overcoming ‘the obstacles to making
valid causal inferences based on field data’ (Wood 2007: 132 and 142). So, case
studies can be simply descriptions of specific subjects but political scientists

are enjoined to use them to build theory, to test the validity of specific
hypotheses, and to test theories by treating them as the equivalent of decisive
experiments (see Eckstein 1975: 92–123; see also Yin 2014).
An interpretive approach to fieldwork is markedly different because it goes
for ethnographic depth; for deep hanging out. Anthropologists would not refer
to their fieldwork site as a ‘case study’ because it is not a ‘case’ of anything until
they withdraw from the field to analyse and write up their field notes. Indeed,
interpretive ethnography is less concerned with generalizations (see ‘Debates’,
this chapter, pp. 49–50) than with raising new questions and ‘shaking the bag’.
The aim is edification. So, fieldwork provides detailed studies of social and
political dramas. As Burawoy (1998: 5) suggests, it ‘extracts the general from
the unique, to move from the “micro” to the “macro”’. For example, Crewe’s
(2005: 240) study of the British House of Lords focuses on rituals, rules,
symbols, and hierarchies, especially ‘the meaning of its rituals and symbols
and how people use them to make sense of the past, present and future’. Her
‘anthropological perspective’ draws on the analysis of political ritual; of ‘ritual
as the process of politics itself, rather than as a servant to it’ (Kertzer 1988).
She was a participant observer for two years between 1998 and 2001. She had a
staff pass and ‘was able to take part actively in House of Lords’ working life’. It
was deep hanging out. She shows how the everyday rituals of an institution
seen only as a dignified part of the constitution ‘give the backbenchers the
feeling that they are transcending their individual powerlessness to become
important components of an influential whole’. As a result, the rituals ensure
acquiescence to the dominance of the executive. What is the large issue that
springs from small events? Political rituals are not ‘trivial and backward
looking’ but ‘key elements in the symbolism of which nations are made’
(paraphrased from Crewe 2005: 229–35).
Fieldwork has several advantages over other methods in political science.
As Wood (2007: 124 and 132) notes, it is a source of data not available
elsewhere and is often the only way to identify key individuals and core
processes. It is well suited to giving voice to groups all too often ignored; to
disaggregating organizations; to understanding ‘the black box’ or internal
processes of groups and organizations; and, distinctively, to recovering the
beliefs and practices of actors. In addition, Rhodes et al. (2007a: ch. 9) argue
‘being there’ gets below and behind the surface of official accounts by
providing texture, depth, and nuance, so our stories have richness as well
as context. It lets interviewees explain the meaning of their actions, provid-
ing an authenticity that can only come from the main characters involved in
the story. Crucially, the ethnographic approach admits of surprises, of
moments of epiphany, which can open new research agendas. It accepts
serendipity and happenstance. Finally, it helps us to see and analyse the
symbolic dimensions of political action.
On Ethnography 45
Ethnographic textbooks cover a standard list of techniques and procedures

for collecting such fieldwork data. Such lists cover access, fieldwork roles,
fieldwork relationships, fieldwork notes, interviewing, and leaving the field.
The budding fieldworker is advised to consult the numerous available texts
(my favourites are Agar 1996 [1980]; Bryman 2001; Hammersley and
Atkinson 2007 [1983]; and Wolcott 1995). The main tools for recovering
meaning are participant observation and ethnographic interviewing.
Participant Observation
As the label suggests, the researcher both observes and participates in everyday
life. He or she needs to get to know the people being studied. You do not have to
be friends. You do need to be accepted; to fit in. Commonly observations are
recorded in a fieldwork notebook. The level of involvement can vary from being
a bystander with little rapport, through a balance between ‘insider’ and ‘outsider’
roles, to full involvement and the risk of ‘going native’ (see DeWalt et al. 1998).
The most striking fieldwork practice of ethnographers for a political scien-
tist is the document known as the ‘fieldwork notebook’ (see Bryman 2001,
vol. 2, part 7; Emerson et al. 2011; Sanjek 1990). It is simultaneously invisible
and ever present, part of the tacit knowledge of ethnographers. Ethnographers
learn about the fieldwork notes on the job. There is no agreed definition of a
fieldwork notebook. For some it includes note-taking from documents. For
others, it is mainly notes about what they have observed. Even then, ‘obser-
vation’ is a broad category, covering everyday activities, conversations, pen
portraits of individuals, new ideas about how to do the research, the diary of
the ethnographer recording personal impressions and feelings. Jottings can be
made on the run and more substantial notes compiled at the end of the
working day. The practices of the ethnographer are diverse and well captured
by Jackson (1990: 33–4). She suggests field notes are a key symbol of profes-
sional identity and they ‘represent an individualistic, pioneering, approach to
acquiring knowledge, at times even a maverick and rebellious one’. They
symbolize the ‘ordeal by fire’ that is journeying to the field and the ‘uncer-
tainty, mystique and . . . ambivalence’ of that journey.
Much political ethnography is not only micro in the sense of studying the
details of everyday actions but also in the sense of locale. We study down; that is
we visit villages, factories, schools, and local communities. We talk to police
officers, social workers, teachers, drug users, and everyday people. As Shore and
Nugent (2002: 11) comment, ‘anthropology, by definition, is the study of the
powerless “Others”; it avoids the study of elites’ (see also Nader 1974: 289). I offer
no criticism of studying down. Rather, I observe that a central concern of political
scientists is who governs, and to answer that question we need to observe
governing elites, so studying up is a prime research strategy.
In studying governing elites, there are some obvious difficulties in ‘being

there’. The most obvious game changer is that ‘the research participants are
more powerful than the researchers’ (Shore and Nugent 2002: 11). They
control access and exit. They end interviews, refuse permission to quote
interviews, and deny us documents. They can control what we see and hear.
In practice, it means the researcher is involved in continuous negotiations over
access and who can and cannot be seen. The researcher’s role varies, at times
with bewildering speed. One day you are the professional stranger walking the
tightrope between insider and outsider. Next day you are the complete
bystander, left behind in the office to twiddle your thumbs. They not only
enforce the laws on secrecy but also decide what is secret. We are playing a
game with a stacked deck of cards, and we are the punters.
There are also emotional stresses and strains. Participation calls for involve-
ment. Observation calls for detachment. Endlessly balancing the two is a
strain. It can be exacerbated by the researcher’s biases. I found I was more
comfortable with some of the inhabitants of the Whitehall village than with
others (Rhodes 2011a). So, managing one’s biases is important. Living away
from family and home can lead to attacks of the blues. Like the rock star on the
road, one can bewail another night in another cheap hotel, and in my case,
another commute on the London underground as well.
Of course, the researcher strives for a Panglossian view of the world. There is no
mileage in worrying about difficulties until they arise, and many do not. But the
brutally simple fact is: when problems crop up, the elites win. Elites are different
(and see Rhodes et al. 2007a and Gains 2011 for a more detailed discussion).
Ethnographic Interviewing
The common format for an elite interview is a recorded, one-hour conversa-

tion around a semi-structured questionnaire (see, for example, Dexter 2006
[1970]; PS Symposium 2002). Of course, it can be revealing in the hands of a
skilled interviewer but it courts the danger of becoming a confining ritual. Our
conception of an elite interview can be too narrow. All elite interviewers know
the permanent secretary and minister who can negotiate such an encounter
with ease. There is another choice besides this format—intensive repeat
interviews. I like to see them as a series of friendly conversations albeit
conversations with an explicit purpose. Elites will be more open in such
extended encounters because, as Rawnsley (2001: xi) observes, ‘they have to
tell an outsider because they are so worried about whether it makes sense or,
indeed, whether they make sense’. Such interviews are still a negotiation. Their
success depends on intangibles like trust and rapport. With trust and rapport
comes far more information than can be obtained from working through
On Ethnography 47
a semi-structured questionnaire. And this information can be cross-checked

against observations—did they do what they said?
Fieldwork based on participant observation and intensive or ethnographic
interviewing is the long-standing heart of ethnography not just political
ethnography of whatever hue. It was not without critics among mainstream
anthropologists. For example, Werner and Schoepfle (1987: 257–60) consider
both participation and observation problematic with bias from class, language,
gender, and ethnicity ever-present dangers. But such views are tepid compared
to the heated ‘postmodern’ or ‘discursive’ challenge of the 1980s. It banished
such basic ideas as deep immersion and participant observation. As a result,
ethnography became a diverse and disparate set of practices.
DEBATES
Political science may pay little attention to ethnography but the debates that took
place in cultural anthropology in the 1980s continue to inform, even shape,
ethnography in the twenty-first century, and interpretive political ethnography is
no exception. The best known text in these ‘culture wars’ is James Clifford and
George Marcus, Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (1986).
My starting point is their examination of the problems of representation,
generalization, objectivity, explanation, and reflexivity. In each case, where
possible, I provide political examples and indicate how the debate has moved on.
Representation
Fieldwork’s claim to ethnographic authority in representing other cultures was

a prime target for deconstruction. It was said to produce colonial, gendered,
and racist texts with a specious claim to objectivity that ignored power
relations between observers and observed and failed to link the local to the
global. The aspiration to represent a culture was rejected:
‘culture’ is not an object to be described, neither is it a unified corpus of symbols
and meanings that be definitively interpreted. Culture is contested, temporal, and
emergent (Clifford 1986: 19).
The aim was to deconstruct all essential concepts, all generalizations. So,
we have:
a trend towards the specification of discourses in ethnography: who speaks? who
writes? when and where? with or to whom under what institutional or historical
constraints (Clifford 1986: 13)?
The classic intensive fieldwork study was challenged by hit-and-run ethnog-

raphy. So, in its place we ‘study up’ and ‘follow through’ by conducting ‘yo-yo-
research’ in ‘contact zones’ and multi-local sites. These several shorthand
expressions can be explained easily. ‘Studying up’ refers to the study of elites,
not police officers, social workers, and teachers. ‘Studying through’ refers to
following events such as making a policy through the ‘webs and relations
between actors, institutions and discourses across time and space’ (Shore and
Wright 1997: 14). ‘Yo-yo research’ refers to both regular movement in and out
of the field and to participant observation in many local sites (Wulff 2002).
A ‘contact zone’ is the ‘space’, such as a museum, in which ‘peoples geograph-
ically and historically separated come into contact with each other and
establish ongoing relations’, usually characterized by inequality and conflict
(Clifford 1997: 6–7).
Ethnographic practice is no longer limited to participant observation, yet
that rite of passage known as fieldwork or deep hanging out remains the
historic heart of the discipline. The postmodern critics are seen as lacking in
direction and a poor substitute for deep hanging out. Thus, Bunzl (2008: 58)
sees ‘anthropology collapsing into paralysis’ from its inability to transcend a
myriad analyses of specific discourses. Its practices have become ‘baroque’
(Marcus 2007). I incline to Fox’s (2004: 4) practical and pragmatic assess-
ment of fieldwork; it is a ‘rather uneasy combination of involvement and
detachment’ but it ‘is still the best method we have for exploring the
complexities of human cultures, so it will have to do’. It may be the best
method but it is not the only one. I return to the practices of hit-and-run
ethnography below.
Whether we practise deep hanging out or hit-and-run fieldwork, we
will confront that most stubborn of problems, finding a way to provide an
authoritative account of the fieldwork. Van Maanen’s (1988: 2, 8, and 14)
aspiration is to find ‘more, not fewer, ways to tell of culture’, and he identifies
several ways of telling: realist tales, confessional tales, and impressionist tales.
Realist accounts are dispassionate, third-person documentary accounts of
everyday life. The story is told from the native’s point of view but the author
has the final word, both selecting the points of view and pronouncing on the
meaning of their culture. Van Maanen (1988: ch. 3 and pp. 54 and 64–6)
concedes that realist ethnography has ‘a long and by-and-large worthy pedi-
gree’, although its writing conventions are now seen as ‘embarrassing’.
The characteristics of a confessional account are that it is an autobiograph-
ical, personalized story, which tells the tale from the fieldworker’s perspective;
and aims for naturalness and getting it right in the end. Confessional tales are
first person and anecdotal. All too often the storyline is that of ‘a fieldworker
and a culture finding each other and, despite some initial spats and misun-
derstandings, in the end, making a match’ (paraphrased from Van Maanen,
1988: ch. 4 and p. 79).
On Ethnography 49
Impressionist tales take the form of a dramatic storyline, with a fragmented

treatment of theory and method, because they focus on characterization and
drama (Van Maanen 1988: 103–6). Impressionist tales ‘highlight the episodic,
complex and ambivalent realities that are frozen and perhaps made too pat by
realist or confessional conventions’. Their accounts are ‘as hesitant and open
to contingency and interpretation as the concrete experiences on which they
are based’ (Van Maanen 1988: 119; see also Boswell and Corbett 2015).
There is no agreed way of reporting from the field. The craft of writing is
paramount. Each way of telling the tale will reveal only a partial truth. So,
political scientists need to become self-conscious practitioners of a literary
craft that embraces literary experimentation (Hammersley and Atkinson
2007: ch. 9).
Generalization
The idiographic character of ethnographic fieldwork is invariably seen as a

weakness by political scientists. Critics claim that it is not possible to deduce
laws and predict outcomes from fieldwork; that is, it is not possible to
generalize. Of course, researchers can and do make general statements from
a case. It is no great leap of the imagination to move from studying a fashion
shop in Southampton, to sweat shops in Asia, to the glamorous world of
models and designers in Paris, and to the global distribution networks of retail
corporations. What they cannot do is make statistical generalizations and
propound laws. Moreover, Schwartz-Shea and Yanow (2012: 26–34) suggest
that the deductive logic of inquiry so common in political science are not
relevant to interpretive research. They suggest that the logic of abduction is
better suited. Abductive reasoning is a
puzzling out process [in which] the researcher tacks continually, constantly, back
and forth in an iterative-recursive fashion between what is puzzling and possible
explanations for it.
A surprise or a puzzle occurs when ‘there is a misfit between experience and
expectations’. The researcher is ‘grappling with the process of sensemaking; of
coming up with an interpretation that makes sense of the surprise’. The
researcher is on an ‘interpretive dance’ as one discovery leads to another. If
deduction reasons from its premises, abduction reasons from its puzzle. The
researcher does not deduce law-like generalizations but infers the best explan-
ation for the puzzle. So, the interpretive researcher does not ask if the findings
are generalizable but whether ‘it works in context’ (Schwartz-Shea and Yanow
2012: 46–9). The aim of interpretive research is complex specificity in context,
not generalizations.
For Lincoln and Guba (1985: 110), ‘the only generalisation is: there is no
generalisation’. Indeed, as I have already noted, edification rather than gener-
alization can be the name of the game. So, we aspire to ‘plausible conjectures’
from intensive fieldwork.
Objectivity
For the naturalist political scientist, ethnographic research fails to meet the
standards posed by the logic of refutation. For the deconstructionist, there are
only partial truths. For all qualitative researchers, there is the question of how
do we evaluate the quality of research. We must start by accepting that the
knowledge criteria of the naturalist ethnography—the logic of vindication and
of refutation—are inappropriate. There is no point in trying to pretend the
ethnographic approach and its distinctive research methods are just a ‘soft’
version of the naturalist approach with its penchant for ‘hard’ quantitative
data. They are simply different in both the aims and the knowledge criteria
they employ. Such notions as reliability, validity, and generalization are not
seen as relevant when the aim of research is ‘complex specificness’ (Geertz
1973: 23; Wolcott 1995: 174). So, what are the relevant knowledge criteria?
There are many suggestions up for debate. For example, Roberts (2002: 6 and
37–40) suggests the relevant criteria include ‘adequacy, aesthetic finality, acces-
sibility, authenticity, credibility, explanatory power, persuasiveness, coherence,
plausibility, trustworthiness, epistemological validity and verisimilitude’ (see
also Braun and Clarke 2006; Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2012: 91–114; Yanow
2006). In many of these endeavours, aesthetic and other criteria associated with
writing fiction are prominent (and see Chapter 12, this volume).
In contrast, Bevir and Rhodes (2003: 38–40) recast the ambition for object-
ive knowledge (and see Chapter 2, this volume). They argue it arises from
criticizing and comparing rival webs of interpretation; from the forensic
interrogation of rival stories. The political science community’s continuing
debates define and redefine the criteria by which we judge the knowledge
claims of individual members of that community. It is not self-referential
because the knowledge claims can be ‘reconfirmed’ by encounters with prac-
titioners and citizens. So, we translate abstract concepts into conversations in
fieldwork. These encounters and their conversations produce data which we
interpret to produce narratives which are then judged by evolving knowledge
criteria of the relevant scholarly community. All debates are subject to the
provisional rules of intellectual honesty such as established standards of
evidence and reason; we prefer webs of interpretation that are accurate,
comprehensive, and consistent. Reconfirmation is also integral to comparing
webs of interpretation. It is an iterative process. Narratives are subjected to
academic judgements; concepts are redefined, and again translated for new
encounters and conversations in the field. In short, interpretive approaches are
On Ethnography 51
different and cannot approximate to a Popperian logic of refutation, nor

should they even try, but they do need to be explicit about the criteria for
comparing narratives. I have been explicit.
Explanation
A common misconception about interpretive ethnography is that it aims only

to understand actions and practices, not explain them. A distinction is drawn
between the nomothetic search for explanatory laws of the social sciences and
idiographic understanding of the interpretive sciences. For Clifford (1986: 19),
the task is ‘the specification of discourses’. Lincoln and Guba (1985: 151–2)
want to replace the notion of causality with ‘mutual simultaneous shaping’
in which ‘everything influences everything else . . . But the interaction has
no directionality, no need to produce “that particular outcome” . . . it simply
“happened” as a product of the interaction—the mutual shaping’. Wherever
you look, it would seem that interpretive ethnography describes actions and
practices, but it does not explain them.
It need not be so. The philosophical analysis of meaning in action that
informs an interpretive approach suggests a distinctive form of explanation,
which Bevir (1999: 304–6) refers to as narrative (see also Chapter 2, this
volume). Some care is necessary because the term ‘narrative’ has become a
ubiquitous term in the twenty-first century. It comes in many guises; for
example, auto-ethnography, life history, oral history, memoirs, and storytell-
ing (see Czarniawska 2004 for a survey of narratives in the social sciences).
Here, I use narrative as a form of explanation.
For Bevir 1999: chs 4 and 7 a narrative unpacks the disparate and contin-
gent beliefs and practices of individuals through which they construct their
world to identify the recurrent patterns of actions and related beliefs. The
resulting narrative is not just a chronological story. Narratives explain actions
by specifying the beliefs and desires that caused the actions and practices.
People act for reasons, conscious and unconscious. A memoir or a story or a
life history is a narrative if it explains actions by explicating beliefs.
So, interpretive ethnography is about explanation, not understanding. The
natural and interpretive sciences use different concepts of causation, and the
interpretive version of explanation differs from that often found among
political scientists. Narratives are the way interpretive ethnography explains
actions and practices.
Reflexivity
As Hammersley and Atkinson (1983: 14–15) point out, ‘the reflexive character
of social research . . . is not a matter of methodological commitment, it is an
existential fact’. So, ‘rather than engaging in futile attempts to eliminate the
effects of the researcher, we should set about understanding them’:
There is an obligation placed upon practitioners to scrutinise systematically the
methodology by which findings, their own, and those of others, were produced,
and, in particular, to consider how the activities of researcher may have shaped
these findings (Hammersley and Atkinson 1983: 236).
There is no ‘may’ in later editions of the book. Reflexivity becomes the
principle that runs through the third edition of their book (Hammersley and
Atkinson 2007: 14–18, 191, 236). Critical self-awareness is essential but the
danger is that the text becomes about the researcher; a diary of his or her
involvement in the field. An excess of reflexivity spills over into a narcissism
that is as unpalatable as it is boring. I have much sympathy with Watson’s
(1987) prayer, ‘make me reflexive—but not yet’ because the goal of remaining
a ‘professional stranger’ balancing engagement, detachment, and critical self-
awareness is equivalent to searching for the Holy Grail—always out of reach.
Yet, there is no alternative to trying—it’s life as we know it.
CHUGGING AHEAD BY DEVELOPING THE CRAFT
Wedeen (2010: 264) is correct when she observes we continue to look back to
the debates of the 1980s. She suggests ‘we might want to chug ahead to the
anthropology of the 2000s’. What would chugging ahead involve? It involves
dissolving the distinction between quantitative and qualitative methods;
accepting the need for both deep hanging out and hit-and-run ethnography;
and broadening the toolkit with a more eclectic choice of methods.
Quantitative and Qualitative
The distinction between ‘qualitative’ and ‘quantitative’ methods is unhelpful

(Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2002). It suggests, for example, that researchers do
not interpret their quantitative data (on which see Stone 2001: ch. 10; and
2015). Rather, an interpretive approach does not necessarily favour particular
methods. It does not prescribe a particular toolkit for producing data but
prescribes a particular way of treating data of any type. It should treat data as
evidence of the meanings or beliefs embedded in actions. So, it is a mistake to
equate an interpretive approach with only certain techniques of data gener-
ation such as reading texts and participant observation. It is wrong to exclude
survey research and quantitative studies from the reach of interpretive analysis.
Shore (2000: 7–11) is a true bricloeur because his cultural analysis of the
On Ethnography 53
beliefs and practices of European Union elites uses participant observation,

historical archives, textual analysis of official documents, biographies, oral
histories, recorded interviews, and informal conversations as well as statistical
and survey techniques.
The Deep Hanging Out and Hit-and-Run Ethnography
The interpretive approach with its emphasis on recovering meaning does have
implications for how we collect data. It leads to a much greater emphasis on
qualitative methods than is common among naturalist political scientists. In
short, deep hanging out is an obvious tool for grappling with complex
specificity. However, for ease of exposition, I have used the dichotomy of
intensive fieldwork or hit-and-run ethnography. Although a useful narrative
device, it runs the risk of turning an alternative into a mutually exclusive
choice. The relevant skills include both deep immersion and hit-and-run
ethnography. Especially when studying elites, who may refuse to be observed,
we need to be adventurous in our choice of tools. The future is greater
eclecticism. If fieldwork goes, then the discipline does not go with it. So,
when training future generations of ethnographers, we need to remember
there are many ways of being there other than deep hanging out, and hit-
and-run ethnography is another way of being there.
New Tools (for Political Science)
The craft of political science would benefit from having a more varied ethno-
graphic toolkit than participant observation and ethnographic interviewing.
As illustrations, I sketch briefly the possible contribution of focus groups,
visual ethnography, para-ethnography, and storytelling.
Focus Groups
Focus groups are widely used in electoral studies but they are not seen as a tool
for political ethnographers. They involve getting a group of people together to
discuss their beliefs and practices. The groups are interactive and group
members are encouraged by a facilitator to talk to one another. For Morgan
(1997: 2), the ‘hallmark’ of focus groups is ‘the explicit use of group interaction
to produce data and insights’. Focus groups have some singular advantages.
They provide a detailed understanding of the participants’ beliefs and experi-
ences, and embrace a diversity of views. The method produces context-specific
qualitative data on complex issues. For example, Rhodes and Tiernan (2014a)
ran two focus groups comprising the former chiefs of staff (CoSs) of
Australian prime ministers to discuss such questions as ‘how did each CoS
approach the task of working with the prime minister?’ They conclude focus
groups are a useful tool for recovering the beliefs and practices of governing elites
but, second, they are not a stand-alone tool. They are part of a larger toolkit that
encompasses intensive interviewing, official documents, biographies, memoirs
and diaries, informal conversations, as well as observation (see Chapter 5, this
volume). Finally, as Agar and MacDonald (1995: 85) also conclude, focus groups
can take the ethnographic researcher into new territory when the conversation is
located in broader folk theories, such as, in the example given here, the govern-
mental traditions in which the participants work.
Visual Ethnography
There is a long history of filmmaking in anthropology (Brigard 1995). Here,
I am interested in the opportunities opened by such new technology as: the
lightweight digital camcorder. There is no longer any need for elaborate
lighting, the conspicuous camera installations, specialist film teams, reams of
film, and a heap of money (cf. Schaeffer 1995: 272–8). The camcorder has
many specific uses for the political ethnographer besides recording an inter-
view. For example, Thedvall (2007: 172–7) notes the challenge of observing
committee meetings and trying to write everything down. You do not always
understand the discussion, especially if they talk in acronyms. You can miss
the opening comments of a speaker because you are busy writing what had
been said before. You have to divide your time between what is spoken, how it
is spoken, body language, and interactions between committee members. The
camcorder provides a visual transcript of the committee meeting. Field notes
can be compared with the visual record. Participants at the meeting can watch
the recording and explain what they think is happening. Visual ethnography
can resolve many of the problems identified by Thredvall (and for a more
detailed discussion, see Pink 2013). Whether we are studying local, regional, or
central governments, meetings are ubiquitous and the visual ethnography is an
invaluable tool in the analysis of these multifarious committees. In effect, we
add the pictures (of talking heads and body language) to speech acts.
Para-ethnography
Para-ethnography is a specific example of a broader argument for collabora-
tive ethnography (see, for example, Lincoln and Guba 1985: 98–108). Given
that observer and observed both interact and are inseparable, a full under-
standing needs a reciprocal, dialogical relationship. These ideas are directly
relevant to both applied ethnography and to the evaluation of public policies.
A formal or ‘objective’ evaluation of a policy is commonly top-down and
takes the government’s policy aims as given. Fourth-generation or interactive
On Ethnography 55
evaluations involve both the evaluator and the several participants in the
policy in a dialogue in which they learn from one another about the effects
of the policy (and see, for example, Guba and Lincoln 1989). How do the
several stakeholders understand the policymakers’ practices? What do the
effects of the policy mean for the several stakeholders? Is there a shared
understanding that will enable responsibility for the evaluation to be shared?
Para-ethnography involves a critical reading of technical documents to
reconstruct a decision. The reading is by both the ethnographer and the key
informant as intellectual partners. The partners are experts working in tech-
nical, professional institutional settings such as a public bureaucracy. The
product is a thick description of the tacit and symbolic knowledge in the
documents (Aronoff and Kubik 2013: 46–8; Holmes and Marcus 2005). For
example, I describe storytelling by elite public servants in Britain (Rhodes
2011a). I note they use such terms as ‘clever’, ‘sound’, and ‘judgement’ to
compare the merits of stories such as policy briefings. These terms encapsulate
tacit knowledge. They encode complex meanings that are not obvious to the
professional stranger. For example, ‘clever’ does not just mean that a docu-
ment is insightful. It implies that its author is unsound, as in ‘too clever by
half ’. This tacit knowledge could be unpacked by working through various
policy documents with (say) a retired senior public servant who would be
experienced in reading and comparing such stories.
Storytelling
Institutional memory is the source of stories; the department’s folk psych-
ology, providing the everyday theory and shared languages for storytelling.
Storytelling substitutes plausible conjecture for prediction. It does not exclude
evidence-based policy-making. It treats it as another way of telling a story
alongside all the other stories in a department. Storytelling is an everyday
practice. At the heart of the storytelling approach is collecting the several
voices in the department stories; in effect, increasing the voices heard. The
second step is to make the tacit criteria for evaluating and comparing stories
transparent. There are four main approaches to collecting stories: observation,
questionnaires, self-reported written stories, and storytelling circles (and see
Chapter 10, this volume, for a description). The ethnographers’ key skills are
facilitating the dialogue and the forensic interrogation of the stories. Our
contribution is to recover and recount the public administrators’ stories. The
researcher is searching for ‘a fusion of horizons’; that is, for an understanding
arising from ‘negotiation between oneself and one’s partner in the hermen-
eutical dialogue’ in which an agreement ‘means establishing a common
framework or “horizon”’. In short, understanding is ‘a process of the “fusion
of horizons”’ (Malpas 2013). Recovering stories can be a source of lessons
for the would-be reformer (see Chapter 9, this volume). It is a distinctive
approach that employs the twin strategies of ‘drawing out’ or ‘recovering’ their
stories and ‘recounting back’ our version of their stories (and see Chapter 10,
this volume, for a more detailed discussion).
CONCLUSIONS
Ethnographers as bricoleurs employ a ragbag of tools; what works is best.

Whatever the tools, interpretive political ethnographers are united by their
quest to recover meaning. Ethnography exists in many forms and there are
many ways to recover the beliefs and practices of everyday life. Fieldwork
remains at the heart of the ethnographic enterprise and we can generalize
because ‘small facts speak to large issues’. There may be no laws as in the
natural sciences but we can still aspire to ‘plausible conjecture’. Fieldwork may
uncover only partial truths but it will have to do as the best tool we have. We
practise the logic of abduction rather than the logics of induction and deduc-
tion. Our knowledge may be provisional but it can be subjected to forensic
debate guided by explicit, agreed criteria of merit. Objective knowledge may be
out of reach but that does not mean we should not strive for narratives that
meet established standards of evidence and reason, and are accurate, compre-
hensive, and consistent. As professional strangers, we need to ‘be aware’ of
how we are shaping the research both in the field and as we write. For
anthropologists and sociologists, there is little that is new in my discussion
of ‘new’ ways to do political ethnography. As authors, we need to accept that
we need to be self-conscious practitioners of a literary craft that encompasses
many types of textual experimentation. We have not resolved the issues of the
culture wars, but our answers are both more nuanced and reflexive.
So far, I have focused on the epistemological issues that practitioners of
ethnography confront, if not resolve. I have not explored the pros and cons of
such fieldwork. What do we learn from ethnography that we do not learn from
naturalism? What problems do we encounter in our everyday fieldwork? I turn
to these more prosaic but nonetheless important topics in the next two
chapters. I have suggested that political scientists can now ‘be there’ in more
ways than deep hanging out. In Chapter 4, I discuss the pros and cons of
fieldwork as deep hanging work. In Chapter 5, I discuss another way of
conducting ethnographic fieldwork; the focus group.
4
On Being There?
I N T R O D U C TI O N
It does not take much to appear unconventional and odd. Compared with the
established toolkit of political science, ethnography is unconventional and
odd. It is the preserve of cultural anthropology, organization theory, and
sociology, not political science. I know that for colleagues in disciplines
such as anthropology and sociology and for those who work in such interdis-
ciplinary fields as organization studies, police studies, and leadership studies,
observation is a common research method. I recognize there are exceptions in
political science. But I insist that generally, in political science, ‘being there’,
especially observation, remains conspicuous mainly for its absence. This
chapter sets out to show the manifold benefits of the ethnographic toolkit
for research in political science.1
What do we learn from observing public elites up close that we would
not learn using more conventional methods? In this chapter, I answer the
‘so what’ question and enumerate the benefits of observation.2 I reflect on
the lessons I have learnt about observing. Drawing on the fieldwork in
Observing Government Elites (Rhodes et al. 2007b) and Everyday Life in British
Government (Rhodes 2011a), I survey the strengths and weaknesses of the
approach. I describe the fun of observing elites. I recount the surprise findings.
I explore my mistakes and problems. I do not rely on secondary sources to
identify the problems. I prefer to recount my mistakes because I think it gives
my lessons both immediacy and relevance to the study of government elites.
A government department is not a native village, no matter how useful the
analogy. My lessons are specific to political science. I work with and talk to the
1
This chapter is a revised version of R. A. W. Rhodes (2007a) ‘So What? The Prospects and
Pitfalls of Being There’. In R. A. W. Rhodes, Paul ‘t Hart and M. Noordegraaf (eds), Observing
Government Elites: Up Close and Personal. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan,
pp. 206–33. Reprinted with permission of Palgrave Macmillan. and ‘Being There: Observing
Governing Elites’, Transactions of the Manchester Statistical Society 2014–2015: 61–74.
2
On observation, see Adler and Adler 1987; Fenno 1990; Geertz 1973 and 1983; Hammersley
and Atkinson (2007) [1983]; Punch 1986; Sanjek 1990; and Van Maanen 1988.
powerful in countries where I live, not with villagers in a foreign land that
I will leave. For example, I doubt the Balinese participants in Geertz’s (1973:
ch. 15) famous cockfighting tale got to comment on his English language
manuscript prior to publication. So, I give the reader my reflections on the
pitfalls of observing politicians and bureaucrats at work.
SO WHAT? THE BENEFITS OF ETHNOGRAPHY
Following the established practice of latter-day ethnographers, I undertook

‘yo-yo fieldwork’; that is, I repeatedly went back and forth, in and out of the
field (Wulff 2002: 117). I also went to more than one fieldwork site because
I was ‘studying through’; that is following a policy process through the ‘webs
and relations between actors, institutions and discourses across time and
space’ (Shore and Wright 1997: 14; see also Marcus 1995). Most of the
fieldwork discussed in this chapter uses a combination of elite interviews
and participant observation conducted during repeated visits to several loca-
tions. In Van Maanen’s (1978: 346) evocative phrase, as observer I was ‘part
spy, part voyeur, part fan, and part member’. Also, I travelled a lot.
What do we know from ethnographic fieldwork and focusing on everyday
practices that we do not know from existing research or our experiences of
working in any organization? This question reflects the bias of mainstream
political science to ostensibly ‘hard’ evidence, and the answer is obvious. ‘Thick
descriptions’ in particular and case studies in general are well-established tools
in the social sciences, valuable both in their own right and as a corrective to
approaches that read off beliefs from social structure. It is as foolish to dismiss
thick descriptions as survey methods. As Agar (1996: 27) comments, ‘no
understanding of a world is valid without representation of those members’
voices’. Similarly, knowledge of one’s own organization is not the same as
evidence about the beliefs and practices of another organization. No one would
dream of mistaking one’s own organization for the universe of organizations.
We study organizations to identify both the common and the unique.
An ethnographic research strategy, when allied to an interpretive approach
(see Chapter 2, this volume), resolves the theoretical difficulties that beset more
positivist versions of government. An interpretive approach uses ethnographic
methods to decentre institutions, avoiding the unacceptable suggestion that
they fix the behaviour of individuals in them rather than being products of that
behaviour. Rhodes’s (2011a) observations of how ministers and civil servants
play their parts in the daily dramas of departmental life show that their overall
roles are laid out for them by their place in the Westminster system. However, it
is individuals’ understandings of these roles, shaped by their personalities
and experiences, which breathes life into the system, and determines the nature
On Being There? 59
and quality of the collaboration between politicians and bureaucrats. Ethno-

graphic study of public elites leads one to unpack catch-all phrases such as
‘path-dependency’ and ‘context’ with an analysis of stability and change,
which is rooted in the beliefs and practices of individual actors as they
struggle to (re)negotiate established policies and practices in the face of
changing circumstances. And yet it allows political scientists to offer aggre-
gate studies by using the concepts of tradition and rules of the game to explain
how they come to hold those beliefs and perform those practices (see Bevir
and Rhodes 2003).
There are also several specific replies to the question of ‘so what’. The short
answer is that ethnography reaches the parts of politics that other methods
cannot reach. It captures the lived experience of politics; the everyday life of
political elites and street-level bureaucrats (Rhodes 2011a). It identifies what
we fail to learn, and what we fail to understand, from other approaches. The
long answer specifies ten benefits and this chapter focuses on explaining these
benefits. Also, for the first time, this chapter plays with genres of presentation.
I have noted already in Chapter 3 that anthropologists have identified several
ways of (re)presenting their fieldwork. Here, I use scenes (or segments from
larger stories) from my fieldwork to illustrate the benefits of being there.
To suggest that ethnography is a source of data not available elsewhere may
be obvious. Nonetheless, it is a singular benefit. For example, we see ministers
as people who make policies; they make decisions; they govern the country,
and you think of them as decisive, taking action, passing legislation. One of my
‘discoveries’ was that ministers are in the job for reasons other than making
decisions. There are many ministers in British government. The whips have
been heard to comment that the House of Commons is a small talent pool,
which means there are ministers who are not good at the job. Often, the only
reason ministers are any good at all is because they have a good permanent
secretary showing them the ropes and steering them round the system.
I discovered that some ministers were in it just for the pleasure of being a
minister. One minister was addicted to doing public presentations. He liked
appearing in public because, first, he got the official car and could be
chauffeur-driven to wherever he wanted to go. I recall on one occasion he
left his coat in the car, whether deliberately or not, I do not know. Having got
back to his room, he sent his private secretary down to the car to fetch his coat.
Ten minutes later, we went back to the car to go to his next meeting. The only
reason that I can think of for his behaviour is that he was demonstrating to me
that he was a truly important person.
When we got back into the car, we drove off to a grand conference centre.
The preparations for the event by civil servants had been meticulous. The
minister got the red carpet he had stipulated with the reception party of the
officers of the professional association that was hosting the event. Before his
talk, which was televised in the hall, he was taken to a dressing room where he
sat in front of the mirror and powdered his nose, forehead, and face to avoid
looking shiny or oily on camera. And, not a word of a lie, he used a pair of
scissors to make sure his eyebrows were neat and tidy. He gave a boring speech
because all he did was read the manuscript prepared for him by his civil
servants. At first, I thought the minister was both vain and exasperating. But
you have to abstain from quick judgements. I sat back and pondered, ‘What is
going on here?’ It suddenly struck me that here we had a minister for whom
the appearance of rule was what mattered. It was the public appearances and
the performance of the role in public that was the most important thing for
him. It was the most important part of the conference for his audience. They
did not care what he said. They just wanted him to appear. You have to stand
back from the flow of people and events to understand what is happening.
You discover people you would never have thought were important; for
example, the diary secretary (DS). She—it is invariably a woman—is often
referred to by her colleagues as the dragon behind the desk, and she will act as
if she is a dragon to assert her control of the minister’s diary. That control is
ceded to her by the permanent secretary, by the principal private secretary
(PPS), and by the minister because they all realize there has to be one focal
point for the diary, otherwise chaos prevails. As one minister observed, if you
upset the DS, it will be three months before you see the minister again. She has
that much power over what is going on in her arena of responsibility. All she
has to do—she does not have to say or do anything else—is say that she is sorry
but the minister is fully booked today.
I discovered that managing the diary was a game because there are three
versions of the diary. The version that interested me was the white board in the
office where the minister worked, which everybody who walked in could see.
It was a big white board and it had his diary full all day. It was clear what the
board was saying—don’t ask, I haven’t got any space to see anybody. It was not
true. The white board would regularly show meetings as lasting half an hour
longer than they would in practice to make it look as if the day was full. But
those extra half hours gave the minister the flexibility to do whatever he or she
wanted, which would usually be emails or returning phone calls that had been
sifted by the PPS.
The PPS is another key individual. They have many specialized skills. For
example, there are many ways to end a meeting. The PPS will go into hovering
mode, which is an art form among civil servants. First, you just stand in the
doorway. You do not say anything, just stand in the doorway. This is the
unsubtle hint to the minister that the meeting is over. If the minister is in full
flow, as ministers often are, then the next step is to enter the room so
everybody knows you are physically there. You still do not say anything to
the minister; you just stand there, discreetly of course. At this point, the
minister ought to, and will normally, get the message but some ministers are
so interested in what they are saying that they do not. So, the PPS has to be
On Being There? 61
determined. She will walk towards the minister, gently lean over his or her
shoulder and say quietly, ‘Your next appointment is waiting, Minister.’ That is
about as directive as it gets. But hovering is an art form and the good PPS can
hover in the doorway as silently as a butterfly’s wings.
You can only uncover people and their actions by being there and watching
them. Nobody would have thought the DS was an important person, but the
world becomes chaos unless she controls the minister’s appointments. Minis-
ters, on most days but indisputably every week, have a one-to-one meeting
with the DS where they go through the diary. It will cover personal appoint-
ments as well as work. Ministers get toothache, and have in-growing toenails
just like the rest of us. The DS even manages their minister’s homes. If the
minister needed a plumber or an electrician, the DS would make the appoint-
ment. My more feminist inclined colleagues would say what we had here was
not a DS but—their words not mine—an ‘office wife’. When, ill-advisedly,
I put this description to a DS, I was quickly put in my place (and see Chapter 8,
pp. 143–5, this volume). They can be caustic because they deal regularly with
people who assume their own importance is such that the minister will always
see them. The DS has to tell them that the minister will not. They are always
polite but you can be sharp and polite at the same time. Ethnography discovers
people who are important and actions that are significant.
You also discover voices in the Department that are not normally heard.
Another Department had a strategic plan—a wonderful document, beautifully
produced, a year and a half in the making, and it was launched at Chelsea
Football Club. At the launch, the top brass in the Department had a hard time
with the HMUs—heads of management units—because it was the first time
that they, the HMUs, had seen the strategic plan. It is worth reflecting on that
fact. The launch event was the first time that people central to running the
Department had the opportunity see the strategic document. My judgement
was that they were not being hostile to the strategic plan. What they were
saying to senior managers was if you want to go in that direction, you have
chosen the wrong performance indicators. Then, people started to misunder-
stand one another. The top brass thought that HMUs were using such
comments as an excuse to challenge the goals in the strategic plan. I did not
think they were, but by the end of the day everybody was at such cross-
purposes that 40 per cent of the HMUs did not turn up for day two. They saw
it as pointless, believing there was no real discussion to be had and that senior
management were just giving orders. There was no point in being here.
I thought this event was intriguing. I was witnessing voices in the Department
giving useful information on how best to achieve what senior management
wanted, and nobody was listening. Ethnography identifies such voices. For
example, one of the issues confronting consultancy firms is for whom are they
conducting their ethnographic research. Is it a management tool for facilitating
managerially approved reforms? Their research will identify the silent voices in
the organization. What happens when they report to top management the views
of these silent voices? Typically management is irritated because it is information
they do not want. Managers think they know their organization. If they absorb
the new information, they will have to change the way they think about the
organization. In fact, anybody who has worked in a large-scale organization such
as a university will know you are lucky if there is a shared view about the
university. The idea there is a single, unified entity called the university is a
misleading idea. A university, like any other organization, is a contested, con-
tingent, and constructed notion.
A government department is just the same. Some government departments
are amalgamations of previously separate departments. When I went to
DEFRA—the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs—it had
within it the old Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF). Those
who worked there were still convinced it was MAFF. They had heard of
DEFRA because people kept mentioning this acronym, and they were sure it
was important but in reality they were still MAFF! Much of their work was
with Europe, due to the Common Agricultural Policy. The focus of the rest of
the Department was mainly domestic. So, they had a whole area of business
where, once they had captured their minister of state, they could cut out the
rest of the Department. They were good at capturing their ministers of state.
Another benefit of ethnography is that it disaggregates the organization; it
lets us look inside the black box of government and see how people behave.
Bernard, the PPS in Yes Minister is presented as a buffoon.3 Yes Minister
misrepresents both his role and his standing. The last term you would use to
describe a PPS is ‘buffoon’. After the permanent secretary, he is probably the
most important civil servant in the Department. I did not realize how import-
ant until I saw the PPS negotiating with the directors general (DGs). DGs are
third-tier civil servants responsible for particular functional divisions. For
example, in Education, you would have a director general for primary schools,
one for secondary schools, and one for the tertiary sector. I saw the DGs come
in and negotiate with the PPS about which papers would go in the minister’s
red box to be read overnight. The decision was not taken by the minister, it
was not taken by the permanent secretary; it was taken by Bernard. I do not
think Bernard was ever cast in that role, either in Yes Minister or Yes Prime
Minister. He is always cowering at the thought of what Sir Humphrey will do
to him next, and that is wrong. Sir Humphrey, in real life, would often consult
Bernard about what was happening, what was the best course of action, and
when he should talk to the Minister. In my version of their world, the
permanent secretary and PPS roles are often reversed. Now clearly there is a
3
Yes Minister and its sequel Yes Prime Minister were a highly popular series of programmes
shown on British television between 1980 and 1988. See Lynn and Jay 1984.
On Being There? 63
limit. Departments are hierarchies. Bernard is made painfully aware that his
career is in the hands of Sir Humphrey. Such coercion exists. But, most of the
time, the permanent secretary is dependent on the PPS for information that
otherwise would never come to him. If we want to understand how organiza-
tions work, we have to get in there and observe. We have to disaggregate the
organization, to get inside the black box, and look at the ways in which
particular roles and particular jobs are carried out by individuals.
Ethnography is also good at recovering people’s beliefs and practices. Here
I have to make a confession. I taught an undergraduate course on British
Government and Politics for 20 years. Every year I would tell the students that
ministerial accountability to Parliament was a myth. I firmly believed it.
I thought I was being sensible. It was possible that somebody somewhere
thought it worked, but I did not and most of my colleagues agreed. When
I went into my government departments, I discovered that at the top of the
Department there are large staffs supporting the Minister. Depending on
the department, there are from about 15–80 people who are there to support
the Minister in his or her daily life. About 12–15 of those people are in a
parliamentary section devoted to correspondence with MPs and other parlia-
mentary business. Anything that affects the relationship between the Depart-
ment and Parliament goes to that particular unit. When the Department
receives a parliamentary question (PQ), the parliamentary unit will identify
which section of the Department has the relevant information, send the
question to that section, and require a reply by (say) three o’clock. The section
will find the information and send it to the parliamentary unit, which will draft
a reply on behalf of the Minister. That reply will be in the red box for his
approval. Almost literally everything stops to answer a PQ.
In other words, the top of the Department behaves as if they are accountable to
Parliament and devotes much time and resources in responding to Parliament.
I, or any other outsider, might think this a waste of time but our views do not
matter. Here we have an instance of the Thomas theorem—‘if people define
situations as real, they are real in their consequences’. The top civil servants
believe that ministerial accountability exists, so the internal organization, proced-
ures, and workload of the Department serve that particular belief. For over 20
years, I gave my students incorrect information about the beliefs and practices
around the relationship between government departments and Parliament.
Ethnography gets below and behind the surface of official accounts by
providing texture, depth, and nuance, so our stories have richness as well as
context. Also, it lets interviewees explain the meaning of their actions, pro-
viding an authenticity that can only come from the main characters involved
in the story. Face-to-face, in-depth elite interviews, and non-participant
observation are central to producing thick descriptions.
My fieldwork provides many examples. In the civil service, there are
language games. One of the big language games, when I was observing, was
managerialism: can you talk in management speak? Top civil servants are
good at talking ‘managerialese’, so good that I always considered them multi-
lingual. But they are multilingual always in English! They can talk the classic
Westminster Parliament language about accountability. They can talk man-
agerialism. When the veterinary scientist comes in with a report on badger
culls in Devon, they can talk veterinary science. They have this facility for
switching between all of these different areas of expertise and sounding as if
they understand what is going on; and much of the time they do. One of the
great skills of the top civil servant is the ability to switch languages and grasp
the essentials of an argument. They may not grasp the technical detail sup-
porting the conclusion but they grasp the conclusion. Crucially, they under-
stand what the implications are going to be for the Minister and the rest of the
Department. It is an essential skill.
Civil servants also have their own phrases and stories for their work. They
refer to the courtier syndrome for excessive toadying to a minister. They talk
of the spotlight syndrome. So, today, when a minister is interested in subject X,
the civil servants in his Department are interested in subject X. Tomorrow,
when the minister becomes interested in subject Y, the same civil servants will
forget about X and be interested only in Y. By ‘being there’ you see these
several behaviours and practices associated with being a top civil servant.
I like interviews, at least my kind of ethnographic interviews, because they
let the interviewee explain their world. It was E. M. Forster (1970: 71) who
cites the aphorism: ‘How can I tell you what I think till I see what I say?’ This
aphorism applies to many of my interviews because the civil servants and
ministers use them to reflect on how they see the world and on the decisions
they have made. Was that decision a sensible one for them to make? They
think it might be but they are not sure. They do not talk with me, they talk at
me, but mainly they talk to themselves. They are explaining the decision,
explaining the way the world is, and reassuring themselves that it was a
sensible course of action; that the world is like that.
It is a common feature of interviews that people do not answer your
questions. Rather they explain to themselves what their world is like to see if
it makes sense when put into words. I am sure that every reader will have done
this at some stage in their life. You are not sure you have it right, you are not
sure you understand, and when you tell somebody else about it, it clarifies your
own thoughts. I do it all the time with my public lectures. For example, after
I have written a paper, if I am not sure how good, bad, or indifferent it is, I try
the ideas out as a seminar paper. I stand up in front of an audience and,
listening to myself, I think, ‘that isn’t right’. I keep talking. I get to the end of
the paper. But I know from saying it out loud that I no longer think my
argument is valid. It will not be in the next version. We all do it. Interviews let
you in to another person’s thinking about the way they construct their world
and how they understand that world.
On Being There? 65
Ethnography allows you not only to decide what questions you want to ask
but, because you are not hypothesis testing, it also allows you to reframe and
reframe the questions that you ask. If you do not know how an organization
works, then you have to try to puzzle it out. Puzzles are iterative: you have one
stab at the puzzle and you get part of the answer. Then you have another stab
at the puzzle and you get another part of the answer. That is the heart of
ethnographic research—framing and reframing the research question. I did it
almost weekly. I left the Department thinking I understood what happened
that week. I read and transcribed my notes over the weekend and invariably
found something that was unclear; that I did not understand. I may decide
I am going down a dead end street; this avenue is not a useful way of looking at
it. I try to look at it another way; that is, I reframe my questions.
Reframing is not only helpful but it is also essential and invaluable. It is how
I came up with the notion of the Departmental Court. Earlier, I said that at the
top of the Department there are many people supporting the Minister. I just
looked on this support as ‘a resource capacity’ for the Minister. Suddenly it
dawned on me that all these people dance attendance on the Minister to
different degrees; that it was like a king or a queen and their court. These
people are there only because of the Minister and, once I had the notion of the
court, their court-like behaviour became obvious. There is a famous expres-
sion in rock music, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis Presley has left the building.’
Immediately, the tension would dissipate, the atmosphere would change,
people would start talking to one another about getting home and so on.
Ministers are like that. When Michael Heseltine strolled into the Department,
there was a different atmosphere; everybody knew that he had entered the
building, just as everybody knew when he had left the building.4 When he was
there, people seemed to work quicker. I am not sure they did, but they looked
as if they were working quicker: urgency came into everyday life.
The idea of the departmental court came from reflecting on people’s
actions. I realized what we had here was not just a permanent secretary, not
just a PPS. Rather they, with everyone else at the top of the Department, were
courtiers to the Minister. The analogy works, underpinning beliefs, practices,
rituals, and symbols. For example, top civil servants clearly are, and under-
stand themselves to be, servants of the Queen. In constitutional law that is
what they are but they understand that in its everyday sense. They know they
are important people and most dress accordingly. One example will do: a
permanent secretary—a member of ‘the Court’—accepted an invitation to talk
to a school. The principal of the school asked him to dress down for the event
because otherwise it would be intimidating for the students. He hummed and
hawed about that; whether he should comply with the request. He felt he was
4
Michael Heseltine was a colourful Minister and Deputy Prime Minister in Conservative
governments during the years 1979–86 and 1990–97.
not going as an individual but as the permanent secretary for the (then)
Department of Education and Science. In the end, he compromised and
instead of wearing his normal black suit he wore a blue one!
Doing ethnography leads to moments of epiphany that open new research
agendas. It is fruitful, progressive, and open. Although I focused on elites,
ethnography opens a wide range of new areas and styles of research about the
beliefs, preferences, and practices of any political actor—from prime minister
to individual citizens—as they preserve and modify traditions and practices—
from Toryism and Parliament to, say, New Age travellers and forms of protest.
The catchphrase of Harold Geneen, former Head of ITT, was ‘no surprises’.
He should never do observational research because everyone has moments of
epiphany.
The thing that surprised me beyond everything else was storytelling. If you
say storytelling, you immediately think of children, of bedtime, of an activity
that is amusing but not serious. In fact, storytelling is deadly serious and it is
something that the civil service practices all the time. The expression, ‘what’s
the narrative?’ is the current jargon for telling stories. They have been telling
one another stories forever and they continue to tell stories. Frequently, the
stories are cast around the theme of what did we do last time. A problem crops
up, how are you going to deal with it? The first resort is the files; what did we
do last time? You look to the institutional memory to see if you can recover
information and you tell one another stories based on that memory.
The section of the Department concerned with primary education will have
a different bit of institutional memory to that concerned with the tertiary
education sector. So, they tell one another different stories. At meetings, they
tell stories to see if they will run: is this plausible; is it believable; what will
happen if we tell it to the outside; and will the Minister accept it? I have sat
there listening to conversations where they are as explicit as I am now about
the fact that they are telling stories to one another. It was one of the big
surprises for me. I had never thought that one of my conclusions would be that
what we are governed by is a storytelling elite. I do not think this notion is in
many books about British government and politics. But it is one of the elites’
major activities and one at which they are skilled. Several bemoan the impact
of computers on storytelling. One of the virtues of everything being done by
hand was you could red-pen. Your fast-stream civil servant would start writing
his stories to pass up the hierarchy and his principal would go through them
and red pen them: no, you don’t do that, no you shouldn’t have said this; it
needs to be this way round, and so on. The PPS I was talking to said, although
they could do it in Microsoft Word with tracking and comment boxes, they
did not. So, one of the consequences of the arrival of computers has been the
death of the red pen in British government, and it is a loss. It is not just
that PPS who thinks so. If you read through the lengthy, yet entertaining,
diaries of David Blunkett, you will see that he gets heated about the lack of
On Being There? 67
writing skills of civil servants.5 He wants a return to the red-pen culture. If the
big surprise was storytelling, the lesser surprise was that even ministers can be
traditionalists.
Finally, the ethnographic approach helps us to see and analyse the symbolic
dimensions of political action. Most political behaviour has a strong symbolic
dimension. Indeed, symbols are the bedrock of everyday political life with even
our most basic political concepts such as the ‘state’, ‘nation’, ‘government’, and
‘the people’ constructed through symbols. Symbols do not simply ‘represent’
or reflect political ‘reality’, they actively constitute that reality. By drawing out
the negotiated, symbolic, and ritual elements of political life, ethnographic
analysis draws attention to deeper principles of organization that are not
visible to empiricist or positivist approaches.
Politicians are performers. A good example concerns one female minister
for whom I had a high regard. I sent her a draft chapter for comment. In it,
I wrote about her skills as a performer. I suggested that, metaphorically, she
carried a briefcase containing the masks you associate with the theatre—the
comedy mask, the tragedy mask. As circumstances dictated, she would switch
between different masks. She was furious because she interpreted my remarks
to mean she was inauthentic in her behaviour; that she was, in some sense,
faking it. I intended no such implications. Until she reacted so strongly, it had
never occurred to me that it could be interpreted in that way. But mask or no
mask, she was able to alter her demeanour as needed.
I accompanied her to a meeting about Grand Prix racing that she was
attending as the representative of Tony Blair. In the car going to the meeting,
she had admitted to a distinct lack of interest in the subject matter but, once in
the meeting, she played her role to perfection. The mask was on; she was the
Prime Minister’s representative. Two hours later she was in the Department
where it was ‘bring your daughter to work day’. Daughters were brought in to
see powerful women in work settings to give them apt role models. One girl
launched into a criticism of testing in schools, asking why they had to do so
many examinations. Testing was not the responsibility of this minister as she
was not Minister of Education. Nonetheless, she engaged with the young
woman, took her seriously and was approachable, friendly, and understand-
ing. An hour later, she was dealing with a sycophantic business pressure
group, and she was regal.
It occurred to me that a minister who cannot perform in this way is
handicapped. You have to be able to play these different parts with a different
audience; it is an essential skill. However, it is also a reason we do not trust our
politicians. When it is explained to people, as I am explaining it now, they
accept the need for it but, when they see it at a distance, they think it is
5
David Blunkett was a Minister in Labour governments in the years 1997–2004 and again
briefly in 2005. He was raised to the peerage in 2015. See Blunkett 2006.
inauthentic. They may think the minister is lying because he or she behaves in
one way to one audience and in a different way to another audience. People do
not like what they see as a contradiction. We should never underestimate the
importance of the symbolic, performing side of politics.
PROBLEMS IN THE F IELD
The ethnographic approach forces researchers to come to terms with the

challenges of their research roles and the limitations of their data. The usual
methodological caveats found in standard positivistic accounts pale into
insignificance. The frailty of the elite research enterprise cannot be hidden
when researchers are forced to negotiate, and often repeatedly renegotiate,
access to the corridors of power. Cleaning a data set is nothing compared to
doors literally being shut as elites decide to draw a veil over what they allow the
observer to see. Or there is that sinking feeling when elites turn on you after
you submit a draft of your findings. They are embarrassed by how close you
have come to capturing on paper what they do and why they do it, including
the mundane nature and hypocrisy of life at the top. Here I expand on the
frailty of the exercise by discussing eight themes: speaking truth to power;
secrecy and spies; we are not journalists; maintaining standards; don’t talk just
listen; working together; what do we know; and I want to tell you a story.
Speaking Truth to Power
Aaron Wildavsky’s (1980: 402) epigrammatic story about speaking truth to

power summarizes my point:
The King said: ‘Venerable Nagasena, will you converse with me?’
Nagasena: ‘If your Majesty will speak with me as wise men converse I will; but if
your Majesty speaks with me as kings converse, I will not.’
‘How then converse the wise, venerable Nagasena?’
‘The wise do not get angry when they are driven into a corner, kings do.’
It might be useful for me to use the metaphor of ‘village’ to describe Whitehall
as a village but the parallels with anthropology stop there. Ministers and
permanent secretaries are powerful men and women. They can wreck your
research in an instance by refusing interviews, denying access to the organ-
ization, declaring documents secret, and insisting on anonymity for both
themselves and their organization. All the interviews and periods of observa-
tion took place with informed consent but as the work unfolded we had to
negotiate constantly to keep that cooperation. Consider the following letter:
On Being There? 69
I am afraid I was completely dismayed to read your draft. You assured me—and
my permanent secretary—that this was a serious piece of research and that the
participants would not be identified or identifiable. In fact, both I and the
Department are clearly recognisable and as a result, I believe that many of your
quotations and observations will inevitably be used in a way that neither of us
intended, or believed you intended, when we agreed to participate. The result,
I am afraid, is extremely unfair to our departmental colleagues. I am therefore not
prepared to give my permission either for my name to be used or for the quotes to
be attributed.
This quote tells us something about the cast of mind elites adopt when reading
comments on their beliefs and practices by outsiders. A degree of self-serving,
self-important defensiveness creeps in. Politicians know they are public fig-
ures, comparable to celebrities. They act to defend that public image irrespect-
ive of whether the comments are accurate. To be fair, their personal support
staff can be even worse, defending their boss come hell or high water. On one
occasion, the boss used the word ‘troops’ to describe the staff. The interview
was recorded. The boss used the word several times. The staffer objected to the
word claiming the boss never used it and that it was demeaning. It had to be
removed. This experience is not specific to studying government elites; for
example, ‘horror stories’ from the field abound in sociology (see Bell and
Newby 1977; Burns 1977; Punch 1986).
Speaking truth to power is never easy. Ethnographic studies of elites hold up
a particularly acute mirror to them. It shows them not just their on-stage but
also their ‘off-stage’ or ‘back-stage’ behaviour. It echoes their ways of ‘making
sense’. It would be naïve to think that they are invariably delighted to look into
such a mirror. And they have the power to complicate the research effort. The
important point is that such trepidation and tensions are there to be managed,
not avoided.
For example, knowing the sensitiveness of elites, the UK interviewing and
observing took place in departments that were roughly similar. If there were
problems with attributing quotes and describing the behaviour of named
officials and politicians, then the research could be used to write a composite
portrait of ‘the department’ and ‘its minister’. The composite would not be
believable if it involved, for example, a domestic service minister, the Treasury
and the Foreign Office. So, it is based on three middle-ranking, domestic
service ministries. In effect, the composite was imposed by the elites and is a
clear example of the control they can exercise over research involving them.
Their insistence on anonymity is as unsatisfactory as it is unwelcome but the
‘citation but not for attribution’ rule none the less meant the research could be
published.
Every researcher has to manage elite reluctance and ‘second thoughts’ about
publication and strike their own compromises. In my case, not only was
anonymity a condition of access but also the ministers and public servants
insisted on commenting on the individual case studies as well as the complete
manuscript. They could not veto but they could delay. Such controls can
impose lengthy delays at a high cost to younger researchers. Their career
advancement depends substantially if not quite exclusively on their publica-
tions record. Few ignore the ‘publish or perish’ maxim. As an established
scholar, I could afford to wait until the end of the second Blair parliament
before seeking to publish, so I agreed to this condition. But even then
I incurred ministerial displeasure (and for an even more dispiriting story see
Punch 1986). Any young scholar would be well advised to have a second,
concurrent project that was not subject to elite scrutiny.
Secrecy and Spies
Whether spy-like behaviour to get to the bottom of things is defensible admits

of no easy answer. On the one hand, we deal with the powerful, not the
dependent. We confront a stacked deck. In the era of spin, ‘truth’ is negotiable
and negotiated. Covert behaviour is one way of redressing the imbalance of
power. On the other hand, if we are deemed to have ‘cheated’, then we could
make life more difficult for future researchers.
The other side of this coin is official secrecy. It is commonly argued that
ethnographic research on the powerful encounters the endemic secrecy of
government. It permeates everything; for example, permanent secretaries
in Britain are not supposed to talk publicly about their membership of
the honours committees in case they get lobbied. To breach the veil, covert
behaviour may be the only means ‘open’ to us.
Yet for much of my research, most of the time, there was no issue. When
studying the powerful, we are spies only to the extent that they are secretive.
When problems arise, they win. Acquiring information by covert means is our
equivalent of guerrilla warfare (and on social scientists, subversion, and the
powerful, see Hammersley 2000; Punch 1986). It signals the end of trust and
consensual access and heralds the arrival of exit strategies and the stance and
tactics of investigative journalism.
We Are Not Journalists—Building and Keeping Trust
A leading UK journalist in his book on Tony Blair’s first government ‘chose to

conduct all interviews on a background basis’ because on the record interviews
would suffer from a lack of candour (Rawnsley 2001: xvii–xviii). He quotes a
senior UK Minister, Robin Cook, on the art of the interview: ‘to talk for an
hour without saying anything too interesting’. Jeremy Paxman (2002: 207)
was a prominent UK television journalist and interviewer. He encountered
On Being There? 71
a similar lack of candour when seeking to shadow Alan Milburn, the Secretary
of State for Health. Despite innumerable letters and phone calls, Paxman not
only failed to get a day on which he could shadow the minister, he could not
even get a decision. After six months, he was granted a day, six weeks after the
deadline for his book. That is not my experience. Paxman and Rawnsley are
reporting the lot of the journalist, not the academic. There are significant
differences between us. As observed above, ethnographic researchers are to
some degree ‘spying’ on elites, but the aims are different from those of investi-
gative journalists. The starting point was cooperation, not spying. I assumed
good intentions, not secrecy. I assumed good faith, not deception and duplicity.
So, I allowed respondents to comment on my work. Interviewees had transcripts
of their interviews to check any quotes. Interviewees read a draft of the manu-
script, commented on our interpretation and approved all attributed quotes.
I published long after the events described, striving for accuracy and not the
banner headline. I focused on ‘everyday life’ and the commonplace, not the
feeding frenzy of a crisis beloved of journalists. Everyday detail adds flesh to
their story. For us the detail is the story.
These differences mean we can be trusted, but trust is not a constant. It has
to be constantly renegotiated. The lack of trust can also be threatening for the
researcher. One organization got through three heads in less than two years.
Access had to be renegotiated on each occasion. Of course, there was never
any explicit threat to terminate the existing agreement. It was a simple
invitation to brief the newcomer and discuss where we go from here. The
problem is that there was always somewhere new the head wanted to go. Also,
the emphasis here is on access. Trust is also essential when we try to leave the
organization and write up our results. Exit is also negotiated.
Maintaining Standards—Reliability and Validity
Thorough and systematic reporting of such details as the number and length
of interviews and the total hours of observation is essential. I checked the
veracity and reliability of my data in three ways (Rhodes 2011a). First,
I interviewed many officials and politicians, allowing me to cross-check their
varying accounts. Second, I had access to the written records of both individ-
uals and organizations. Finally, I observed elites at work, and observation is an
essential complement to interviews. Thus, interviews recorded at a different
time from observation are a way of corroborating the claims of a speaker.
When comparing public pronouncements with interviews, it is important to
allow for the context—for the record imposes a language and limits.
The problem with this approach to reliability and validity is that it assimilates
our approach to mainstream political science. This book showcases the utility of
ethnography for pursuing an interpretive political science. Ethnographic tools
are not just a softer, even inferior, version of quantitative techniques. They are
different in both aims and evaluation. So, I adopt a comparative, anthropo-
logical approach to assessing research findings and practice objectivity as
intersubjective agreement arising from interrogating rival narratives (see
What are the criteria for comparing narratives? First, there are some obvious
quality control measures that can be followed by the researcher. For example,
check that your themes are coherent, consistent, and distinctive and that the
quotes from the transcripts illustrate the themes (and for a more detailed
discussion see Braun and Clarke 2006). There are also some sensible rules of
thumb to follow when writing up the data; for example, giving the number and
length of interviews, and the total hours of observation (Yanow 2006). In short,
check everything and be explicit about what you are doing, how, and why.
Once the book is written, its quality is judged by the political science
community. Its debates define and redefine the criteria by which we judge
rival stories and the knowledge claims of individual members of that commu-
nity. This process is not self-referential because the knowledge claims can be
‘reconfirmed’ by encounters with practitioners and users. So, we translate
abstract concepts into conversations in fieldwork. These encounters and
their conversations produce data which we interpret to produce accounts
that are then judged by evolving knowledge criteria of the political science
community. Reconfirmation occurs at three points.
1. When we translate our concepts for fieldwork: that is, are they mean-
ingful to practitioners and users and if not, why not?
2. When we reconstruct narratives from the conversations: that is, is the
story logical and consistent with the data?
3. When we redefine and translate our concepts because of the academic
community’s judgement on the narratives: that is, does the story meet
the agreed knowledge criteria?
Concepts are redefined by academic judgements and again translated for new
encounters, conversations, and stories (see Giddens 1993: 170). Through such
comparisons, we arrive at objectivity as intersubjective agreement. So, I sent the
draft manuscript to all the ministers and permament secretaries in the book. The
ensuing exchanges were reported in the book (Rhodes 2011a: 302–5).
Don’t Talk, Listen
Interviews are said to be an unreliable source of data because interviewees

‘unselfconsciously project an official self-image’ (Lee 1995: 149–50) and poli-
ticians are seen as self-serving to the point of misleading:
On Being There? 73
The author frequently had reason to wonder whether some former ministers had
served in the same administration so at variance were their accounts of the way
coordination took place at the heart of Whitehall (Seldon 1995: 126).
The elite are bright, personable, and fluent. I know one permanent secretary
who would give you an ostensibly entertaining and informative interview. On
one occasion I came out of her office thinking how she was forthcoming and
outgoing; it had been a good interview. I was confident there would be gems
on the tape. But when I read the transcript, it said almost nothing, though she
said her ‘nothings’ in an entertaining fashion. Add to such skills the problems
that arise from faulty memory and the wish to rewrite history and the
interview can be seen as, and indeed can be, a flawed tool. We have to decode
the official self-image and politicians’ management of their public image.
We do so in two ways. First, we locate the official ethos and language in its
historical context by comparing text, whether they are official publications,
files, or interviews transcripts. Second, all of us during our everyday lives
develop skills in interpreting what others mean when they speak to us. Thus,
we judge whether someone is lying by many verbal and body cues. We do not
leave such skills at the door of the interview room. Every interview involves
such judgements.
It is a commonplace that, to get openness in interviews, interviewers have
to establish rapport and trust with their interviewee.6 There are different ways
to establish rapport. Perhaps the most common one is for the interviewer to
demonstrate their credentials; that is, establish their credibility as a knowledge-
able observer. The first minimum requirement is a reputation for dispassionate,
reputable, and independent assessment. The second is an understanding of the
‘realities’ of the interviewee’s world; the shared knowledge that the interviewer
and interviewee have equivalent experience. Two other attributes are desirable:
local knowledge and empathy (or some sense of ‘you will know what I mean, “I
don’t need to tell you”’). Affable banter about where you were born, the football
team you support, is an important means of narrowing social difference and
distance and putting the interviewee at ease. The trick here is to persuade the
interviewee you are knowledgeable, not an idiot academic who ‘knows nowt’
about ‘real life’ in government, while convincing them they have much to tell
you. There is a fine and subtle line between perceived understanding and
perceived ignorance.
An alternative strategy is to play the ignorance card: ‘I am a novice, teach
me’, and being the novice is not without its advantages. The interviewer
6
On elite interviewing see Dexter (2006) [1970] ; Lilleker 2003; McPherson and Raab 1988;
Richards 1996; Weiss 1994, and the symposium in PS: Political Science and Politics 35 (4) 2002:
663–88. The origins of several of my comments can be found in Rhodes 2002. They were
developed in correspondence with Brian Hardy (Nuffield Institute for Health, University of
Leeds). I would like to thank Brian for his help.
presents him or herself as generally competent, not yet knowledgeable about

the world of the interviewee. The interviewer can appear both harmless and
eager to learn. Rapport is achieved not by seeking to establish a quasi-peer
relationship, as in the first strategy, but to set up an implicit mentoring
relationship. The aim is to induce the interviewee to drop any defensive
behaviour and act responsibly by educating the interviewer. Once this pattern
is established, the interviewer, our youthful but well-prepared researcher, can
out him or herself by asking questions that reveal mastery of the subject,
pushing the pleasantly surprised interviewee to go beyond the surface story.
All interviews are a performance during which the interviewer interprets
and records simultaneously. And they do not end when you leave the room.
There is always some conversation after the formal interview and the tape has
been switched off. Such off-the-tape asides provide the context for an inter-
view and should be noted as soon as possible. Usually, I located a café or coffee
bar near the interviewee’s place of work and went straight there for a cup of
tea and note-making. Above all, the interviewer is active not passive. Not for
us the forensic humiliation of the duplicitous politician by the television
interviewer. Rather, we seek to relax and encourage, although even the most
experienced interviewer cannot establish rapport on every occasion.
I do not want to strike an overly pessimistic note about interviews. The
‘ethnographic interview’, or the interview that never ends, can surmount some
of these problems. I managed to persuade firstly civil servants, then latterly the
ministers, to let me talk to them for two, four, six, or eight hours, and get it all
on tape. My favourite interview lasted the conventional one hour at first. The
permanent secretary was nice but the interview was an inconsequential chat.
He said that he had ‘quite enjoyed’ the interview, suggested I came back, and
gave me a date. Now when a permanent secretary says that, you do not argue,
you cancel everything else and you get there five minutes before you are due.
When we did meet again, he began by taking his jacket off and lying down on
the settee. After about twenty minutes of talking to me, he got up, went to the
cabinet and poured himself a glass of whisky. He came back, sat down and
started sipping his whisky. He took his shoes off, then his tie. Unworthy
thoughts flitted across my mind! In the end, he did four hours with me.
I defy anyone to dissimulate and evade without inconsistencies in an interview
of that length.
Working Together
It is all too easy to affect the relationship between yourself and the observed,
causing them to behave differently. The aim of ‘non-participant’ observer is to
remain the outsider. However, for lengthy on-site visits and extensive repeat
interviews, you have to have a conversation and relate to the people around
On Being There? 75
you. You have to establish rapport. You are sucked into events, even if it is only
casual badinage to ease tension. My various stays in three departments
provided several examples of unintended and unpredictable effects. I asked
one PPS why he sat facing the window with his back to the rest of the office.
He had an excellent view of a church. When I returned to the office a few
weeks later, the desk had been turned around. Now he faced the staff. Over the
next few days, it became clear the office staff resented being in full view all the
time. There were dark mutterings and the atmosphere changed for the worse.
What had I done? A simple question had started a chain of events I could not
have anticipated.
Inevitably, the observer empathizes with the observed. From the start,
I tried to blend in with the wallpaper. I dressed in a dark suit and carried a
notepad like any private secretary accompanying a minister or a civil servant.
But I was always an object of some interest as I travelled between meetings and
the private office. The more familiar I became, the more they sought to engage
with me. I found I began to talk about ‘my’ permanent secretaries. It is a tricky
balancing act to remain both distant and to keep their confidence; to keep
critical detachment and empathize.
There is also the danger of going native. During one ‘rude surprise’, a
permanent secretary treated me as a confidant. He was not interested in my
opinions. He was thinking aloud and he wanted someone to listen. I was ‘safe’.
Any ‘leak’ and my project would be dead in the water. I found I developed an
immense sympathy for him over his various predicaments. I considered
dropping him from the project because I became too involved. In Australia,
three years later, the problem solved itself; distance led to detachment.
Finally, getting up close may be daunting. The junior scholar may fear his
inexperience will embarrass him when face to face with the high and mighty.
The senior scholar may resent the status loss that comes from putting oneself
into the role of some add-on observer rather than that of ‘well-regarded expert
in the know’. Both may have reason to fear that the vast investment of time and
energy spent on observation may come to naught when their powerful objects of
research don’t like what they see in their draft reports and decide to make their
life difficult (see, for example, Burns 1977: ix–xviii; Punch 1986: ch. 3 and p. 77).
Such fears may compromise the relationship-building effort; they may even
paralyse the entire research effort. I suspect most colleagues who do fieldwork
find it stressful. It is the inevitable consequence of leaving the relative safety of
distant and impersonal ways of studying politics. Such emotions are the schol-
arly equivalent to what you feel in the dentist’s waiting room. So, it pays to
remember that once in the actual dentist’s chair, the fear tends to evaporate
(at least for most of us). We have taken the plunge, and we benefit from it
(provided we are in the hands of a competent dentist). So it is with ethnographic
research, daunting but rewarding when pursued with vigour. And, in sharp
contrast to the dentist’s chair, a lot of the time it is great fun.
What Do We Know—Generalization
It is claimed that ethnography’s idiographic thick descriptions preclude gen-

eralizations. Thus, in mainstream political science, case studies were often
criticized as of little or almost no scientific value because one cannot use them
either to test hypotheses or to generalize (see, for example, Blondel 1981: 67;
Dogan and Pelassy 1990: 121). Such claims are now widely seen as outmoded
and inaccurate (see, for example, Eckstein 1975; Flyvbjerg 2006; George and
Bennett 2005; Rhodes 1993; and Yin 2014). Over 30 years ago, Eckstein (1975:
116) demonstrated that case studies can be used to test theories, and he was
working with the natural science model of the social sciences. Flyvbjerg (2006:
224) is of the interpretive persuasion and argues:
Predictive theories and universals cannot be found in the study of human affairs.
Concrete, context-dependent knowledge is, therefore, more valuable than the
vain search for predictive theories and universals.
The common error is to equate generalization with the formal generalization
associated with natural science model of research. Yin (2014) contrasts this
kind of ‘empirical generalization’ requiring some form of statistical sampling
with ‘theoretical generalization’, where the selection of a case study and the
interpretation of its findings are guided by prior theoretical decisions (see also
George and Bennett 2005).
Geertz (1973, 1983c) describes ethnography as a soft science that guesses at
meanings; assesses the guesses; and draws explanatory conclusions from the
better guesses. Thus, it is possible to make general statements. Theory provides
a vocabulary with which to express what symbolic action has to say about
itself. Political scientists can offer accounts that explain practices and actions
by pointing to the conditional connections between beliefs, practices, inter-
actions, traditions, and dilemmas. And these ‘informed conjectures’ (Bevir
1999: 239) or ‘plausible conjectures’ (Boudon 1993) take the form of stories,
understood as provisional and unfolding narratives about possible futures.
I Want To Tell You a Story
Writing occurs in stages. The first steps are interview transcription and field
notes. Nobody is ever prepared for the length of time it takes to prepare a
decent transcript. Even if the research grant includes money for a professional
transcription service, that transcript has to be checked against the tape.
A conservative estimate would be three hours to check one hour of tape.
And beware background noise. The splendid grandfather clock in the corner,
with its tick-ticking pendulum and chiming bells on the hour, will drown out
the conversation and drive you mad after about 15 minutes. Even with a tape
On Being There? 77
recorder, it is wise to take notes. Such notes can map the contours of the
interview, record body language, and, on the rare occasion when the technol-
ogy fails, act as a fall-back record of the event.
Field notes have their own challenges (and a good discussion can be found
in Emerson et al. (2011) [1995] and especially Sanjek 1990). There is the
challenge of observing and trying to write everything down. You do not always
understand what is said, especially if they talk in acronyms. If there are several
people present, you can miss the comments of the person speaking because
you are still busy writing what the previous speaker said. You have to divide
your time between what is spoken, how it is spoken, body language and the
interaction between the people present.
Just as interviews recede from memory quickly, so do one’s recollections from
the field. It is important to check, and where necessary clarify the next day, notes
taken at the time. With interviews and field notes duly written up, the next step
is immersion. Some colleagues like the software program NVivo, and its clever
filing system, but it too requires you to read and reread your several texts to
identify the organizing categories. There is no alternative to immersion in your
interview and fieldwork notes. Equally you need distance. The brain can find
patterns when you are not knowingly thinking about the data: the long walk, the
shower, the moment of clarity during half-sleep can all stir ‘the little grey cells’.
Everyone needs distance but the ways to it are many and varied.
I can now turn to that most intractable of problems; ‘how is such unruly
experience transformed into an authoritative written account?’ (Van Maanen
1988: 2; see also Clifford 1988; Clifford and Marcus 1984; Geertz 1988, ch. 6;
Hammersley and Atkinson (2007) [1983]: chapter 9). Van Maanen’s (1988: 35)
‘war whoop’ of an answer is to declare ‘there is no way of seeing, hearing, or
representing the world of others that is absolutely, universally valid or correct’.
He uses the term ‘tale’, ‘quite self-consciously to highlight the presentational or,
more properly, representational qualities of fieldwork writing’ (Van Maanen
1988: 8 and 14) and he identifies several ways of telling: realist tales, confes-
sional tales, and impressionist tales (see Chapter 3, this volume, pp. 48–9).
Examples of the confessional and impressionist styles can be found in Rhodes
2011a, and in this book. I am present in my account, reflecting on my regional
accent, or whether I am going native. The world I present is complex,
episodic, ambivalent, and contingent.
I must confess I was nervous when writing up my fieldwork. I had to decide
how to tell my tale. For example, to what extent should I be present in the
story? Previously, I sought refuge in the language of the social science and
avoided talking in the first person. I wrote for professional journals in the
language of the academy (Richardson 1997). Now I had to deny myself such
safe ground. There was no escape; I had to write an account with narrative
drive in both everyday English and the language of those being watched. I had
to incorporate the narrator as an observer both of me and of the inhabitants.
It was hard to strike the balance in deciding how much personal reflection to
include if any. I had to tread warily between the ‘diary disease’ (Geertz 1988: 90)
and ‘the doctrine of immaculate perception’ (Van Maanen 1988: 74). Too little
reflection and there is no point. Too much reflection and there is the danger of
provoking the response, ‘I don’t care what you think.’ The best guide was
colleagues who told me when the personal reflections began to jar and get in the
way of the main account. So, the simplest rule is indulge yourself, defend what
you did and why but, ultimately, let your colleagues delete you. Including
myself in the story made it clear that it was my account of the elite’s story
and not the ‘only’ (or the ‘real’) story being told. In effect, the technique
encourages the reader to compare stories much more actively than is the
norm with the traditional impersonal, scholarly accounts. The reader is
continuously made aware of the difficulties in combining involvement and
detachment that is highlighted in ethnography, although it is present in every
scholarly attempt to make sense of politics in all its many shapes and forms.
LESSONS ON BEING THERE
This chapter has argued that ‘thick descriptions’ have the benefits of adding
texture, depth, nuance, authenticity, and surprise to our accounts of govern-
ment elites. They ought to be embraced as a welcome addition to the political
scientists’ toolkit. To a large degree, they are inextricably connected to an
interpretive approach to political science. This approach is at one and the
same time marginal and actively criticized by the mainstream but it is gaining
currency and respectability. The interpretive approach to understanding pol-
itics does not reject institutions or their perceived imperatives. Rather, it sees
them as embedded beliefs and practices. People not only inherit beliefs but
actively shape and change them during negotiated encounters and policy
practices. Routinized, taken-for-granted ‘structures’ go hand in hand with
spaces for action, making a difference, and changing the course of events.
Studying actors up close, whether elites or ordinary citizens (Brett and Moran
2006), using observation as a key method for recovering these beliefs, inter-
actions, and practices is essential to an interpretive political science.
Now I seek to draw lessons for those tempted to follow in my footsteps.
I identify four key lessons.
First, the aim is to see the world through the eyes of the manager, top civil
servant and politician; to write our construction of their construction of
the world. It is built up through the accounts of its members. Researchers
should not make assumptions but ask questions and listen to the replies.
As academics we are used to the sound of our own voice. In fieldwork, our
voice can be the equivalent of static or white noise—it interferes with reception.
On Being There? 79
Second, trust is essential—‘being nice to people and trying to see the world
as they see it. You need to be patient, come on slow, and feel your way along.
Two handy hints: Go where you are driven; take what you are given; and,
when in doubt, be quiet’. I would add: be patient and stick around. Gradually
you become part of the furniture. However, the rules of thumb could induce a
manipulative cast of mind. The injunction to be an actor could imply that you
behave in an inauthentic way. It is as well to remember that everyone acts out
several roles in their everyday life. The forensic skills of an academic seminar
can offend in everyday life. The injunction to act is, therefore, an injunction to
self-awareness, not duplicity. It also advises sensitivity to context, not the
manipulation of circumstances for personal advantage. Both insufficient,
and too much, rapport are problems. A professional relationship can slip
into a personal friendship. ‘I did not want them as friends—only respondents.’
If they invite you home, you cannot refuse but don’t take notes. Switch off as a
researcher and forget what you hear. A permanent secretary commented, it
was proper of the minister to invite him to dinner and it was just as proper for
him to decline; professionally close but personally distant.
Third, when in the field and when writing up, be critical of yourself.
Observing has its costs. You get tired, you forget quickly and interviews
produce anxiety. Your notes are selective, a reconstruction. ‘The data is not
better then quantitative data. It is just different.’ Moreover, there are sound
criteria for judging the work. The subjects of the research make a judgement
on whether they recognize themselves and their world. The academic com-
munity also makes a judgement about whether the research rings true and says
anything new and insightful.7
Fourth, writing up is not the end of research but the start of a new phase
that is just as challenging. In effect, we seek detachment and distance by trying
to make the familiar strange and the strange familiar. We turn a critical eye not
only on our material but also on ourselves as we write our part in the story. We
have to beware of ‘secondary ethnocentrism’; we cannot accept that our
informants give us a higher order of truth or accuracy. Rather, we must
think about why people say and do the things they do. We have to twist and
turn the data as we interrogate our fieldwork.
CONCLUSIONS
Social scientists discussing methods can err on the side of abstruse. As a first
conclusion, therefore, I distil my reflections on observation into the rules of
7
The best discussion of observation by a political scientist for other political scientists is
Fenno 1990 and the quotes in this section are from his chapter 3.
• Take what you can get

• Be flexible and go where you are led and follow up unanticipated leads
• See the world through their eyes and focus on their interests
• Be polite
• Be honest
• Trust them and be trustworthy
• Establish rapport, but neither too much nor too little
• Be critical of yourself and your work
• Be an actor
• Look behind the data: compare what people say they do, what they think they do, and
what they actually do
• Ask why they say and do what they do
• Post fieldwork—be reflexive; compare, contrast, and criticize your data
• Post fieldwork—be detached: from the people and the place
Figure 4.1. Rules of thumb for observation
thumb in Figure 4.1. They are not rocket science but they should help any
researcher who wants to get in the field and practise being there.
My second conclusion is that we need to do more observation of politicians
and public servants at work and that means more studies using ethnographic
methods. People continue to matter in a technological, globalized, and bur-
eaucratized world and we need ways of getting at the human face of govern-
ance. Political psychology is a subfield of political science that is devoted to
putting people first. There are pockets of public administration that explore
top-level and street-level bureaucrats. However, most of this work remains
within the positivist epistemology. Consequently, it fails to get ‘up close and
personal’. I have shown that such work is possible (Rhodes 2011a) and I have
also tried to describe it ‘warts and all’.
Observation is not only odd but it is also risky. However, the game is worth
the candle because it ‘leads to a thoroughgoing revision of our understanding
of what it is to open . . . the consciousness of one group of people to . . . the life-
form of another’ (Geertz 1988: 143). Developing political ethnography with
observation at its methodological core is about ‘enabling conversation’ and
enlarging ‘the possibility of intelligible discourse between people quite different
from one another is interest, outlook, wealth and power’ (Geertz 1988: 147).
That was my ambition when decentring government departments; being there
to identify the beliefs and everyday practices of government elites.
5
On Focus Groups
I suggested in Chapter 3 that focus groups were one of the new tools in
ethnographic research. My aim in this chapter is to discuss the contribution
of focus groups to accessing the innermost reaches of government.1 I seek to
identify the advantages and disadvantages of using focus groups in political
and administrative ethnography. I illustrate the discussion with the case of
focus group research conducted with a cohort of 11 individuals who held the
position of chief of staff (CoS) to the prime minister of Australia. The project
examined the work of CoSs who served prime ministers from Malcolm Fraser
to Kevin Rudd. I collected their stories—the institutional memory—of a
previously unexamined part of the system of advice and support to Australian
political leaders. Those readers interested in the workings of Australian
government—the ‘geek’ element, as one reviewer put it—should seek out
Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a, 2014b. Here, I focus on the usefulness of focus
groups in elite ethnography.
In the USA, the job of the president’s CoS is characterized as ‘javelin catcher’.
In Australia, they have been called ‘pest controllers’ and ‘shock absorbers’. All
are vivid metaphors for a job that is carried out far from the public eye in the
shadows of politics. These men and women are the hub of a court or network
that supports prime ministers (Rhodes 2013). They are the pivotal point at
which the political and the administrative meet. It is a private web. Apart from
the occasional interview or public lecture little is known about them or their
work. So, how do we find out what they do and how they do it?
Briefly, I describe the job of prime ministers’ CoSs before explaining the
research design, the preparations for the focus group sessions, and the strat-
egies used to manage the dynamics of a diverse group that included former
political enemies and factional rivals. I outline my approach to analysis and
interpretation before reviewing the strengths and weaknesses of focus groups
for research into political and administrative elites. To be clear, I do not report
1
This chapter is a revised version of Rhodes, R. A. W. and Anne Tiernan (2015) ‘Focus
Groups as Ethnography: The Case of Prime Ministers’ Chiefs of Staff ’, Journal of Organizational
Ethnography, 3 (3): 208–22. © R. A. W. Rhodes and Anne Tiernan.
our findings (see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a); or discuss our theory (see Bevir
and Rhodes 2003, 2006a; and Chapter 2, this volume). I offer a commentary
on one (not all) of our methods; that is, on focus groups.
Focus groups are not commonly used in ethnography but they have a
particular advantage when studying elites. Elite ethnography is difficult and
poses many challenges. I attempt to enter a closed and secretive world, a
hidden world, occupied by people who are more powerful than the researcher.
Observing governing elites at work is my preferred research tool but I know
from bitter experience that my requests for such access can be denied. Focus
groups are another way of gaining access to a group of elite actors, to observe
them in action when observation is not possible at the workplace, especially
when the relevant individuals are no longer in office, as in this case. So, focus
groups are another way of ‘being there’ and side-stepping the problems of
access and secrecy. They are a useful tool in the study of governing elites.
That said, they are not always useful. I am describing their use in the specific
setting of governing elites. I am not claiming they are a stand-alone method.
So, ideally, I would supplement a focus group with shadowing a CoS. As I will
describe below, I supplement the focus group with ethnographic interviewing
as part of my battery of tools for collecting data. Moreover, the data generated
by focus groups requires an ethnographic sensibility for interpreting the
conversations. Ethnography is about recovering meaning and locating that
meaning in its broader context; in this case, governmental traditions. So, focus
groups are an ethnographic tool because ethnography is now a diverse set of
practices linked not by a shared method—participant observation—but by a
shared focus on the recovery of meaning.
PRIM E MI NISTERS ’ CHIEFS OF STAFF
CoSs have long been recognized as key players in the Australian core executive.
They are appointed by the prime minister because they are known to be loyal
and committed. They have a broad remit, but there is no job description. They
support both the person who is prime minister and the position that they hold.
They run the Prime Minister’s Office (PMO) of over 50 staff that operates
twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. The CoS tries to ensure the prime
minister sets priorities and sticks to them, despite the inevitable crises demand-
ing their time and attention. They help the prime minister to control the agenda,
to coordinate policy initiatives, and to keep effective relationships with the
Cabinet, the ministry, the party room, the media, and the public service. They
filter who the prime minister sees and how and where they spend their time.
Over its 40-year history, the position of CoS to the prime minister has evolved
from an administrative position to one that is now mainly political.
On Focus Groups 83
The position of CoS to the Australian prime minister may be a nodal role in
core executive networks but little is known about the nature of the job. How
have its occupants adjusted to the personalities, preferences, and working
styles of the prime ministers they have supported? How have they navigated
the complexities and pressures of life at the centre of government? How have
they dealt with the challenges confronted at different stages of their service?
The project focused on the beliefs and practices of those who have held the
job of CoS, the practices they describe and the stories that they tell about
supporting prime ministers. Our shared goal (theirs and mine) was to build
the institutional memory of the PMO. We proceeded from the shared premise
that what they learned about political leadership and governing might help
future CoSs. Given the gap between what is written and their first-hand
knowledge of life in prime ministers’ offices, this study provided an oppor-
tunity for CoSs to record in their own words what it was like to ‘be there’. The
focus groups enabled us to collect their individual and collective stories about
the CoS’s job.
F OCUS GROUP S AS A TO OL OF
ETHNOGRAPHIC RESEARCH
Focus groups are well established in advertising and marketing research and
have been successfully adapted to the social sciences (Agar and Macdonald
1995; Bloor et al. 2001). They involve getting a group of people together to
discuss their beliefs and practices. The groups are interactive and group
members are encouraged by a moderator to talk to one another. The research
does not interview the group members but facilitates their discussion. For
Morgan (1997: 2), the ‘hallmark’ of focus groups is ‘the explicit use of group
interaction to produce data and insights’. However, there are no guarantees
that a group assembled by researchers will promote participation and discus-
sion on a ‘defined area of interest in a permissive, nonthreatening environ-
ment’ (Krueger 1997: 18). So, it is important to prepare carefully for, structure,
and manage focus group interactions (Morgan 1998; Krueger 1997). How did
I prepare for and structure our study of prime ministers’ CoSs?
RESEARCH DESIGN
The research design for our focus groups was adapted from previous studies
of CoSs in the United States. This research has employed many methods,
including elite interviews and focus group discussions (see, for example,
Kernell and Popkin 1986; Sullivan 2004). Practitioners and scholars have
collaborated to build the institutional memory of the White House staff,
including the position of CoS. Sharing of insights between those who have
worked closely with presidents on both sides of American politics was seen as
a way of making the structures of advice and support more professional, and
building policy capacity. It was a way of cutting through the opacity and
confidentiality that necessarily surrounds a current incumbent. It was a means
of building the institutional memory of the presidency and of helping an
incoming president to ‘hit the ground running’ (Sullivan 2004).
The Australian study had similar ambitions. It aimed to develop a nuanced
understanding of the post of CoS from the perspective of those who had held
it. The proposal was funded by ANZSOG, a consortium of Australian and
New Zealand governments and universities. It was established under the
Howard government and enjoys strong bipartisan support. Key Coalition
figures, including David Kemp (CoS to Malcolm Fraser), Arthur Sinodinos
(CoS to John Howard), and senior officials from all levels of government were
involved in its establishment, and served on the ANZSOG board. I mention
these facts because the support of such a trusted, independent body lent
credibility to our research and facilitated access to the CoS. Access is always
an issue when doing research involving governing elites. The reputation of the
researcher is one factor. The standing of the sponsor is another. Anne Tiernan
and I were known to many respondents as ‘a safe pair of hands’, and ANZSOG
is a respected training organization for government. So, we had the essential
prerequisites of access and trust.
In late 2009, eleven former prime ministerial CoSs spanning governments
from Fraser to Rudd came together to take part in two closed, round-table
focus group discussions. I call them workshops because focus groups are
associated with political campaigning and market research. I wanted to
avoid such connotations. With their emphasis on group interaction, the
workshops were focus groups in all but name.
Each session aimed to elicit participants’ views on the following topics:
• The development and evolution of the job of CoS.
• How different individuals approached the task of working with the prime
minister.
• The key duties and responsibilities that they performed.
• The challenges confronting the CoS at different stages of the
governing cycle.
• Lessons that might be passed on to their successors.
In government, it is widely accepted that the first, modern CoS was
appointed in 1972. Between then and June 2013, when our study ends, 24
On Focus Groups 85
individuals held the CoS position (see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a). Seven
attended the first focus group in Canberra on 1 September 2009. A second
focus group, held in Sydney on 11 December 2009, was attended by four
former CoSs. Anne Tiernan and Patrick Weller facilitated the two focus
groups. The participants agreed that the groups could be recorded, tran-
scribed, and quoted. I did not consider it appropriate to ask the serving CoS
to attend the focus group. The sessions that formed the basis for our research
were conducted in late 2009.
Since 2009, three individuals have been the prime minister’s CoS, all for
relatively brief periods. To cover these developments, I conducted a further
round of interviews with these CoSs, and other key respondents; 15 in total.
I supplemented the interviews with documentary and other primary sources,
and informal conversations. The follow-up interviews were conducted by
Anne and me.
PREPA RING F OR THE F OCUS GROUP S ESSIONS
The interviews with ministers for Tiernan and Weller (2010) gave us access to
senior figures from the outgoing Howard and incoming Rudd governments.
For the past 40 years, Weller has conducted research on ministers, prime
ministers, and Cabinet. He has established trusting relationships with key
members of the Fraser and Hawke courts, including Dale Budd and David
Kemp. Tiernan’s (2007) research on ministerial staffers established equivalent
relationships with the Hawke, Keating, and Howard courts. Tiernan had a
database of ministerial appointments, their background and career data
covering the Fraser to Rudd governments. I had a repository of more than
100 interviews with core executive actors that also included the fieldwork
by Tiernan (2007) and Tiernan and Weller (2010) on ministerial staffers
and ministers respectively. These contacts not only enabled us to conduct
further interviews but it also meant I had informal conversations with current
and former ministers and ministerial staffers, including former prime
ministers’ CoSs.
For the focus groups, Anne and I obtained the current contact details of
the CoS, using public information and snowball sampling techniques. Where
necessary, we used existing networks to find and contact people. We would
approach a CoS through people they knew and trusted. Such networking
and snowballing are essential for political scientists attempting to study
governing elites.
We wrote formally to key individuals, to invite their participation. Our
letter explained that our research approach had been successfully used twice in
the United States (see Kernell and Popkin 1986; Sullivan 2004). Anne Tiernan
developed a background paper that provided a summary of the US research

and outlined the aims for this Australian project. I was lucky. Not only could
I draw on Anne Tiernan’s contacts and moderating skills but the timing was
right. Key CoSs who later returned to public life, at the time, were doing other
things.2 Former CoSs were persuaded the study had merit (Rhodes and
Tiernan 2014a: 10). Several accepted immediately the invitation to participate.
Others took more prompting, but agreed after being provided more detail and
having any questions they had answered.
There were two focus groups. After several weeks of trying unsuccessfully to
coordinate the diaries of busy senior figures spread across four Australian
capitals, including in one case, Perth, there was no other way. At first, this
arrangement seemed less than ideal because the number of participants was
small; seven in Canberra and only four in Sydney. We were concerned the
dynamics of such small groups might inhibit discussion or limit the range of
topics canvassed. It was not a problem—in Australian parlance, ‘no worries’—
and I discuss group dynamics in more detail on pp. 86–90.
The Canberra focus group was an evening meeting. Discussions were
conducted in two sessions, each of around two hours’ duration. We had a
break of about 45 minutes for drinks and refreshments while the boardroom
was set for a working dinner. Sydney was a morning meeting, commencing
with discussions over breakfast and running through until lunchtime. Each
focus group lasted roughly four hours. A photographer took pictures of the
group and individuals simply to illustrate the planned book. It was our
judgement that videotaping the proceedings would be a step too far. We
settled for recording and transcribing the sessions—an approach that Bloor
et al. (2001: 3) consider the most rigorous analytical strategy for focus group
research.
MANAGING GROUP DYNA MICS
Morgan (1997: 15) argues that focus groups’ reliance on interaction in the
group to produce data is a key strength. He notes participants’ comments on
each other’s experiences and opinions are ‘a valuable source of insights into
complex behaviours and motivations’. But much depends on the design and
2
For example, Arthur Sinodinos had left the CoS position in December 2006. He was
working in finance and banking and was serving on the Australia and New Zealand School of
Government (ANZSOG) Board. He became a senator for New South Wales in September 2011,
filling a casual vacancy. Similarly, Don Russell (CoS to Paul Keating) was working in the financial
services sector in Sydney when approached to participate in our study. He was appointed
Secretary of the Department of Innovation, Industry, Science, and Research in 2010. It is unlikely
that either would have agreed to participate had they held public positions at the time.
On Focus Groups 87
management of focus groups. They are a method for gathering research data
and are created for a well-defined purpose (Morgan 1998). With this in mind,
we tweaked the focus group methodology by developing procedures we judged
were suited to working with members of the governing elite. A week before the
workshop session, we circulated a list of research questions to guide discussion
(see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a). We asked each CoS to open discussion on a
specific question that was assigned in advance. We proceeded broadly in
chronological order of service. These procedures are not the norm in focus
groups but worked well, especially as these elite respondents are used to
driving their own agendas. The moderator’s key tasks were to ensure that all
topics were covered and that the discussion remained focused.
A focus group is a constructed social situation, where the informants share
information about their practices with other participants. On this occasion, the
participants did not hold different positions in the organization. None was
currently a CoS. None was still in government. The members were alike; there
were no differences of rank, no opportunity to exert authority one over the
other, and little point in playing power games beyond gratifying their own egos.
If anyone’s ego required such a massage, it was not obvious to us or to the other
participants who would have briskly put an end to any such behaviour. Nor
were there any obvious attempts to be liked by or to please the moderators.
We explained that the study would be conducted following our University’s
research ethics protocols. Coupled with their prior experiences of talking to us,
they were confident that no ill-judged remark would return to haunt them
later. We agreed quotations would be cited and attributed only with their
express permission. It is our judgement the CoSs came to the workshops as a
group of like-minded colleagues willing and able to share their experiences
openly. Our aim was not to find disagreements, but to identify common
ground from which to draw lessons.
We had been concerned that the dynamic among a diverse group of former
political enemies, factional and professional rivals might inhibit discussion of
sensitive issues. However, the everyday demands of the job meant they had
much in common. Any lingering tensions or partisan differences quickly
dissipated. Of course, possibly, disagreements and power plays could have
elicited more ‘accurate’ and interesting information. Such behaviour could
also have disrupted the group and ended cooperation and sharing.
We encountered two issues in managing the focus groups. First, we dis-
covered after the meetings that two separate focus groups cemented the
participation of one of the CoSs who was not keen on being in a session with
a former colleague. The second issue manifested itself as a power play with us.
Before discussion started, one participant contested the account of how the
CoS’s job had developed in the background paper. He questioned the decision
to commence the study with the Whitlam government, arguing there was an
extensive prehistory under earlier governments. He wanted assurance that we
would address the period before 1972 and give due attention to the Menzies
and later Coalition governments (see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a: ch. 3).
This exchange can be read as a partisan point, but we saw it more as a test;
a clear if mild reminder of the power relativities between ourselves as
researchers and the CoSs. How we responded was the critical issue. We
explained our rationale for taking 1972 as our starting point, and agreed to
take account of his concerns and any other comments and suggestions from
participants. Seemingly appeased, and with the first CoS ready to open
debate, the focus group proper began. After this early awkwardness, we
had ‘no worries’ because they settled into a free and frank exchange of
views. At times, we were conscious that we were not in control of the group.
Some mild degree of anarchy is to be expected in any group indulging in
open-ended discussion. Their freewheeling conversations demonstrated
they were at ease; a gratifying outcome.
Our opening questions were: ‘What is the job of the chief of staff? What are
its duties and responsibilities?’ CoS responses to this question illustrate the
value of focus groups for ethnographic research in political science. As invited,
David Kemp, widely credited with helping Malcolm Fraser develop the frame-
work for a significantly upgraded prime minister’s private office, outlined how
Fraser’s view of the CoS position evolved during his time in office. Kemp
described the key developments and events that led to a broadening of the
CoS’s tasks. Dale Budd confirmed and elaborated this account. He compared
the different ways each approached the job of meeting their prime minister’s
needs. Graham Evans (Hawke) and Don Russell (Keating) commented on the
long-term impact Fraser’s vision and views had on the CoS position. Such
interaction produced a far richer account of how the PMO and the CoS
developed than would have been possible through semi-structured interviews
with individual CoSs.
Other questions were organized chronologically. Participants explored
challenges confronting the CoS at key stages of the governing cycle. Thus,
the group discussed issues of transition, learning to govern, crises and unex-
pected events, facing re-election, renewing the mandate, and facing defeat. All
yielded valuable insights and, at times, amusing exchanges. There was much
laughter as individuals’ stories bumped into one another. For example,
David Epstein (CoS to Rudd) thought his predecessor, Nicole Feely (CoS to
Howard), deliberately ignored the public service, when she was simply
unaware that they would (say) deal with the voluminous correspondence for
her. It was that simple. Human frailty is as powerful an explanation of what
was going on as political calculation.
Ethnography combines engagement and detachment. It is an uneasy alli-
ance. Because we are detached, we are ‘strangers’, not members of the group,
so, in seeking to understand their world, we expect to be unaware of several
issues. They emerged spontaneously from the CoSs’ reflections. For example,
On Focus Groups 89
we learned about the importance of ‘feeding and watering’ prime ministers

and protecting their health by carefully monitoring the safety of food, par-
ticularly when they travel overseas. As the following exchange shows, the
Canberra focus group developed a vivid word portrait of Dr Graham Killer,
Surgeon General for the Department of Veterans’ Affairs, who has been
personal physician to prime ministers since 1991. Here, as elsewhere, the
lack of space means that we illustrate a general point of agreement in the
group with a story from one or two individuals.
Geoff Walsh: Paul [Keating] wasn’t too fussy [about eating], except when we
went [on an overseas visit]. We had a doctor who travelled with us—the
improbably named Dr Killer.
Grahame Morris: He is still the man.
Geoff Walsh: He hasn’t lost a Prime Minister yet [laughs]. Anyway, Dr Killer
went to inspect the kitchen before the state dinner . . . He came back ashen-
faced and said, ‘There’s a toilet in the middle of the kitchen. My advice is
don’t eat anything.’ So Paul spent the night with the menu in front of him
and basically dodging, because he had a view that you could pick up
hepatitis or something. That would be the end of your career.
Grahame Morris: It’s still the standard advice of Graham Killer now: any-
thing that might have been near water, lettuce or anything, don’t eat it.
Brush your teeth out of bottled water or whiskey. So, he’s still giving the
same advice and he’s still keeping PMs alive.
Sydney focus group participants added their experiences after we recounted
our concern that ‘Dr Killer’ might have been a nickname and sought to clarify
his status:
David Epstein: Dr Killer and his mystery bag of drugs.

Allan Hawke: He’s been the one constant [in the PMO] throughout all of this.
Been there forever. You should interview him I reckon.
Nicole Feely: You really need it don’t you? A great big bag (cited in Rhodes
and Tiernan 2014a: 128).
This exchange is significant for two reasons. First, in this degree of detail,
academics know so little about government. The CoSs take such practices
for granted and the researchers don’t know what they don’t know, so
cannot ask relevant questions. Group discussion takes you down illumin-
ating byways that would never occur in individual interviews. It is a clear
illustration of why focus groups can be more revealing than individual
interviews (Bloor et al. 2001). Second, the story illustrates the lengths to
which the CoSs will go to protect their prime minister. There is no partisan
dimension to their practices here, just a shared concern for the prime
minister’s well-being.
There were many such exchanges. Among the most revealing for our project
was the participants’ insistence that a broad connotation of political is essential
to understanding the support needs of present-day prime ministers:
David Kemp: I think it’s also important to read the word ‘political’ as having
broad meanings. There’s a tendency to think political equals elections, equals
campaigning, equals voting. But that’s not right. Political involves managing
the legislation in the Senate and the sensitivities of the minor parties, political
and what’s Senator [Harradine] going to do?3 Political means how is the
backbench going to feel about this? Are they going to support this course of
policy? Political means what are you picking up about how this policy is
working? Or political could mean are our priorities right at the moment or do
we need to shift them in some way?
Political can mean what are the consequences of this political event and how
do you read that? So there’s a lot of political expertise there, which has to do
with effective government, I would say. I think that without the political being
dominant, you don’t get effective government.
Now that doesn’t mean that one political aspect, one aspect of being
political—campaigning—needs to dominate everything. I think that
would be bad. But being politically effective means managing the govern-
ment properly because all these issues of leadership and values and the
different groups that have to be coordinated, that’s all political. They are
things that were not properly done in my view before 1975 or 1972,
whatever point you’d like to take.
Graham Evans: I agree with the points that David [Kemp] has made. There’s
a significant difference between a view of political which is a narrow one,
which I would say is party political, and a broader view that relates to
implementation of policy. Advising on the context and consequence of policy
is central to the role of prime ministerial offices, so the Prime Minister’s
policies have the best chance of being agreed to and implemented (cited in
Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a: 65–6).
We use one long quote from a single individual but his comments were
accompanied by much group nodding. His views were widely shared. Indeed,
there wasn’t a single voice of dissent, just elaboration and illustrations of the
points made.
3
Australian government has a House of Representatives and a Senate. The latter can block
legislation initiated by the House. When he was Prime Minister, John Howard did not control
the Senate until his final term. During his first term, he relied on support from the Australian
Democrats and independents, including Independent Senator for Tasmania, Brian Harradine
(see Howard 2010: 241–3).
On Focus Groups 91
ANALYSIS AND INTERPRETATION
The two focus groups yielded nearly nine hours of qualitative data; 230 pages
of transcripts in total. We checked the transcripts against the audio and, where
necessary, made corrections. Such a valuable data set warrants a careful
curator. We read the transcripts separately with an agreed codebook modified
from our earlier work on governing elites (see Rhodes 2011a; Tiernan and
Weller 2010). We compared our results, but disagreed more over the severity
with which we edited the transcripts for inclusion in the books than about
issues of substance. Our dilemma was how best to organize the rich insights
and institutional memory generated by the CoSs’ individual and collective
contributions.4
We took the organizing concepts for telling their stories from Bevir and
Rhodes (2003, 2006). As I explain in Chapter 2 (this volume), this approach
shifts analysis away from institutions, functions, and roles to the beliefs,
actions, and practices of interdependent actors. So, the task is both to unpack
the disparate and contingent beliefs and practices of individuals through
which they construct their world; then to identify the recurrent patterns of
actions and related beliefs; the shared beliefs. So, in interpreting our focus
group data, we focused on the shared beliefs and practices of the CoSs.
THE C ASE F OR F OCU S GROUP S
Commenting on our draft manuscript, a colleague remarked: ‘I think people

tell you a lot more in interviews than probably they tell you in the focus group
setting.’ We do not agree that focus groups are inferior to semi-structured
interviews as a method for data collection. I have no wish to criticize inter-
views. They are an invaluable tool and I use them in all my fieldwork projects.
But, some days the elite interview resembles nothing more than a ritual. Both
sides go through the motions and little of interest emerges. Also everyone’s
memory has lapses. Focus groups are an invaluable cross-check on interviews.
You can check if they say the same thing in the focus group as they told you in
interview. Any one person’s statements can be corrected or contradicted by
another member of the group. Moreover, a focus group lasts several hours,
interviews last an hour. A good focus group is revealing because the ‘focus’ is
on interaction and conversation, not the single interviewee. The interaction
between people clarifies the meaning of practices and events. Morgan (1997)
highlights the potential for insights from focus groups, especially when part of
4
For lack of space I cannot discuss institutional memory here but, for more detail, see Rhodes
2011a; Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a; and Pollitt 2008.
a multi-method study (also see Bloor et al. 2001). And our study used several
methods: in-depth interviewing, official documents, biographies, memoirs
and diaries, informal conversations, as well as focus groups. So, we could
cross-check data from multiple sources.
Agar and MacDonald (1995: 78) suggest that ethnography provides
‘broader frames of interpretation’ for focus group data. Our interpretive
theory provides the conceptual tools for evaluating the significance of
focus group data. However, Agar and MacDonald (1995: 85) stress that
the researcher must have prior knowledge of the ‘shared folk models’
of focus group participants to assess discussions and interpret their mean-
ing. The combination of Anne’s and my skills and experience is worth
noting here. We both have extensive experience of research on governing
elites in Australia and Britain. We are familiar with the folk theories
of government in both countries. So, we have the requisite broader
frame of interpretation to identify and evaluate the issues and themes in
the conversation. That frame is the Australian–Westminster tradition of
executive government.
All CoSs share the beliefs and practices of the Westminster tradition about
collective cabinet government, ministerial responsibility, a constitutional bur-
eaucracy, and parliamentary sovereignty (Rhodes 2005; Rhodes et al. 2009).
They had a shared narrative about what they were doing, what prime ministers
needed, and how they worked. The focus groups revealed the common ground
between them. For example, Grahame Morris explained that ‘[Howard] used
to place great importance on the party room meeting, on the Cabinet, on the
leadership meetings and on the tactics meeting. So you sort of had three big
touch points most days, or certainly most weeks with the colleagues’ (cited in
Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a: 158). The CoSs agreed that their prime ministers
had to manage their dependence on their ministerial colleagues, cabinet, and
the party in parliament; all cornerstones of the Australian governmental
tradition.
Focus groups have some singular advantages when studying closed elite
groups. First, group discussion provides more illuminating insights because
participants open up more topics than would occur in an individual
interview.
Second, the interaction between people clarifies the meaning of practices.
Focus groups provide opportunities to develop a detailed understanding of
participants’ beliefs and actions, and to compare experiences and to encom-
pass a diversity of views.
Third, like other forms of ethnography, focus groups make tacit know-
ledge explicit. They produce context-specific qualitative data on complex
and sensitive issues. For example, supporting the prime minister did not
refer simply to the official role but also to the person; to family, health, and
eating overseas.
On Focus Groups 93
Fourth, focus groups can produce ‘relevant’ knowledge and our work was
seen as relevant by the CoSs. We asked the former to reflect on mistakes and
lessons learned and to write a memo for their successor. We asked them what
advice and wisdom they would pass on. We distilled their reflections into
lessons, using their words and phrases (see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014b). This
approach can be summarized as the ‘3Rs’ of recover, recount, and review. The
aim is to recover the stories we are told by politicians and public servants. We
systematized these accounts, telling our version of their stories, and recounted
these stories back to them for comment. Our version was jointly reviewed to
identify inaccuracies, divergence, and lessons. The aim was a fusion of hori-
zons that covered both agreement and where we agreed to disagree. Both
outcomes were reported. In effect, the ‘3Rs’ constitute a technology that can
derive practical lessons from lived experience; an interpretive equivalent of
evidence-based policy-making.
THE CASE AGAINST FOCUS G ROUPS
Focus groups also pose some specific problems. First, the qualitative data can
be inaccurate and contested. For example, Nicole Feely recollected that Mike
Keating (Head of PM&C) was not available to advise the new prime minister,
John Howard, on the transition to government. Others contradicted her
account. I resolved the issue by circulating all quotes from the transcripts to
all participants. In effect, the participants checked one another’s version of
events. I also did follow-up interviews with senior politicians and public
servants who worked with the CoSs. However, the task was to collect their
stories, and even when there are competing stories, the lesson is obvious;
ensure the Head of PM&C is available to advise the prime minister during the
transition. Moreover, focus groups were but one of our set of methods. We
compared the version of events from different data sources. Ultimately, of
course, the researcher’s judgement will prevail. It will be our version of their
story, and we will choose between the competing versions by deciding which is
most plausible because it marshals the more convincing evidence.
Second, the data can be hard to analyse. Analysis hinges on the research
question and the organizing concepts of the researcher. In our case, we used an
interpretive approach rooted in the work of Bevir and Rhodes (2003, 2006).
For example, we interpret the practices of CoSs by ascribing beliefs to them.
Practices presume apt beliefs, and beliefs do not make sense without the
practices to which they refer. The beliefs of the CoSs are about orderly process,
not substantive political ideas and specific policies. The core belief is support-
ing and protecting the prime minister. The prime minister’s every wish is their
command, even if the CoS pushes back on occasion. Of course, the prime
minister’s wish might be for policy advice or acting as the keeper of the
government’s narrative. Such work is done at the prime minister’s bidding,
not on their own initiative. Indeed, the prime minister comes before party,
government, and the national interest.
Third, there are practical problems. Recruiting a sample of respondents
willing to participate in discussions in a group setting is an obvious one.
Managing focus group interactions is another. Risks include a zealous mod-
erator stifling the flow of group discussions or for conversation to be domin-
ated by a few participants. The moderator of discussions among governing
elites must be prepared to negotiate its personal dynamics. Detailed knowledge
of political context, events, and personalities is needed if the researcher is to
understand and interpret discussions and exchanges between participants.
The moderator must have patience and tolerate the at times messy exchanges.
Focus groups can be ‘untidy’. In seeking some order in the discussion, don’t
expect and don’t want to be liked.
Fourth, we agree that questions remain about the efficacy of focus groups if
they are used as a stand-alone method in the social sciences (Bloor et al. 2001;
Morgan 1997). We did not use it as a stand-alone method. We used several
methods so we could cross-check our data (see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014a).
Using multiple sources of data gives many opportunities to cross-check the
data and form a judgement about its reliability.
Finally, researchers need to recognize that elite actors are both accustomed
to and skilled in providing ‘strategic’ responses and directing discussion in
preferred directions. The research participants are more powerful than the
researchers, controlling access and exit. However, such problems have more
force when they refer to elite interviewing or observation. The simple fact that
a focus group is a group means those individual strategic responses are subject
to group scrutiny. To be effective, any strategic response needs group compli-
ance. The group can push harder than an interviewer because there are no
worries about losing access. Moreover, while we note the possibility of stra-
tegic responses, we do not suggest they are the norm or even common, only
that they occur. In this case, the group discussion was not arbitrarily ended.
We published two books. We had permission to name our sources.
CONCLUSIONS
The CoSs tell a tale of contingency; of helping the prime minister—the office
and the person—to cope and survive the myriad pressures and inherent
dependencies of political leadership. We know the CoSs speak a shared,
sometimes puzzling, language. Their words tell a tale of contingency and
personalities:
On Focus Groups 95
it was extraordinarily chaotic. You know, you have this impression that it’s all
ordered and disciplined and it all happens in this way, all the right people are
consulted et cetera. Often it’s not like that at all. Often it depends—and this is no
surprise—it depends so much on personal relationships. When they’re in good stead
and good standing, things happen in a different way as compared to when they’re
fractured (Allan Hawke when CoS to Paul Keating, cited in Rhodes and Tiernan
2014a: 10).
It is a closed world. Still, they gave us the opportunity to record their beliefs
and practices. They talked to us about many matters that simply do not get
into academic books, journals, or the media. Maybe we asked leading ques-
tions. Perhaps it was just the way conversation flowed. Nonetheless, we are
confident the focus groups provided a context in which much tacit knowledge
was made explicit.
This chapter is about one method, not about my theoretical approach or the
substantive findings of the fieldwork. I have described how I tweaked the focus
group methodology for working with elite groups. I draw three conclusions.
First, focus groups are a useful tool for recovering the beliefs and practices of
governing elites but, second, they are not a stand-alone tool. They are part of a
larger toolkit that encompasses in-depth interviewing, official documents,
biographies, memoirs and diaries, informal conversations, as well as observa-
tion. Finally, the analysis must be located in a broader framework. I do not
claim that an interpretive approach is the only way to analyse focus group
data. I do insist that any attempt to analyse that data must have an equally
explicit theory.
6
On Life History
INTRODUCTION
In Chapter 1, I argued for genre blurring, suggesting there was much to be

learnt from the humanities and their distinctive genres of presentation and
thought. In Chapters 3–5, I discussed the pros and cons of political ethnog-
raphy, especially the interpretive genre of thought. In Chapters 6 and 7, I turn
to contemporary history, focusing on ‘life history’, and ‘court politics’.
In Chapter 8, I draw on women’s studies. In Chapter 11, I draw on area studies.
‘Life history’ refers to auto/biography and the collection and use of personal
documents—memoir, diary, oral history, and other personal documents and
stories—to write ‘a life’ (Denzin 1989: ch. 2; Roberts 2002: ch. 3).1 Every
bookshop will have shelves curving under the weighty tomes about sports
stars and other celebrities. Ghostwritten autobiographies abound. Hagiog-
raphies are equalled by the exposés of sexual peccadilloes, financial misdoings,
and criminal activity. No one could possibly say anything sensible about the
many manifestations of life histories in one short chapter. So, I must be
specific. I am talking about British political ‘life history’ and I focus on the
political and administrative elite as in previous chapters.
Life histories come in many forms. For example, Smith (1994: 292) provides
a typology ranking biographies on their ‘objectivity’. The scale moves from
objective and scholarly-historical, to artistic-scholarly, narrative, and fictional
biographies such as David Lodge’s ‘novel’ on the life of H. G. Wells (Lodge
2011). My main concern is with ‘highbrow’ or scholarly life histories, although
some ‘lowbrow’ or popular life histories can command attention for the
quality of their investigative journalism and their insights.2 I think we have
much to learn from genre blurring with our sister disciplines so I seek to
1
This chapter is a revised version of R. A. W. Rhodes (2012) ‘Theory, Method and British
Political “Life History” ’, Political Studies Review, 10 (1): 161–76. © 2012, Sage Publications.
Reprinted with permission.
2
Some lowbrow political life histories are part of the reason for the poor reputation of life
history in some quarters of political science. In Australia, Barnett and Goward (1997) on John
Howard is a cure for insomnia in its long-winded hagiography. The instant life histories of the
On Life History 97
identify what political scientists can bring to the study of life history. For
Marquand (2009: 187), political scientists who write life histories are a
‘minority species’ and the most academic life histories are by historians.
However, if we include the range of life writing (Richards and Mathers
2010), there is much to consider.3
THE BRITISH TRADITION
As Pimlott (1994: 150) observes, there is a British tradition of political

biography, which extends to all forms of life history by and about the British
political and administrative elites.4 It operates in a ‘straitjacket of unspoken,
unwritten convention’. I have boiled these commentaries down into six
conventions and their associated debates: ‘tombstone’ biography; separation
of public and private lives; life without theory; objective evidence and facts;
character; and storytelling.5
Tombstone Biography
Given that most of the following remarks are critical, I must say loud and
clear that the British tradition has produced some accomplished life histor-
ies. Pimlott (1992) on Harold Wilson, Skidelsky (1983, 1992, 2000) on John
new leader are shorter and distinguished by even shorter shelf lives; for example, Macklin 2007
on Kevin Rudd, and Anderson 2007 on David Cameron.
3
Diamond and Richards (2012: 177) ‘take issue’ with me because I claim political scientists
‘neglect’ political biography. Their comment is puzzling. Once again, I am a scriptor. I am citing
Marquand (2009). My point is that there is much to consider and I cite Mathers and Richards
(2010) to that effect. Cohen and Morgan (2015) complain that I focus on ‘Great Persons’ and
practise ‘methodological nationalism’. Indeed, I do study the British political and administrative
elite because few others do. My focus is appropriate for the questions I seek to answer if not for
their preferred questions.
4
See also Marcus 2002; Marquand 2009; O’Brien 1998; Pimlott 1994, 1999; Strachey 1989
[1918]; Theakston 2000a; and the several essays in Homberger and Charmley 1988.
5
Throughout this chapter, I return to a comparison of Australian and British ways of writing
life history because the differences help me to identify the distinct and distinctive characteristics
of the British tradition. Australian biographers also provide me with examples of innovative ways
of writing life history. Of course, American political science is the heartland of several schools of
psychiatry, political psychology and psycho-biography (for an overview, see Schultz 2005), but
I must confess to a touch of perversity. I could not resist using Australian examples to show the
metropolitan motherland that its colonial cousins can break with the shackles of the British
tradition. In Australia, the equivalent tradition is called sociography. Walter (2007: 413) defines
it as ‘an empiricist, positivist tradition—strictly chronological, and favouring public over private
and description over analysis as well as preservation of emotional distance’. It was the dominant
approach ‘at least until the late twentieth century’.
Maynard Keynes and Bernard Crick (1981) on George Orwell, to name but
three, are major works of scholarship, distinguished by their command of
sources, insights, and quality of writing. Nonetheless, the tradition retains
nineteenth-century characteristics and Marquand’s (2009: 189) appellation
‘tombstone biography’ remains apt. Much biography commemorates the
lives of the great and the good. As Blake (1988: 81) would have it, ‘the social
historian is concerned with the “common man”. The biographer is not.’
It would seem that Strachey’s (1989 [1918]) urgings to replace hagiography
with psychological insight, scepticism, and attacks on subjects from unex-
pected places were heeded only in part:
A tradition in which, partly out of admiration, partly because of familial pressure
or authorial gratitude, but mainly out of an ingrained centuries-old habit of mind,
biographers take it for granted that their task is to portray their subject as more
worthy than she or he might otherwise be thought to be (Pimlott 1994: 157).
So, ‘although the nineteenth century hagiographical tradition was dented . . . it
survives implicitly . . . in many, if not the majority of works’ (Pimlott 1999: 38).
To compound the problems of these ‘valets to the famous’ (Pimlott 1994:
159), the genre is not proper history. It succumbs to one of two temptations; it
presents their subject either as extraordinary or as representative of the
government of the day. It instructs and entertains but it does not provide
‘a proper understanding of evolving political institutions and processes, and
an appreciation of the lasting achievements of significant individuals operat-
ing within those systems’ (O’Brien 1998: 61). Needless to add, writers of life
histories demur.6
Separating Public and Private
A corollary of tombstone biography, especially political life histories (Evans

1999: 20), is the strict separation of the public and the private lives. Pimlott
(1994: 154) claims, ‘what we have today is a new species: the warts-and-all
hagiography’. So, the private life with all its warts is on public display, but all is
not as it would seem. The warts are ‘redefined as engaging quirks or even as
beauty spots’. As a result:
most modern biographies, for all their revelations of promiscuity and personal
disorder, have barely departed from the Victorian, and medieval, tradition of
praising famous men . . . . [Much] of the old masonry remains intact. Nowhere is
this more true than in the comparative backwater of political biography (Pimlott
1994: 154).
6
On this debate, see the symposium on ‘Is political biography a good thing?’ Contemporary
British History, 10 (4) 1996, 60–86; O’Brien 1998; and Pimlott 1999.
On Life History 99
Indeed, Marquand (2009: 193) wonders whether the ‘kiss and tell’ parts of life
histories add anything other than a little gaiety for the reader. There is nothing
wrong with a little gaiety but, more important, there are links between the
private life and political action and too often biographers fail to explore them.
As Evans (1999: 21) observes, Harold Macmillan never referred to his wife’s
lifelong affair with Robert Boothby, and his biographer, Alastair Horne (1988,
1989), failed
to connect this silence with Macmillan’s behaviour in the Profumo scandal of
1963. Faced with the possibility of a sexual scandal in which national security
interests were involved, and the consequent need to investigate personal and
sexual relationships, Macmillan simply refused to act.
In a similar vein, Pimlott (1994: 156) observes that Phillip Williams’s (1979)
life history of Hugh Gaitskell casts a ‘discrete veil over Gaitskell’s private life’,
omitting, for example, his affair with the socialite Anne Fleming, the wife of
James Bond’s creator, Ian Fleming. She had previously been married to
Esmond Harmsworth, 2nd Viscount Rothermere, press magnate and propri-
etor of the Daily Mail. Whether the leader of the Labour Party mixing in High
Tory circles was of no political importance is a matter of opinion.7
Life without Theory
Political biographers are a minority species not just because there are relatively
few practitioners but because the enterprise lacks standing; ‘real intellectuals
do not do political biography’ (Bolton 2006: 1). In particular, they seem to take
pride in the fact that life history is ‘life without theory’ (Marquand 2009:
189–91). Of course, the British tradition is a body of theoretical assumptions
about the nature of the real world and how we know what we know about it.
Of its several theoretical assumptions, its modernist-empiricist belief in the
objective, or natural history, approach is the most pernicious because it
assumes the various documents and records about the person are in some
sense ‘objective’, when they are social constructions; that is, texts which create
their version of the subject (Roberts 2002: 37–46).
There can be no life without theory even though the theory is mainly
implicit. But it is accurate to claim that the British tradition does not often
engage with the theoretical debates that concern biographers working in other
disciplines. Thus, Roberts (2002, ch. 2) on the ‘Uses of biographical research’
has nothing on politics or political science, yet it is an interdisciplinary text.
7
For Australian examples, see Clendinnen’s (2004) criticisms of Martin (1980) on Parkes,
and the reviews of Rowse (2002) on Coombs in the Australian Journal of Public Administration,
61 (4) 2002: 99–117.
There are only a few brief passing references to any political life histories
(Roberts 2002: 63–4). Perhaps political scientists cannot be expected to wan-
der in literary fields but history and sociology are closely related disciplines
from which Roberts draws many examples.
With rare exceptions,8 British political scientists who write life histories do
not reflect on the biographical method or other forms of life history, nor do
they engage with methodological debates elsewhere in the human sciences. In
Blake’s (1988: 75) opinion, ‘one might write better biographies by not thinking
too much or too self-consciously about the correct way of doing it’. Skidelsky
(1988: 14) observes:
Biographers write biography; they rarely spend much time thinking about how
they ought to be writing it—at least not in this country. We have produced great
biographers; but no important theorists of biography.
Similarly, Pimlott (1999: 31; 1994: 149–50) concludes:
the genre itself receives scant attention, and when it does crop up discussion
normally focuses on the lives of literary figures . . . political or historical biography
gets short shrift.
So, leading biographers agree ‘scant attention’ is paid to the theory and
methods of political life history and the little that exists commonly takes the
form of reflections on ‘how I did it’ (Morgan 1988; Pimlott 1996). The
omission is a tad surprising given the debates about historiography elsewhere
in the discipline (see Chapter 7, this volume, pp. 116–17).
Objective Evidence
Modern life history is praised for its research; for its objective evidence and
facts. Indeed, some life histories resemble nothing more than encyclopaedias.
For example, Marquand’s (2009) account of ‘a new golden age’ in ‘academic
biography’ lauds the attention to factual detail and exhaustive archival
research (see also Pimlott 1994: 151). It lies at the heart of Nicolson’s (1927:
142) ‘scientific biography’.
When political scientists discuss political life history as a method, they focus
on its usefulness as evidence and on whether it meets political science’s
standards of reliability, validity, accuracy, objectivity. Assessments of the
value of life histories as evidence stress its limits. Gamble (1994) assessed the
8
There are always exceptions. In Australia, see James Walter (1980, 2002); and Judith Brett
(1992, 1997), both of whom break decisively with the mould of the British tradition. Their
intellectual roots are in political psychology and the Melbourne School. See Walter and ‘t Hart
2009: 360–4 for a brief history of the Melbourne School, and Walter 2009: 100–2 for a listing of
Australian psychosocial life histories. For the UK, I found little equivalent work; see note 10.
On Life History 101
evidential value of a batch of political memoirs under three headings; the ethos
and style of the government, the political arguments and doctrines of the
political parties, and understanding policy formulation and implementation.
Most were deemed poor sources and seen as ‘self-serving, bland and highly
selective’ (Gamble 1994: 35), providing neither new and interesting data, nor
insights on the politics and government of the times. However, a few were
valuable under one or other heading and political scientists were enjoined to
look at the contrasting accounts of key policy decision. Overall, although there
are many ministerial biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, and diaries,
‘few are much use to the student of Whitehall’ (James 1999: 252; and see
Richards and Mather 2010 for a listing between 1964 and 2008). While diaries
are seen as providing better evidence than the memoirs because of their
immediacy—they are not retrospective reconstructions to the same degree—
nonetheless their accuracy and interpretations are much debated. Similarly,
oral history is seen as unreliable because interviewees are self-serving and,
consciously and unconsciously, construct ‘official’ images of themselves and
their organizations. Comparing interviews leads to irreconcilable contradic-
tions and there are often no written records to cross-check their accuracy. The
veracity of interviews is also undermined when they are not attributed. In
short, political scientists proffer the advice, ‘buyers beware’.
Finally, life histories are seen as incompatible with modernist-empiricist
political science. It is seen as old-fashioned narrative, which is:
‘less academic’, overly subjective, and too partial. It does appear ‘explanatory’ in
orientation or theoretical in approach; it does not articulate a rigorous method-
ology shared by like-minded scholars (Arklay et al. 2006, preface).
Life history does not permit either hypothesis testing or generalizations; there
are no ‘guidelines by which to abstract from reality the “critical” elements
which would provide the material for comparisons on a large scale’ (Blondel
1981: 67; Roberts 2002: 6–13).9 As Marquand (2009: 188) concedes, the
discipline of political science makes little use of life history and ‘political
scientist biographers have rarely tried to apply insights gained from their
academic study of politics to their biographical writing’. The key question is
what is the use of life history in political science? Is it the traditional biographer’s
aim of a chronological history with narrative drive that uncovers the character
of its subject? Or is it the historian’s aim of a better understanding of evolving
political institutions and processes. Or, is it the political scientist’s aim of
9
Though often made, the point is, at best, overstatement. A life history can be seen as
equivalent to a heuristic case study; that is, a case that is used to discern ‘important general
problems and possible theoretical solutions’. Such life histories can build theory and make
generalizations when ‘conducted seriatim, by the so-called building-block’ method (Eckstein
1975: 104–8). In effect, Eckstein’s (1975: 116) argument would see life histories as one way of
testing theories. See also George and Bennett 2005; Blatter and Haverland 2014; Yin 2014.
answering some broader disciplinary question about (say) leadership. Clearly,

the question of whether modernist-empiricist criteria provide an appropriate
yardstick for life history research depends on the answer to a prior question
about the uses of biography. I return to the question of the uses of life history
and life writing on pp. 108–10.
Character
If Strachey (1989) gave us irreverence about the Victorian greats, Freud also
shaped the modernization of life history in the twentieth century:
The growing impact of psychological and psychoanalytic theories on literary
creation and criticism clearly played a central role in shaping the ‘new biography’
and its emphases on identity rather than event or action (Marcus 2002: 203, 205).
With rare exceptions this trend did not encompass the full-blown use of
psychoanalytic theories.10 Rather it led to an interest in revealing the character
of the subject; in providing an interpretation of an individual.
The aim should be to understand an individual life, the forces that shape it and
the motives that drive it, in the context in which it is placed (Pimlott 1994: 157).
The aim of finding the subject’s ‘true character’ is a common aspiration among
writers of life history. Edel’s Writing Lives: Principia Biographica (1984:
142–58) remains a landmark conspectus of the field and at its heart is the
task of probing into the subject’s mind by using insights drawn from psycho-
analytic theory. This search for the subject’s character is an anathema to Crick
(1981: xxiii–xxv) who deems it the ‘empathetic fallacy’. He argues that ‘human
identity consists in relationships, not in inwardness’ and the biographer is not
able ‘to enter into another person’s mind’. His preference is to observe
behaviour, especially Orwell’s occupations, report the views of others, and
admit the several different views of a life.
This debate on whether to focus on character or the public life, on the
empathetic or reflexive biographer, encouraged biographers to look at differ-
ent narrative forms. They began to deploy the arts of rhetoric and persuasion,
and look to writers of fiction for inspiration:
10
The few exceptions include Abse’s (1989, 2003) rather eccentric psycho-biographies of
Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair; Berrington 1974; and Iremonger 1970. There are a few
attempts to modify if not break with the British tradition. The first volume of Anthony Seldon’s
(2004) biography of Blair is organized around key people and events, although they are in
chronological order. The second volume returns to strict chronology and is another tombstone
biography (Seldon et al. 2007). Powell 2011 is based, like Watson 2002, on an ‘inexact diary’,
structured around maxims drawn from Machiavelli, with some instructive stories, but it is not a
life history and it boils down to an attempt to salvage Blair’s reputation.
On Life History 103
Although the biographers . . . seldom explicitly abandon the genre’s claims to be
an investigative historical enterprise founded on evidence, they implicitly accept
that biography is mainly a form of storytelling, a literary form which is generically
as close to the novel as it is to history. Confident too that it is not just the
boundary between fiction and non-fiction which has become less clear as a result
of advances in critical understanding of the nature of texts, but the whole notion
of a biographical fact, some biographers try deliberately to free themselves from
the tyranny of the documentary record (St Clair 2002: 222; see also Roberts 2002).
Storytelling
Storytelling is ‘the one consistent convention of biography’ (Pimlott 1994: 152).

‘The biographer is, first of all, a writer and must have the ability to tell a story’
(Thwaite 1988: 17). For Nicolson (1927: 142–3), biographers face a dual demand:
To meet the interests of ‘scientific biography’ he [sic] has to accumulate a vast
amount of authentic material; to meet the current desire for ‘literary’ biography
he has to produce this material in synthetic form. A synthesis, however, requires a
thesis, a motive, or, to say the least, a point of view . . . . The problem which the
biographer . . . has to solve is therefore that of combining the maximum of
scientific material with the perfection of literary form.
This storytelling resembles nothing more than a detective novel. There is a
plot in which the author reveals the truth about the subject at the end (Marcus
2002: 211). Time-worn chronology is the dominant narrating device, with
little recognition of how it can distort analysis (Evans 1999: 135). For Pimlott
(1999: 38), the storylines are ‘sated with sermonising’, with the authors acting
as ‘literary nannies’ making moral judgements (Pimlott 1994: 152). Political
biographers seek to understand; they also apportion blame.
If good biographies are like novels in that they practise the arts of storytell-
ing, what is the difference? For the objective biographer, a life history is
grounded in facts, in the search for truth (Pimlott 1994: 151–2). Others
observe that facts are selected, even created, by historians and there are
many truths; plasticity rules. The writer creates ‘his’ or ‘her’ version of the
subject and sins of omission and silences are inevitable. Pimlott (1999: 41) is
adamant: ‘I am defiantly and possessively aware that they are not “true”
portraits—they are my Dalton, my Wilson, my Queen’.
T H E IN T ERP R E T I V E TU R N
To the outsider peering in, the British tradition seems as solid as it is stolid.
Even its practitioners concede: ‘neither in the ivory tower, nor in the garret, is
there much sign of a will to experiment’ (Pimlott 1994: 159). If I compare the
theory and practice of political life history in Australia with that in Britain, it is
clear that much is missing from the British tradition. Australian political
scientists did not dismiss the insights from political psychology as ‘psycho-
babble’. The Melbourne School and its Diaspora may have attracted odium at
home but it took psychosocial life history seriously, producing important work
and attracting international approbation (for a review, see Walter and ‘t Hart
2009). Others turned to a broader definition of the political that encompassed
the ‘forgotten lives’ of women and indigenous people; and to prosopography
or the collective study of lives; of the shared characteristics of an historical
group, when there are no individual life histories because there are too few
historical documents with which to construct an individual life (and for a
survey, see Walter 2009). However, I want to concentrate on another major
development in the social and human sciences which bypassed the study of
political life history in the UK; ‘the interpretive turn’.
I will not provide a summary of the interpretive turn here (see Chapter 2,
this volume) but discuss the issues it poses for life history as a field of
inquiry.11 Much of what I will say under this heading will seem ‘old hat’ to
colleagues in anthropology, history, literature, and sociology. I can only plead
that it is not commonplace when reading British political life history or
political science more generally (see Bevir and Rhodes 2006a, ch. 3). Political
scientists are resistant to ‘genre blurring’ between the social and human
sciences. So, they ignore discussions of life history and life writing as a method
in other disciplines. Indeed, such terms as ‘life history’ and ‘life writing’ are
rarely used. If intellectual respectability is the goal, then biographers must
engage with this broader literature on theory and methods, especially quali-
tative research methods. My discussion parallels the earlier description of the
British tradition.
From Tombstones to Illusions
Biographers’ grand narratives of great men as epitomized by tombstone

biography are an ‘illusion’:
The biographical project is an illusion, for any coherence that a life has is imposed
by the larger culture, by the researcher, and by the subject’s belief that his or her
life should have coherence (Denzin, 1989: 61).
11
For general overviews, see Bernstein 1976, 1991; Rabinow and Sullivan 1979, 1987; and
Rosenau 1992. For a comprehensive survey of associated qualitative methods, see Denzin and
Lincoln 2005a.
On Life History 105
Fish (1991: 13–15) states the dilemma for biographers in its extreme form. He
argues there has been a shift from a discourse of the self as a conscious subject
endowing the world with meaning to a discourse which explains meaning as
the product of an episteme, paradigm or structure beyond the grasp of the
conscious subject. The self is ‘dissolved’, so ‘the notion of an intentional actor
with a history and biography must dissolve too’. Any life history assumes
‘notions of agency, personhood, cause and effect’ that both govern our read-
ings and are contested and contestable. What price the life history of an
intentional actor in a postmodern world without agency? The death of the
subject is paralleled by the death of the author:
The challenge to ‘authorship’ has been a focus of contemporary literary criticism . . .
The issue has widened the question of interpretation of texts—whether the focus
should be the author, the text, or the audience or, more fundamentally, whether the
focus should move from authorship to the multiple voices of the texts and the
expectations and ‘reading’ of the audience (Roberts 2002: 72; and the locus classicus
on the death of the author is Barthes (1977 [1967]) .
Lives and Theories
This theoretical challenge to life history and life writing by postmodernism

prompted many a vigorous reply. There are many contending theories to
choose between; feminist, ethnic, Marxist, post-structuralist, cultural studies,
and the several personality theories (and, for a brief survey, see Denzin and
Lincoln 2005b). Interpretive theory provides a cogent reply to the postmod-
ern challenge and it begins from the insight that to understand actions,
practices and institutions, we need to grasp the relevant meanings, the beliefs
and preferences of the people involved.12 As I explain in Chapter 2 (this
volume) the idea of meaning lies at the heart of the interpretive approach. So,
a life history is the equivalent of a ‘thick description’ or narrative of a life (see
Chapter 3, this volume). The biographer writes his or her construction of the
subject’s constructions of what the subject is up to. So, biographers must
unpack the disparate and contingent beliefs and actions of individuals through
which they construct their world and take seriously the Thomas theorem that
‘if men [sic] define situations as real, they are real in their consequences’
(Thomas and Thomas 1928: 572). The resulting narrative is not just a chrono-
logical story but also explains why the subject acted as he or she did by
identifying the reasons, conscious and unconscious, for their actions. This
12
See, for example, Bevir and Rhodes 2003, 2006a, 2010; Berger and Luckman 1971; Denzin
1989; Geertz 1973, 1983c; and Roberts 2002.
focus on meaning, beliefs, and practices dissolves the distinction between

public and private.13 They are indissolubly linked in the webs of significance
that people spin.
From Facts to Webs of Interpretation
The objective approach to evidence and facts of the British tradition presumes:
Lives have natural histories that unfold over time and . . . are marked by objective
events and experiences. A life is pictured as an orderly production . . . . They are
preoccupied with objective events and subjective definitions of these events. They
presume that accurate, truthful, valid and consistent interpretations of the past
can be given (Denzin 1989: 50).
Although Denzin is talking about sociology, nonetheless this view is also
common in political life history and assimilates life history to modernist
empiricism and its conventions on reliability, validity, accuracy, objectivity.
Indeed, because biographers often do not have fully articulated ontological
and epistemological positions, they can be accused simultaneously of being
modernist-empiricist yet not being scientific because they do not test hypoth-
eses. However, they do not have to play the modernist-empiricist game. There
are other criteria by which to evaluate life histories.
There are alternative criteria for judging qualitative research and therefore
life history. I argued in Chapter 2 (pp. 30–3) that objective knowledge arises
from criticizing and comparing rival webs of interpretation in terms of agreed
facts; from comparing rival stories. Objectivity is a product of ‘local reasoning’
in that it arises from the critical comparison of narratives within an academic
community, reconfirmed in debate between communities, where all debates
are subject to the provisional rules of intellectual honesty.14
From Character to Life Myths and Situated Agency
An interpretive approach reclaims life history and life writing from the
postmodern critique by focusing on the idea of ‘situated agency’: that is, on
the webs of significance that people spin for themselves against the backcloth
13
There is a massive literature on narratives. Alvermann 2000 provides a short introduction.
I found the following helpful: Barthes 1993; Bevir 1999: 252–62 and 298–306; 2000, 2006;
Czarniawska 2004; Ricoeur 1981, ch. 11, 1991, ch. 6; and White 1987.
14
For a detailed account, see Bevir 1999: ch. 3; and Rhodes 1997a: ch. 9. See also Braun and
Clarke 2006; Denzin and Lincoln 2005b: Table 1.2; Richardson 2000; Roberts 2002: 6, and 37–40;
Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2012: 91–114; and Yanow 2006. Roberts 2002: 37–40 provides useful
citations on internal and external consistency, and on corroboration by the subject.
On Life History 107
of their inherited beliefs and practices (see Chapter 2, this volume). The idea
of tradition covers both inheriting beliefs and transforming them as they
are handed down from generation to generation. People are constantly con-
fronting novel circumstances and dilemmas that require them to apply
tradition anew. So, traditions are remade by agents as they spin their webs
of significance, hence the label ‘situated agency’.
By extension, a life is an ‘unfinished project’ as people try to ‘organise those
projects around his or her identity’ (Denzin 1989: 29) to create a ‘life myth’
(Edel 1984: 161–2; Walter 2002: 324–5), which helps us ‘to understand the
shapelessness of lives, the anarchy of thought, and the unpredictability of the
future, as they are actually experienced’ (St Clair 2002: 222). Life myths, or
webs of significance, or narratives of a life:
(1) always come in multiple versions, and they never have clear endings or
beginnings; (2) stories are grounded in a group’s culture where criteria of
truthfulness are established; (3) the stories told are never the same as the stories
heard; (4) stories are shaped by larger ideological forces which put pressure on
persons to establish their individuality (and self-control) in the stories they
construct (Denzin 1989: 39 and 77).
In short, there are no grand narratives, no unified lives, only life myths. So, we
must ask both ‘how individuals give coherence to their lives’ and ‘how
biographers give coherence to their subjects’. We need to look for the sources
of the coherence, and the narratives that sustain them (Denzin 1989: 62).
Of course, not all lives have a unifying myth; they can be a story of fragmen-
tation, incoherence, perhaps failure. So, in such cases, we look for the sources
of the incoherence. In both cases, we start with inherited beliefs and practices;
with traditions.
Varieties of Storytelling
Life history is storytelling and there are many ways to tell the story. There is
much variety in the genres of presentation. Van Maanen’s (1988: 8) observa-
tions on writing ethnographic tales are particularly relevant to the art of
writing political life history (see Chapter 3, this volume). He argues ‘there is
no way of seeing, hearing, or representing the world of others’. He identifies
three ways of telling: realist tales; confessional tales; and impressionist tales
(and see pp. 48–9 above for more detail). I am not arguing for any one of these
ways of telling the tale. I agree with Van Maanen that the aim is to find ‘more,
not fewer, ways to tell of culture’ or, in this case, life histories. There may be
‘no way to stuff a real-live person between the two covers of a text’ (Denzin
1989: 82) but still we try, and the realist chronological narrative is not the only
way. There is a menu. There are choices.
In a similar vein, White (1973: 7) invites us to be self-conscious not only

about narrative form but also the language we use. The meaning of my stories
will depend on the language I choose to tell them:
Providing the ‘meaning’ of a story by identifying the kind of story that has been
told is called explanation by emplotment . . . I identify at least four different modes
of emplotment: Romance, Tragedy, Comedy, and Satire.
So, the choice of language, whether romance, tragedy, comedy, and satire,
emplots different explanations in the text.15
With an almost audible tone of irritation, Pimlott (1994: 159) observes:
Neither in the universities, nor outside them, does anybody bother much about
composition, structure, shape, dramatic effect, sub-plot—kindergarten stuff for
any fiction writer.
Van Maanen, White, and their kith and kin in the interpretive camp not only
invite political biographers to bother more but also show them what to
bother about.
IMPLICATIO NS
Given my criticisms of the British tradition, it is incumbent on me to provide

examples of the genres of presentation in writing life history other than that of
the British tradition (or sociographic) approach. I start with three studies of
Australian prime ministers, all different from one another but none of them
chronological, tombstone biographies. I chose them because all three use life
history and life writing as a tool for answering broader questions in the study
of politics that go beyond the life itself; they are not just chronological
narratives. Often the uses of biography are cast in the most general terms.
For Morgan (1988: 33), the task of the political biographer is ‘to try to answer
political questions about public issues’. Similarly, Pimlott (1999: 39, 41) writes
about ‘a character in an environment’ because it ‘illuminates a changing
environment’. So, he wrote about Harold Wilson ‘as a way of assessing the
change of attitudes that swept Britain in the post-war period, and especially in
the 1960s’. My three examples address more specific questions, and show that
political scientists writing life history can and do apply insights from the
academic study of politics in their life writing (cf. Marquand 2009: 188).
Pat Weller’s (1989) study of Malcolm Fraser, prime minister of Australia
between 1975 and 1983 is ‘a study of the way in which Malcolm Fraser acted as
15
For a discussion of these and other modes, such as epic and cock-up, in the analysis of
storytelling in organizations, see Gabriel 2000: 83–5.
On Life History 109
prime minister’. Weller (1989: xi–xvii) focuses on a prime minister in action

and on ‘the exercise of power and influence within the Australian political
system’. It reaches for conclusions on the difficulties of political leadership and
for understanding on the way in which Australia is governed. The portrait is
not the Fraser of popular, public imagination—determined, intolerant, power-
ful, and trampling over all in his way. Rather, we see a man whose power
resided in consultation and his ability to persuade, manipulate, and on
occasion direct as necessary. We learn much about Fraser. We learn more
about the occupation of prime minister. The surprise is that mainstream
political science should have had so little to say about the occupation of
politician. The analysis of what ministers and prime ministers do, how, why,
and with what success, would seem an obvious set of topics for a life history,
and as important as a chronology of people, places, and events.
An even less conventional approach is taken by Don Watson (2002) in
his account of Paul Keating, prime minister, 1991–96. The book is, to use
Watson’s term, an ‘inexact history’ based on an ‘inexact diary’. Watson was a
speech-writer and political adviser in the Prime Minister’s Office and the book
is an insider account of life at the court of King Keating. It is an example of
a meeting between life history and ethnography: an accidental auto-
ethnography of ‘being there’.16 It is a rambling book, overlong and desperately
in need of some clearer organizing ideas than ‘events, dear boy, events’ and
Keating’s burgeoning ideas for mastering them. But its defects are the source
of its strengths; it provides a detailed portrait of tumult and chaos and, over it
all, the brooding presence of Paul Keating. Anyone reading the book knows
something about the limits to power; about the exhaustion of body and mind.
If Weller’s analysis of Fraser in action dominates our sense of the man, then
you can smell and taste Keating and his court even if you are never quite sure
of what is going on.
Judy Brett’s (1992) account of Robert Menzies, prime minister 1939–41 and
1949–66, is different again in both theory and method. Brett (1997: 14–15)
holds to the suspicion that all is not as it would seem and that the task of the
biographer is ‘to understand human lives in all their moral and emotional
complexity’ by using psychoanalytic tools to get behind the worlds of heroes
and villains ‘to understand political leaders and their quest for power’. The
method is the comparative analysis of Menzies’ public and private languages.
The task is to tell the story of a political life and make it intelligible. The tools
of psychoanalysis are part of the toolkit the biographer can use to make a life
intelligible. She starts with the public man, the public life, and his public
discourse. She identifies the key ideas in his public discourse and then com-
pares them to his private language to identify what it means both to him and to
16
An auto-ethnography is a personal ethnography or ethnographic memoir, or narrative of
the self, all set in a delineated social context. For an extended discussion, see Humphreys 2005.
his audience. Moreover, no language can be understood outside its context. So,
Menzies’ discourse is related to both Australian conservative thought and the
social history of his times. Brett’s analysis of the psychological underpinnings
of Menzies’ political beliefs and his ability to flatter middle-class Australia—
the forgotten people—into accepting his non-labour political principles—hard
work, independence, and sacrifice—is a singular achievement that gives the lie
to all the snide comments about psychobabble.
The distinguishing feature of these three examples of life history and life
writing is that all use life history to address issues beyond the life itself. For
Weller, it answers questions about the occupation of prime minister. For
Watson, it answers questions about court politics. For Brett, it answers
questions about the use of language. All three are commendably clear on the
uses of biography. They demonstrate not only that life history has many
different uses, but also that political science can make a distinct and distinctive
contribution to writing it.17
Of course, there are many examples outside political science of different
ways of writing life history. Thus, Denzin (1989: 64–6) takes us much further
afield because he looks to literary biographies for inspiration, using a variant
on Jean-Paul Sartre’s method in writing his life history of Gustave Flaubert. He
‘begins with a key event in a subject’s life and then works backwards and
forwards from that event’ (Denzin 1989: 67). These key events or epiphanies
are an experience that alters the ‘the fundamental meaning structures in a
person’s life’ (Denzin 1989: 70) but no story is ever constructed by only one
individual: ‘we must learn to connect biographies and lived experiences, the
epiphanies of lives, to the groups and social relationships that surround and
shape a person’.
As we write about lives, we bring the world of others into our texts. We create
differences, oppositions, and presences which allow us to maintain the illusion
that we have captured the ‘real’ experience of ‘real’ people. In fact, we create the
persons we write about, just as they create themselves when they engage in
storytelling practices (Denzin 1989: 82).
It would also be a mistake to think such novel practices are in fact new.
Alphonse James Albert Symons (A. J.) had a crab-like approach to biography,
rejecting chronology in favour of reasoning ‘backwards as well as forwards, to
infer the child from the man’ (Symons 1934: 51). So, the biographer’s task is to:
Lift the curtains on a hero full developed and manifesting the idiosyncrasies which
make him worth writing about, to follow his career until the end, illustrating
17
Looking further afield, more examples of innovative uses of comparative life histories to
study political and administrative leadership include: Corbett 2015 on political leaders in the
Pacific Islands; Doig and Hargrove 1987 on American agency heads; Reeher 2006 on state
legislators in the USA; and Theakston 1999, 2000b on British top civil servants.
On Life History 111
meanwhile the changing of his character with the years and then, at the finishing,
to retrace the steps by which he had become what, in the first chapter, he was
shown as being (Symons 1929: 156).
Whether starting with an epiphany or the idiosyncrasies which make him
worth writing about, the simple point is that there are more ways to tell our
stories than writers of British political life history had ever envisaged let alone
practised.18
CONCLUSIONS
If you are a political scientist writing for the profession, not a general
readership, and you foreswear the British tradition, what do you do? I list
the lessons as bullet points. I have already discussed each one earlier. Here,
I use stark simplicity to highlight the differences with the British tradition.
• Blur genres—what can we learn from the human sciences, most notably
ethnography and historiography?
• Uses of biography—what broader questions in the study of politics that go
beyond the life itself are you seeking to answer?
• Contending theories—which of the contending theories—personality the-
ory, feminist, post-structuralist or interpretive—will provide the concep-
tual tools for grasping the relevant meanings, beliefs, and actions of the
subject?
• Situated agency—what backcloth of inherited beliefs and practices, of
traditions, informs the webs of significance that people spin for
themselves?
• Life myths—narratives of a life always come in multiple versions, and they
never have clear endings or beginnings, so how do individuals give
coherence to their lives and how do biographers give coherence to their
subjects?
• Varieties of storytelling—how do we find more, not fewer, ways of pre-
senting the story?
Many of these points are commonplace in the human sciences. Why is British
political life history so stolid? Where is the experimentation with subjects, with
literary form, so common in other branches of life history? The British
18
The parallel in fiction is with the story told from the vantage point of its several participants
as in Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet (1957–60), William Faulkner, The Sound and
the Fury (1929); and Mario Vargas Llosa, The Real Life of Alejandro Mayta (1986).
tradition is long-standing and glacial in its rate of change because it is

sustained by broader political traditions, the forces of commerce, and the
characteristics of mainstream political science.
The British political tradition contains beliefs about leaders knowing best.
The Westminster narrative is the classical constitutional view of British
government. Its core tenet is a belief in centralization or hierarchy, with its
roots in the royal prerogative and the monarchical origins of British govern-
ment (Rhodes 2011a). Birch (1964: 244–5) argues this tradition of ‘a strong
leader’ willing to make ‘unwelcome decisions’ determines the nature of polit-
ical responsibility in the British constitution. It sustains the view that history is
made by great men and, after Margaret Thatcher, great women.
This fixation on the great and the good is reinforced by commercial
imperatives and readers’ expectations—what Nicolson (1927: 134) calls ‘the
taste for biography’—which lock biographers into commemoration with rev-
elations, admiration with sleaze. Although voiced as criticisms, O’Brien’s
(1998: 52, 56, and 57) observations that blockbusters pour off the presses,
that the industry is ‘media driven and market led’, and that nothing is able ‘to
stem the tide of market forces’ are essentially accurate. Much biography even
when written by academics is not written for an academic audience, so it
eschews the epistemological and methodological issues discussed here for a
rattling good tale of this person in these times. Because a biography is written
for a wide readership does not mean it is of poor quality or that such
biographies are always bad history. It means simply that there are great
pressures on authors to conform to a profitable template; the narrative drive
of the chronological detective story that reveals the true man or woman as it
excuses their faults.
British political science has a strong modernist-empiricist mainstream.
There are established and widely recognized subfields: political theory, polit-
ical institutions, political behaviour, public policy and administration, com-
parative government and politics, political economy, and international
relations. Political scientists who write life history are not now, nor have
they ever been, part of this mainstream. British political life history is an
example of the ‘passive pluralism’, which permits subfields like feminism and
race to sit alongside established disciplines (Collini 2001: 299). The problem
with such isolation, of course, is that, although writers of life history may sit
beside the mainstream unharmed, they are also unheard and cut off from
broader debates about theory and method. Patterned isolationism sustains an
insular British tradition of political life history.
There has been no sustained challenge to the tradition. The dilemmas
posed by Freud on the one hand, and Strachey on the other, were either
ignored, or dismissed as inappropriate, or assimilated, for example, as a call for
empathy in studies of character or in the sympathetic treatment of warts. Why
was there so little interest in psychobiography? There was a widely shared
On Life History 113
antipathy to psychological approaches. For example, O’Brien (1998: 53) claims

that psychology ‘arouses scepticism’ among historians; that ‘as disciplines,
history and psychology do not . . . mix at all well together’, and that psycho-
logical modes of explanation are ‘accorded short shrift’ because ‘historical
evidence rarely allows for the application of psychiatric analysis or psycho-
logical theories to the activities of dead politicians’. He claims there are too
many examples of psychohistory ‘straining circumstantial and indirect evi-
dence to the point of incredulity’, although he gives no examples. Its claims to
scientific standing are ‘pretensions’ and historians ‘rejoice’ at ‘the apparently
irreversible demise of Freudian theory’, presumably because they are blissfully
ignorant of any theories since Freud. It matters not that O’Brien’s comments
are more rant than argument; they illustrate widely held views.19
To compound this antipathy, there was no school of biography, no well-
spring of political life history like Australia’s Melbourne School, to act as a
stimulus for innovation. This school may have been ‘evanescent’ but it lasted
from 1970 to 1990 and its Diaspora can be traced to this day (Walter and
‘t Hart 2009: 364). Such a school could have developed around, for example,
Ben Pimlott at Birkbeck College. It did not, and that is down to happenstance
as much as to the traditions, even the antipathy, of political science. The
political science profession is small in Australia and it has often been
the case that a few individuals can exert a disproportionate influence over the
profession’s development (Rhodes 2009). Alan Davis was the Australian
pioneer in psychosocial biography. No one played the equivalent role for
British biography.
For me, life history is a construct of its times. We construct complex
individuals so we can comprehend the ambiguous world in which we live.
Biography feeds our collective need to render reality knowable. It was ever
thus. As Nicolson observes of Lytton Strachey:
He was not one of those who readily attribute the complex interaction of events to
any divine or human agency. He knew that life was largely inexplicable and
fortuitous, that human actions are governed by chance more often than by will,
by emotion or instinct more often than by reason; he knew that public affairs are
in general but a series of improvisations and expedients (Nicolson 1927: 150).
The interpretive turn takes a variously constructed world, the unintended
consequences of human action, and contingency of public affairs as its basic
building blocks. It urges us to look for more and better ways of telling life
histories—genres of presentation—just like we need more and better ways of
19
For a more balanced assessment, see Renshon 2014. On the diverse work undertaken under
the label of ‘theories of personality’, see the essays in Corr and Matthews 2009; and the readings
in Funder and Ozer 2010. The Social Psychology Network is a valuable resource for the
interested reader; see http://www.socialpsychology.org/.
studying politics—genres of thought. If this chapter has focused on ‘governing

persons’ it is because it is a characteristic of the long-standing British tradition,
but it does not fix the boundaries of life history (Cohen and Morgan 2015).
Equally, although life history is an essential part of the political science toolkit,
it is obviously not the only method or invariably the most useful. Depending
on the questions we seek to answer, we can turn to ethnography or life history
or, the subject of Chapter 7, contemporary history.
7
On Court Politics
As Elgie (2011: 64) claims, the ideas of the core executive and resource
dependence have become the ‘new orthodoxy’ in executive studies (see Rhodes
2017, Volume I, Chapter 9), although there are spirited arguments around the
question of the ‘predominant prime minister’ (see Rhodes 2017, Volume I,
Chapter 12). In this chapter, I argue for a convergence between the core
executive and the predominant prime minister theses on the idea of ‘court
politics’.1 In doing so, I draw on the genres of presentation and thought found
in the field of contemporary history. I suggest that marrying the notion of
court politics to the historical analysis of high politics opens a challenging new
research agenda for executive studies. The tools of historical analysis deployed
by Maurice Cowling and the New Political History provide a toolkit for
accessing these insights. In the second section, I provide a brief summary of
an interpretive approach to contemporary history. In the third section,
I make the case for drawing on the New Political History. I sketch its distinc-
tive features, with examples, and explain its relevance to executive studies.
In the fourth section, I review, with examples, the existing literature on court
politics; James Bulpitt on statecraft, and Donald Savoie on court government.
Finally, I identify the advantages of using an interpretive approach to study
court politics.
1
This chapter draws on four previously published articles and chapters: R. A. W. Rhodes
(2013) ‘From Prime Ministerial Leadership to Court Politics’. In Paul Strangio, Paul ‘t Hart and
James Walter (eds), Understanding Prime Ministerial Performance: Comparative Perspectives.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 318–33. Reprinted by permission of Oxford University
Press. R. A. W. Rhodes (2014) ‘Core Executives, Prime Ministers, Statecraft and Court Politics:
Towards Convergence’. In Glyn Davis and R. A. W. Rhodes (eds), The Craft of Governing: The
Contribution of Patrick Weller to Australian Political Science. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen &
Unwin, pp. 53–72. Reprinted with permission. R. A. W. Rhodes (2016) ‘Executive Governance:
An Interpretive Analysis’. In N. Turnbull (ed.), Interpreting Governance, High Politics and
Public Policy. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, pp. 79–96 © 2016 CCC Republication (Licence by
Taylor and Francis). and R. A. W. Rhodes (1997b) ‘Organizing Perspectives on British
Government’. ESRC Whitehall Programme/PRO Conference on ‘Whitehall in the 1950s and
1960s’, Public Records Office, Kew, 16–17 April 1997.
INTERPRETIVE HISTORY
Human action is historically contingent, ‘characterised by ineluctable contin-

gencies, temporal fluidity and contextual specificity’. So, any explanation must
take into account contingencies and their links to specific contexts (Bevir and
Kedar 2008: 506). As with interpretive ethnography, the aim of interpretive
history is complex specificity in context. The notion of tradition is central to
understanding the contexts of action. I use it, rather than structure or epis-
teme, because it suggests that individuals, through their agency, can adjust and
transform this heritage even as they pass it on to others. Individuals use local
reasoning consciously and subconsciously to reflect on and modify their
contingent heritage; they are situated agents (Bevir and Rhodes 2006a: 4–5
and 7–9; and Chapter 2, this volume).
Historians have their own interpretive tradition. Philosophers of history
such as Collingwood mounted a swingeing critique of history’s mainstream in
the 1930s, drawing on, for example, the work of Benedetto Croce (1921). More
recently, White (1973: 429) has suggested that:
no given theory of history is convincing or compelling to a given public solely on
the basis of its adequacy as an ‘explanation’ of the ‘data’ contained in its narrative,
because, in history, as in the social sciences in general, there is no way of pre-
establishing what will count as ‘datum’ and what will count as ‘theory’ by which
to ‘explain’ what the data ‘mean’.
Such ‘constructivist’ theories often suggest narratives are the stuff of all the
human sciences where narratives are ‘as much invented as found’ so there is an
‘irreducible and inexpungable element of interpretation’ (White 1978: 51 and 82).
For example, Collingwood (1978 [1939]) argues that historians ask questions
and answer them with stories to make sense out of ‘facts’, which in their raw
form make no sense at all. He summarizes his position as follows:
history should be (a) . . . an answering of questions; (b) concerned with human
action in the past; (c) pursued by interpretation of evidence; and (d) for the sake
of human self-knowledge (1993: 10–11).
And Collingwood means knowledge is ‘created, not discovered, because evi-
dence is not evidence until it makes something evident’ (Collingwood 1965: 99
italics in original). This approach does not mean there are no ‘facts’, only that
historians construct them. So, all facts come with a point of view.2 The human
sciences are constructed and shaped by language and the theories used.3 The
2
For a recent, scathing critique of ‘the cult of the fact’ in history, see Skinner (2002: ch. 2).
3
This chapter does not explore the argument that the choice of language or tropes (White
1973: ch. 1 and 1978: ch. 2) prefigures both the story (and its plot) and, therefore, the explanation
(see also Barthes 1970). Lacking a shared technical language, politics and history rely on familiar
figures of speech (or ordinary language) to create meaning. So, ‘the way in which we tell our
On Court Politics 117
resulting interpretation is always incomplete, always open to challenge. So, to

the question ‘what is the correct approach to history?’ White (1973: 4)
answers:
it does not depend upon the nature of the 'data' they used to support their general-
isations or the theories they invoked to explain them; it depends rather upon the
consistency, coherence and illuminative power of their respective visions of the
historical field. This is why they cannot be 'refuted', or their generalisations 'discon-
firmed', either by appeal to new data that might be turned up in subsequent research
or by elaboration of a new theory interpreting the set of events that comprise
their objects of representation and analysis. Their status as models of historical
representation and conceptualisation depends, ultimately, on the preconceptual and
specifically poetic nature of the perspectives on history and its processes.
Historical narratives are ‘as much invented as found’; ‘there is an irreducible
and inexpungable element of interpretation’ . . . ‘There can be no explanation
in history without a story, so there can be no story without a plot’ (White 1978:
51, 82, and 62). This genre of thought is exemplified to this day by the work of
Mark Bevir (1999) and Quentin Skinner (2002).4
THE NEW POLITICAL HISTORY
The main sources in the study of the New Political History, sometimes
referred to as the study of ‘High Politics’, are fragmentary.5 There is no
defining statement, no manifesto, although Craig (2010) draws together vari-
ous strands and provides a helpful conspectus. Here, I outline briefly the
founding ideas of Maurice Cowling on ‘High Politics’ before turning to the
broader agenda of present-day scholars and their concern with the intellectual
context of the game of politics.
The founder of the so-called ‘Peterhouse School’ of history is Maurice Cowling.6
For Cowling, the ‘High Politics’ approach meant studying the intentions and
stories’ is ‘dictated by the dominant figurative mode of the language he has used to describe the
elements of his account prior to his composition of the narrative’. In effect, ‘historians constitute
their subjects as possible objects of narrative representation by the very language they use to
describe them’ (White 1978: 94–5, emphasis added).
4
For an introduction to the ‘interpretive turn’ or ‘the linguistic turn’ in contemporary history,
see Jenkins 1995, 1997. A personal selection of relevant texts would include Ankersmit 1989;
Barthes 1970 [1961]; Stedman-Jones 1983; Collingwood 1993 [1946]; Oakeshott 2004 [1983];
and White 1973.
5
On the New Political History, see Bentley and Stevenson 1983; Craig 2010; Green and
Tanner 2007; Lawrence and Taylor 1997; Pederson 2002; Stedman-Jones 1983; Vernon 1996;
and Williamson 1999.
6
Cowling (1971: 1–12) discusses the character of ‘High Politics’, and Cowling (1967: 311–40)
discusses the sources for identifying the beliefs and practices (or in his terms, intentions and
actions of a political leadership network which consisted of ‘fifty or sixty

politicians in conscious tension with one another whose accepted authority
constituted political leadership’. High politics was ‘a matter of rhetoric and
manoeuvre’ by statesmen (Cowling 1971: 3–4). He explores the tension
between ‘situational necessity and the intentions of politicians’ using the letters,
diaries, and private papers of this network of elite leaders. His people behave
‘situationally’ but Cowling never deploys such reified notions as institution or
class. Such ‘structures’ are defined by the elite; they choose which ones they will
pay attention to. Instead he asks ‘what influences played upon, what intentions
were maintained, what prevision was possible and what success was achieved
by the leading actors on the political stage’ (Cowling 1967: 322).
He analyses the realpolitik of the governing elite. His approach is charac-
terized by ‘relativistic individualism’ (Ghosh 1993: 276, n. 76) and an emphasis
on historical contingency:
Between the closed world in which decisions were taken and the external pres-
sures it reflected, the connections were so devious and diverse that no necessity
can be predicated of the one in relation to the other. Between the inner political
world and society at large on the one hand and between personal and policy
objectives on the other, no general connection can be established except whatever
can be discovered in each instance about the proportions in which each reacted
on the other (Cowling 1967: 340).
There were two recurring criticisms of Cowling’s work; that he focused
exclusively on the governing elite and that he disregarded interests and ideas.
Craig (2010: 456 and 462) considers these criticisms ‘misleading’; for example,
Cowling sees rhetoric as expressed belief as part of the toolkit of every politician.
Nonetheless, as Williamson (2010: 131 and 141) observes, Cowling’s ‘most
noted and notorious contribution to political history’ was ‘High Politics’ and
his insistence that political leaders had ‘relative autonomy, with substantial
independence in taking decisions’. A fine example of this approach is Philip
Williamson’s biography of Stanley Baldwin.
Williamson (1999: 12–18) argues that two approaches are necessary to
understand major politicians. First, there is the study of ‘High Politics’:
in the interpretative, not simple descriptive, sense, where the narrative is not of
one politician nor even of one party, but rather of the whole system of political
leadership. Here individuals are placed within the full multi-party and multi-
policy contexts which properly explain the details of their careers.
Second, there is biography, in which it is necessary to go beyond chronological
narrative to examine ‘the nature and practice of political leadership’. Context
exists not as political parties, institutions, or public opinion, but as the narrative
political actions) of the political elite. His approach is assessed sympathetically in Craig 2010 and
Williamson 2010 and more critically in Ghosh 1993.
the elite both tells itself and seeks to persuade others to accept. This approach
explores ‘the remorseless situational and tactical pressures, the chronic uncer-
tainties, and the short horizons which afflict all political leadership’; and it
looks for ‘the qualities that really distinguish and explain a politician’s effect-
iveness . . . in the longer term consistencies or patterns’. In other words, the
study of ‘High Politics’ necessarily involves the study of statesmanship
(Williamson 1999: 12–18).
Baldwin’s reputation suffered ‘enduring denigration’ as the prime minister
who betrayed the nation by putting party before country by delaying rearma-
ment and appeasing Hitler. Critics at the time and during the 1940s demon-
strate much ability in blurring the distinction between alleged facts, supposed
facts, and agreed facts (see Williamson 2004 for a thorough rebuttal). Belying his
latter-day critics, Baldwin was a politician of high standing in his day. He was
leader of the opposition, in effect prime minister as Lord President of the
Council in the coalition, and prime minister for some 14 years. Williamson
explores Baldwin’s use of political rhetoric in his speeches and other public
political and non-political presentations to identify the foundations of this
success. He suggests that ‘politicians are what they speak and publish’, so he
uses the speeches to show how Baldwin persuaded his audiences, shaped
opinion, and created political allegiance. Baldwin was the first politician to
master public broadcasting but he also used photographs and the cinema
to present himself attractively. Williamson adds these presentational skills to
Baldwin’s skills at ministerial coordination, his political judgement, party man-
agement, and reputation in parliament to explain his standing between the wars.
But, and crucially, the bedrock to this reputation lay in his detachment; his non-
political persona; his probity; and his ability to address the anxieties of the
average person in a way that harnessed them to the Conservative cause.
He eased social reconciliation after the Depression; socialized the Labour Party
to parliamentary ways and government; and created modern ‘One Nation’
Conservatism, capturing the political centre and restoring popular respect
for politicians. Williamson’s book is a skilful blend of history and biography
that focuses on the beliefs of the key protagonist as analysed through his
personal papers and speeches. It exemplifies, as Pederson (2002: 40–2) sug-
gests, the move away from structural and class-based explanations of politics
to politics as ‘an enclosed rule bound game’ and to the ‘intellectual setting’ of
that game.
The study of ‘High Politics’ contributes to political science in two ways.
First, it builds on the idealist political thought and constructivist history of, for
example, Michael Oakeshott and R. G. Collingwood (see Craig 2010: 465–9).
It is also consistent with recent work in interpretive political science. As Craig
(2010: 474) concludes:
Cowling adopted positions which find remarkable resonance in some of the most
recent and reflective accounts of the historical method (referring to Bevir 1999
and Bevir and Rhodes 2003, emphasis added).
So, the bridges exist, we just need to cross them. There is much irony here:
The theoretical trends of the past twenty years, with which Maurice Cowling
would surely have not been in sympathy, have essentially brought his opponents
to his door (Pederson 2002: 41).
Second, and of particular importance, the proponents of the ‘High Politics’
approach redefine the function of history in political science and, in so
doing, fill gaps in our toolkit. Thus, Dennis Kavanagh (1991) argues that ‘the
contribution of history, as the systematic study of the past, to political science
has been more as a body of knowledge than as a set of methods’ (Kavanagh
1991: 480). He identifies five uses of history in political science:
as a source of material or data; as an aid to understanding the links between the
present and past; as a body of knowledge within which to test theories and
frameworks; as a means of analysing political ideas and texts; and as a source of
lessons (Kavanagh 1991: 483).
In effect, he reduces historians to fact grubbers for political scientists. It is
scarcely a surprise that historians do not agree. Lawrence and Taylor (1997:
15–16) are only two of the dissenting voices. They reject the historian’s role of
‘furnishing anecdotal material and suggestive counter evidence for the
[models of] political scientists’. Rather they argue ‘the proper task of the
historian should be to render theory problematic . . . because many theories
simply do not time-travel very well’. Archival research using the private papers
and speeches of elite actors is an essential tool for uncovering the beliefs and
practices of the governing elite and understanding their actions (and see
Williamson 2010: 119–20; and Cowling 1967: 311–40 on methods and
sources). Cowling and Williamson exemplify the skills that political scientists
could use in the service of their own questions and concepts. And political
scientists need the help. In short, to turn Kavanagh on his head, history is less
a body of knowledge and more a set of methods; tools we can use to explore
the beliefs and practices of the court.
COURT P OLITICS; THE P RECURSORS
An interpretive approach to executive studies is characterized by its focus on

individuals, not positions; court politics, not the power of the prime minister;
and meanings, not structures. It emphasizes the beliefs and practices of
interdependent core executive actors, the traditions in which they are located,
and the games people in relationships of mutual dependence play to resolve
dilemmas. This shift captures the intense rivalry between, for example, Tony
Blair and Gordon Brown or Kevin Rudd and Julia Gillard. It also rejects any
notion of dominance by any one actor or set of actors. As Norton (2000: 116–17)
argues, ministers are barons, protecting their turf and forming alliances with
and against central agencies. The analysis of court politics focuses on such
actions; on the beliefs and practices of the political and administrative elite.
Court politics have existed throughout the ages:7
Human nature does not change . . . the skulduggery—and downright lies—by
which Pitt contrived to down Fox . . . are echoed in the calculated manoeuvrings
by which Macmillan repeatedly denied Butler, and by Brown’s obsessive briefing
against Blair (Campbell 2010: 7).
The ideas of high politics and statecraft have already crept into political
science most notably in James Bulpitt’s analysis of ‘statecraft’ and Donald
Savoie’s notion of ‘court government’.
Statecraft
For Bulpitt (1995: 518) ‘“The Court” is . . . the formal Chief Executive, plus his/
her political friends and advisers’. Members of the court, the political elite,
have an ‘operating code’, which is ‘less than a philosophy of government and
yet more than a specific collection of policies. It refers to the accepted rules of
“statecraft” as employed over time by political elites’ (Bulpitt 1983: 68, n. 23).
The statecraft of the court comprises: a set of governing objectives (or
‘beliefs’); a governing code (or ‘practices’); and a set of political support
mechanisms; for example, party management (Bulpitt 1995: 519). ‘Statecraft
is about the relationship between ideas and political practice. It is about short-
term politicking or tactical manoeuvring’ (Buller 1999: 695). It is about
gaining and keeping office, creating an image of governing competence, and
creating government autonomy over ‘High Politics’. It is an exercise in
realpolitik. There is a clear overlap here with Maurice Cowling; they share a
concern with the political elite, high politics, and realpolitik.8
The approach rests on three assumptions. First, Bulpitt (1995: 517) assumes
the Court will ‘behave in a unitary (united) fashion’. Second, he assumes the
Court possesses a ‘relative autonomy’ from structural factors (1995: 518).
Finally, he assumes the Court is rational: that is, will ‘develop strategies
7
See, for example, the debate about court government in the Tudor period in Elton 1976 and
Starkey 1987.
8
On Bulpitt and ‘statecraft’, see Bulpitt 1983, 1986, 1995, and 1996. For a useful summary, see
Buller and James 2012 and, for critical evaluations, see Bevir 2010; and Buller 1999. See also
Dennis Kavanagh’s obituary of Bulpitt in The Independent, 25 May 1999; and the special issue of
Government & Politics 45 (3) 2010. On ‘court government’, see Savoie 1999 and 2008. See also
Buckley 2014; Campbell 2010; Dexter 1977; and Rhodes 2011a.
which will enable them to attempt to pursue consistently their own interests’
(1995: 519). There are several problems with this version of Court Politics.
Bulpitt is well served by his several disciples, most notably James Buller,
Jonathan Bradbury, and Toby James. The criticisms that follow apply to the
statecraft thesis, not just to Bulpitt. His disciples claim him for the realist
school of political philosophy. I suggest that a more congenial home would be
interpretive political history.
First, a persistent criticism of the statecraft thesis ‘has been its indifference
to empirical refutation’ and, indeed, to methods more generally (Buller 1999:
704). Bulpitt (1983: 239) concedes the point; ‘the supporting data for many
of these arguments is much less than perfect’. As Buller (1999: 704) notes,
‘acquiring knowledge about governing codes is a task beset with analytical
problems’. The New Political History addresses these matters much more
satisfactorily.
Second, Buller (1999: 699–705) argues that Bulpitt neglects ontological and
epistemological questions, which is undoubtedly an accurate observation, and
the muddles that ensue can be clearly seen in Bulpitt’s assumptions about the
court. None of these assumptions is necessary and all betray a lingering
modernist-empiricism in his thought.
Bulpitt (1995: 517) considered all his assumptions as ‘operating assump-
tions, something to guide the analysis until it becomes unsatisfactory’. He
qualified the first assumption straight away, calling the question of who is the
principal actor as ‘a very real problem’ (1995: 518). For the analysis of court
politics, it is less important to ask when the court is united than to ask when
there are factions, and what the consequences are. The second assumption of
relative autonomy reflects Bulpitt’s epistemological confusions. The language
of neo-Marxist state theory has no place in his analysis of high politics. Finally,
and again, by assuming elite actors are rational, Bulpitt reveals his commit-
ment to modernist-empiricism. Bevir (2010: 443) concluded that Bulpitt was
unusual in combining modernist-empiricism with Tory historiography.
I suggest statecraft is better recast as an exercise in interpretive history.
I reject Bulpitt’s fixation on modernist-empiricist topics and suggest it will
be more profitable to employ the notion of situated agency and ask what
traditions shape the Court’s beliefs and practices (that is, its statecraft).
Buller (1999) seeks to resolve many of these issues by appealing to critical
realism, and creates a new set of problems, mainly because critical realism and
Bulpitt’s work are uneasy bedfellows. As Bevir (2010: 445) suggests:
Bulpitt’s account of the interests of the central elite and the particular behavioural
topics on which he focuses reflect his debt to a Tory Tradition. He draws in
particular on historians such as Lewis Namier and Jack Plumb, treating their
portrait of the eighteenth century court as an ideal type applicable to the whole of
British history. This Tory moment provides him with his distinction between
court and country and high and low politics.
It is hard to see how this mix of Tory historiography and modernist-empiricism

can be assimilated to either critical realism or, as James (2013) suggests, the new
institutionalism. Bulpitt equivocated about the notions of institutions and
structure when they were used as a reified, deterministic explanation of elite
actors’ behaviour:
It may be convenient to leave the definition of structure at any one time to the
designated principal actors; on most occasions they will be able to choose which
structural features preoccupy them and in what sequence they will be tackled
(Bulpitt 1995: 518).
This view of structure fits uneasily with the critical realists’ claims of ‘necessity’
and ‘emergent properties’. This position simply does not admit of structures
that have ‘causal powers’ (Buller 1999: 706).
Buller’s views on structure overlap with Heffernan’s (2005: 610, emphasis
added) analysis of prime ministerial predominance:
How do actors exchange resources? They do so under the structures imposed by
the political system. Institutional imperatives decide the arrangement of relations
between, say, the executive, the legislature and the judiciary. They also determine
intra-executive, legislative and judicial configurations.
Here we have a clear dividing line between existing approaches in executive
studies and the interpretive approach favoured here. Both Buller and Heffernan
reify and overstate the effect of ‘structure’. Structures are best understood as
inherited practices that are always open to change. Most discussions of
‘structure’, when looked at critically, dissolve into ‘traditions’ and ‘practices’,
and if they do not, they have not been looked at critically enough (Bevir and
Rhodes 2006b, 2006c). Interpretive theory addresses these matters more
satisfactorily with its notions of beliefs and practices, traditions, and situated
agency. I now turn to discuss the idea of court politics as a specific example of
situated agency.
Court Politics
Court politics exists as journalists’ reportage and in the auto/biographies,

diaries and memoirs of politicians but is rarely at the heart of academic
analyses of present-day government.9 An important exception is Savoie’s
9
On the reportage, auto/biographies, memoirs, and diaries relevant to court politics, there are
too many items for a complete listing here. Recent examples for Australia include: Blewett 1999;
and Watson 2002. Recent examples for Britain include: Beckett and Hencke 2004; Blunkett 2006;
Mandelson 2010; Peston 2005; Rawnsley 2001, 2010; Richards 2010; Seldon 2004; Seldon et al.
2007; and Seldon and Lodge 2010. Recent examples for Canada include: Savoie 1999, 2003, 2008;
and Wells 2013.
(1999, 2008) analysis of ‘court government’. He defines the court as ‘the prime
minister and a small group of carefully selected courtiers’. It also covers the
‘shift from formal decision-making processes in cabinet . . . to informal pro-
cesses involving only a handful of actors’. He suggests that:
Court government provides quick and unencumbered access to the levers of
power to make things happen and to pick and choose those political, policy
and administrative issues that appeal to prime ministers or that need resolution
because the media are demanding immediate answers (Savoie 2008: 231).
It suits the prime ministers and his courtiers:
because it enables them to get things done, to see results, and to manage the news
and the media better than when formal cabinet processes are respected. Written
documents can be kept to a minimum, minutes of meetings do not have to be
prepared, records of decisions are not necessary, formal processes can put
aside, and only the most essential interdepartmental consultations have to be
undertaken.
However, there are problems. Savoie (2008: 230 and 339) argues the key
adverse consequences are centralization and the collapse of accountability:
‘the centre has slowly but surely been made deliberately stronger’ and ‘the
chain of accountability . . . has broken down at every level’. Savoie (2008: 25)
also suggests that ‘senior civil servants no longer have the experience, the
knowledge, or the institutional memory to speak truth to power’.
This centralization has been brought about by the 24/7 news cycle and the
personalization of politics; the rise of neo-liberalism and its critique of positive
government and bureaucracy; the exigencies of the war on terror and other
global trends; increasing demands for domestic policy coordination; and the
pluralization of policy advice and the need to coordinate inputs from multiple
sources. The emergence and growing importance of political staff is a response
to these perceived pressures.10
In Savoie’s account, court government and centralization are virtual syn-
onyms. Court government is not just an analytical category but an attack on
the predominant power of the Canadian prime minister and the decline of
cabinet government. There are problems with both the analytical and the
critical sides of his argument.
First, Savoie’s conception of court government is too narrow. I accept there
is often an inner sanctum but participants in high politics are rarely so few.
I prefer Cowling’s more expansive definition. The number of participants is
still limited. But, as well as the core network or inner circle, we can also talk
of circles of influence (Hennessy 2000: 493–500); usage that accords with
10
See, for example, Buckley 2014: 151–63; Peters, Rhodes, and Wright 2000; Savoie 2008:
chs 4 and 5.
political folklore. In the more formal language of political science, the court
is a set of interlocking, interdependent networks. For example, Burch and
Holliday (1996, 2004) suggest that the prime minister is at the core of the core
networks supported by enhanced central capacity that increases the power
potential of the prime minister. However, ‘the enhancement of central cap-
acity within the British system of government reflects contingent factors,
including the personalities of strategically-placed individuals (notably, but
not only, the PM)’ (Burch and Holliday 2004: 17). They note that such changes
are ‘driven by prime ministerial whim’ and ‘if they so desire, [prime ministers]
try to shape the core in their own image’ However, the extent to which they
can do so ‘depends on the motivation and skill of key actors, and on the
circumstances in which they find themselves at any given moment in time’
(Burch and Holliday 2004: 20).
The court is a key part of the organizational glue holding the centre
together. It coordinates the policy process by filtering and packaging pro-
posals. It contains and manages conflicts between ministerial barons. It acts as
the keeper of the government’s narrative. It acts as the gatekeeper and broker
for internal and external networks. And its power ebbs and flows with that of
the prime minister.
Second, Savoie’s version of the centralization thesis pays too little attention
to the constraints on the prime minister and his court. These arguments have
been well rehearsed elsewhere, so I can be brief (see Rhodes 1997c for a
review). Baronial ministers persist, and prime ministers are dependent on
senior colleagues. It is hard to see how a prime minister can be predominant
when his authority is continuously challenged, even undermined, by an
ambitious finance minister, whether it is Gordon Brown in Britain or Paul
Martin in Canada. No prime minister can intervene continuously in every-
thing. They are defeated by the complexity of government and the massive
demands on their time not only from the international arena, but also from
the more prosaic need to make speeches, media appearances, manage the
party caucus, and question time in the House of Commons—the list is endless,
the diary is packed. He or she has to be selective. Moreover, intervention may
not have the desired effect, and it is important to distinguish between inten-
tions and outcomes. Prime ministers are quickly distracted, so incrementalism
characterizes the overwhelming bulk of government policy-making, not dra-
matic interventions by the prime minister.
It helps to distinguish between the electoral, policy-making, and implemen-
tation arenas. Prime ministerial predominance is most obvious in media man-
agement and electioneering. In the policy-making arena, there is some evidence
to support the claim of centralization on the prime minister’s office. However,
for Australia and Canada as well as Britain, this claim applies to selected policy
areas only, with the equally important provisos that the prime minister’s
attention is selective and intervention is intermittent. Arguably, the continuous
search to improve coordination by central agencies speaks of the failure of

such coordination, not its success. The prime minister’s influence is most
constrained in the policy implementation arena. Here, other senior govern-
ment figures, ministers, and their departments, other agencies, state or pro-
vincial government and even local governments can be key actors. Prime
ministers are nodal actors but they are still one actor among many inter-
dependent ones in the networks that criss-cross central, state, and local
government, and beyond.
The simple point is that the court government thesis is analytically distinct
from the centralization thesis. The question of their relationship is a matter of
evidence and argument, but it is not a matter of definition. As most propon-
ents of the predominant prime minister thesis concede, Savoie included
(personal interview, 22 July 2014), there is much ebb and flow. For every
Pierre Trudeau and Jean Chrétien, there is a Kim Campbell and John Turner;
for every Clement Attlee and Margaret Thatcher there is an Anthony Eden or
Alex Douglas Hume; and for every Robert Menzies and John Howard there is
a William McMahon or Kevin Rudd. Parenthetically, avowedly predominant
prime ministers do not do well in the reputational rankings of prime ministers
(see Strangio et al. 2013: part III).
CONCLUSIONS
The term ‘court politics’ has several advantages, not least of which is that it
suggests many promising lines of research.
First, the term ‘blurs genres’ (Geertz 1983a: 19). The New Political History
builds bridges not only between disciplines but also between the various
approaches to executive government in political science. For example,
Bennister (2007: 337) and ‘t Hart (2014: 75–6) cite with approval Rhodes’s
work on court politics. The example of the New Political History should lead
us to purchase a hunting licence to raid the humanities for more ideas and
tools, whether it is architecture (Goodsell 1988), film and the visual arts
(Borins 2011), or literature (Waldo 1968). They are all examples of how
blurring genres of both thought and presentation leads to edification.
Second, court politics, when allied to an interpretive approach, has an
ontological and epistemological foundation that is missing from earlier uses
of the term by, for example, Bulpitt, Cowling, and Savoie. In all probability, all
three authors would be unsympathetic to the theory and reject any suggestion
of convergence, but the affinities are strong.
Third, my approach provides the organizing concepts for a systematic
analysis of elite actors. I suggest the notions of beliefs, practices, traditions,
and dilemmas are effective tools for unpacking the statecraft of elite actors and
their networks. Two examples will do. First, in sharp contrast to Bulpitt, the
interpretive approach turns attention away from the Tory moment to an
exploration of the several ‘traditions against the background of which elites
construct their world views’. There is no assumption of unity, only an explor-
ation of ‘whether different sections of the elite . . . draw on different traditions
to construct different narratives of the world’ (Bevir 2010: 455). Second, the
volume of ‘private information’ reported in the work of biographers like
Anthony Seldon and journalists like Andrew Rawnsley is impressive, and
will bear secondary analysis such as mapping the membership of the Blair
and Brown courts. We need to mine all publicly available information,
irrespective of discipline or profession.
Fourth, I have shown that the toolkit of political science must include the
skills of the historian. Documentary evidence in its many forms is the bed-
rock for the analysis of court politics. Williamson’s craft lies in his analysis
of Baldwin’s personal papers both conventional—diaries, letters, and
publications—and less conventional—speeches and film appearances. Like
Cowling, he shows we can explore the beliefs and practices of the governing
elite by studying their papers. We have to wait for much of this documentary
material to become available from families and friends as well as official
sources. Perhaps we are too concerned to comment on the present day.
After all, we have 85 years of the twentieth century to play with, including
the private and official documents of the Thatcher era. Perhaps we underesti-
mate just how much is out there. There is much that political scientists could
use in exploring the webs of beliefs, practices, and traditions in the shape-
shifting core networks.
Fifth, court politics addresses matters of practical import. The key question
is whether court politics support or undermine the search for greater central
coordination. What are the circumstances in which court politics become an
effective form of executive governance? For Walter (2010: 9–10), ‘court
politics’ implies small, closed-group decision-making. He is concerned about
the potential for dysfunction—poor decision-making, an inability and unwill-
ingness to engage in ‘rigorous reality-testing’, and other pathologies, if such
decision-making should become routine. I report a siege mentality, which
fosters short-termism, stereotyping, and inward-looking processes of decision-
making during a political crisis (Rhodes 2011a: 275–6; see also Rhodes and
Tiernan 2016). However, I think it is a mistake to focus on the pathologies of
small-group decision-making. For example, ‘t Hart (2014: 76–81) distin-
guishes usefully between the court as think-tank, as sanctuary, as arena, and
as ritual. We need to tease out such patterns in court politics and their
intended and unintended consequences.
The study of the court and high politics poses many challenges around
access, secrecy, and publication. The obvious objection is that the secrecy
surrounding court politics limits access. The point has force, but we must not
succumb to the rule of anticipated reactions and just assume access will be
denied. We expect to be denied access to the Cabinet, matters of national
security and the budget, but government has more faces and many are
accessible. Moreover, such problems are a feature of the ethnographic enter-
prise, not just executive studies. In Chapter 4 (this volume), I discussed at
some length the frailties of fieldwork. I will not repeat that discussion. I will
just observe that more often than not researchers surmount the obstacles.
There are examples of outsiders gaining good access, whether biographers
(Moore 2015; Seldon 2004; Seldon et al. 2007; Seldon and Lodge 2010),
journalists (Peston 2005; Rawnsley 2001, 2010), or academics (Rhodes
2011a; Shore 2000). Biographers probe the reasons. Journalists with their
exposé tradition probe actions to show ‘all is not as it seems’. Each has their
explanations of the changes in the court politics of executive government.
Both observe people in action. Whatever the differences, all gained access and
published. If we want to know this world, then we must follow their example,
tell our stories, and strive to help readers see executive governance afresh.
A political anthropology of the executive’s court politics may be a daunting
prospect but it behoves us to try because court politics matter for effective and
accountable government.
Court politics are ubiquitous but are more often described than analysed,
judged rather than unpacked:
In a curious way the triumph of mass democracy has brought politics full circle.
Though Parliament is no longer the cockpit, in other respects we have returned to
the narrow eighteenth century world of patronage, self-promotion and mutual
back-scratching where there is nothing at stake but the achievement and retention
of office and the opportunities for personal enrichment that it brings. Politics today
is little more than a childish game played out by a small and introverted political
class, largely ignored by a cynical and alienated electorate except when it throws up
some titillating scandal. It was always a game, of course—that was the fascination
which kept players like Fox, Disraeli and Macmillan at the table and the audience
riveted by every throw of the dice; but it was once a great game, played by serious
minded people for serious causes for high stakes (Campbell 2010: 7).
This chapter does not seek to occupy such moral high ground, merely to
suggest that historians provide the essential tools for exploring the inter-
dependent set of networks, beliefs, and practices at the summit of government.
It will open a Faustian world:
Most nights are slow in the politics business but once in a while you get a fast one,
a blast of wild treachery and weirdness that not even the hard boys can handle. It
is an evil trade, on most days, and nobody smart will defend it (Hunter
S. Thompson 2009: 679).
Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, Kevin Rudd, and Julia Gillard are all familiar with
blasts of wild treachery, as were the Manchu court, Imperial Rome, and the
English court during the Wars of the Roses. It is the stock of fiction, whether
the faction of The White Queen or the fantasy of The Game of Thrones. Prime
ministers live in shark-infested networks. We can watch from the safety of the
sidelines. It is not our business to defend. It is our business to report and
analyse who does what to whom, when, where, how, and why, not because we
are prurient but because court politics matters for effective and accountable
government.
There are strong affinities between interpretive history and interpretive
ethnography (Macfarlane 2013). Both select and interpret ‘facts’. Both aim
for complex specificity in context. Both make a leap of imagination to bridge
the gap between their own experiences and those of their subject matter. Both
seek distance from the familiar and understanding of the unfamiliar. Both use
small facts to speak to large issues. Research starts with a puzzle which nags
away, like toothache, because we can’t solve it. We use any research tool to find
the solution. We even talk to colleagues! There is no choice to be made
between cultural anthropology, biography, contemporary history, and polit-
ical science. We take whatever we need—whether theory, methods, or
presentation—from all four, and beyond. At best, we get edification. At worst,
we improve our writing (on which see Chapter 12, this volume).
First and foremost, it is the puzzle that counts, and I have ignored my pet
puzzle of how things work in British governments for too long. In Part II
I provide four examples of my preferred approach at work and in the next
chapter I draw on women’s studies to explore the ways in which the depart-
mental court is gendered.
Part III
Applications
8
On Greedy Institutions
I N T R O D U C TI O N
Feminist scholarship and public administration engage with each other, but
infrequently.1 The wider public administration literature seldom addresses
gender questions (Miller and McTavish 2011). I seek to direct the attention of
feminist political scientists away from the parliamentary arena and women’s
policy agencies as the main sites for studying gender politics to a focus on the
executive in British government (Annesley and Gains 2010). I draw on the
subfield of gender and women’s studies in which the interpretive approach in
its several guises is probably the dominant genre of thought. I add women’s
studies to the New Political History and political anthropology as genres of
thought relevant to the study of politics and government.
In this chapter, I identify, map, and seek to understand the ways in which the
everyday beliefs and practices of British central government departments—or
specifically their ‘departmental courts’—are gendered. I revisit Rhodes 2011a
and my analysis of daily life in British central government departments using
a gender lens to uncover how constructions of masculinity and femininity are
enacted through everyday practices, and with what gendered consequences.
I draw on three organizing ideas—departmental courts, greedy institutions,
and gendered bureaucracies. I argue that the departmental courts are greedy
institutions and, as a result, women are constrained to manage like men.
This chapter takes as its starting point the need to understand the daily
workings of institutional life. How are institutions, understood as sedimented
1
This chapter is an edited and revised version of Fiona MacKay and R. A. W. Rhodes (2013)
‘Gender, Greedy Institutions and the Departmental Court’, Public Administration 91 (3):
582–98. Reprinted with permission of John Wiley and Sons. © Fiona Mackay and R. A. W.
Rhodes. I would like to thank the British Academy and the Academy of the Social Sciences in
Australia, International Collaborative Programme; and the University of Edinburgh School of
Social and Political Science for their help. Earlier versions of the chapter were presented at
the Political Studies Association Annual Conference, London, 2011, and the University of
Manchester Gender Research Network/FIIN international symposium on The Core Executive
and Gender, Manchester, 2011.
beliefs and practices, made and remade daily by actors, and with what
consequences? I argue that it is important to map and examine the ‘inner
life’ of an institution and the ways in which beliefs and practices confront
change to understand and explain the continuity of particular patterns of
beliefs and actions. I argue these patterns are gendered.
Government departments are ‘gendered’ organizations in that they embed
certain constructions of masculinity and femininity in their everyday beliefs
and practices that shape ‘ways of valuing things, ways of behaving, and ways
of being’ (Duerst-Lahti and Kelly 1995: 20). This conception is in marked
contrast with the idea of gender relations and gendered norms as ‘existing out
in society or fixed within individuals, which they then bring whole to the
institution’ (Kenney 1996: 456). Rather, gender is understood as a constitutive
element of social relations based on perceived (socially constructed and cross-
culturally variable) differences between women and men. It operates at the
subjective and interpersonal level through which humans identify themselves
and organize their relations with others. It is also embedded in practices and
the symbolic realm of meaning-making; in the webs of significance which
individual actors spin (Hawkesworth 2005: 143–5; Scott 1986). One of the key
ways in which gender works is through dichotomies whereby the social world
is understood through the association of masculinity and femininity with
particular attributes and values. The values and attributes associated with
masculinity (such as strength, rationality, activity) are counterposed with a
set of opposites (such as weakness, empathy, passivity), which are coded as
feminine. These associations go far beyond presumed character traits to
operate as a more general organizing frame. So, for example, in much Western
political thought and wider societal stereotypes, the public sphere is seen as
masculine and the private sphere as feminine; culture is associated with the
masculine and nature with the feminine; authority and leadership with mascu-
linity and deference and subordination with femininity (Hooper 2001; Sjoberg
2014). Gender provides an important means by which particular, often un-
equal, arrangements come to be seen as ‘natural’. Gender thus provides a lens
for analysing sedimented beliefs and practices and the differential outcomes of
distributional contests and discursive struggles.
The Departmental Court
British government departments are headed by an elected politician known as

the secretary of state (or minister). He or she is assisted by junior ministers,
referred to here as ministers of state, who are elected but appointed to their
ministerial post by the prime minister. The top official in the department is
known as the permanent secretary. Private offices support both ministers and
permanent secretaries. Civil servants staff both offices. A principal private
On Greedy Institutions 135
secretary (PPS), who will be a young civil servant expecting rapid promotion,
heads each office. The private office controls the diary, prepares and collates
the papers, and ensures that the minister turns up at meetings on time and
fully prepared. In these tasks, they work with the department’s functional
directorates, headed by a director general (DG). Taken together, these officials
comprise a small elite group who work closely with the elected politicians.
I argue that this team should be seen as the departmental executive (Rhodes
2011a). Ministers have a support system comprising more than the minister’s
private office and his or her principal private secretary (PPS). Commonly,
it also includes ministerial or special advisers (SpAds) who have their own
private secretary (PS); the private offices of ministers of state; the permanent
secretary’s private office, and some permutation of parliamentary, corres-
pondence, and business support units. So, one department had eight ministers
and about 80 people supporting them. I argued that it is more accurate to talk
of a ‘departmental court’ because of the hierarchical and monarchical tradi-
tions of government departments, which give rise to recognizable court
politics surrounding ministers and senior civil servants, to the competition
between ministers, and to the tensions within the court and with the rest of the
department and between civil servants and SpAds.
Gendered Bureaucracy
The feminist analysis of bureaucracy stresses that rather than being neutral,
the defining characteristics of bureaucracy have gendered foundations and
consequences. These characteristics are hierarchical organization, the div-
ision of labour, and technical rationality (Ferguson 1984; Yeatman 1990;
Stivers 2002). The culturally dominant beliefs and practices of masculinity
are associated with instrumental, goal-oriented behaviour; referred to as the
‘cultural masculinisation of authority’ (Franzway et al. 1989). Femininity is
associated with emotional and relational activities. As Ramsay and Parker
(1992: 262–5) comment, while both embody rationality, task-oriented
rationality is valued more than relational in bureaucratic hierarchies. So,
bureaucracies embed gendered values and rewards, most notably the sym-
bolic association of men and masculinity with the practices of control and
authority, and the devaluing of the beliefs and practices culturally and
historically associated with femininity, for example, empathy and cooperation.
Masculinity is associated historically with specific beliefs and practices, and
this inherited dominant managerial style shapes the beliefs and practices of
both men and women.
I agree with Billing’s (1994) critique of this literature that there is a need for
a nuanced portrait of bureaucracy (see also Britton 2000). Bureaucracies are
historically gendered in ways that tend to privilege men and specific sorts of
masculinity but that need not imply that bureaucracies are inherently gen-
dered, always gendered in the same way, or always produce similar gendered
consequences such as differential access and reward (Britton 2000). As Stivers
(2002) notes, asserting that the dominant ideas and values of bureaucracies are
masculine does not imply that all men embody these characteristics or that
such masculinities are monolithic. Rather, it is argued that certain historically
specific constructions of masculinity become ‘dominant’—limiting the beliefs
and practices against which others are measured and measure themselves.
Such notions of masculinity constrain and restrict men as well as women but,
in general, these underlying beliefs and practices with their implicit perform-
ance standards carry a greater cost and cause greater disadvantage to women
(Connell 2002; Stivers 2002). The continued public–private divide, ‘limits both
women’s opportunities to participate in public life and the time and energy
they have to devote to it’ (Stivers 2002: 4).
So, I seek to tease out the gendered assumptions and consequences of the
everyday practices of a specific bureaucracy—the departmental courts at the
heart of UK government. How do bureaucratic rules, practices, and beliefs
reflect and reproduce (unequal) gender relations? What are the gendered
consequences of everyday practices in the departmental courts at the top of
British government, for example do they disadvantage women?
Greedy Institutions
The metaphor of ‘greedy institutions’ provides another useful building block

for exploring the gendered departmental court. Coser (1974: 4) suggests that
‘greedy institutions’:
seek exclusive and undivided loyalty and attempt to reduce the claims of com-
peting roles and status positions on those they wish to encompass within their
boundaries. Their demands on the person are omnivorous.
Although the idea was developed in the study of trade unions, it has obvious
relevance to the senior civil service—and ministerial office—which, similarly,
relies on voluntary compliance, loyalty, trust, and commitment from its
members. As Watson (1994) notes, there is an informal ‘code of ethics of
the selfless civil/public servant’ in which there is a strong normative dimension
to the conventions of long hours, loyalty, and prioritization of work above all
other commitments (see also Stivers 2002; and for public bureaucracies more
generally, see Bird 2011; Kelly et al. 2011).
I use the metaphor of the ‘greedy institution’ to refer to the web of beliefs
and practices in government bureaucracies around the primacy of loyalty and
trust, and particularly around selfless commitment and long hours’ culture.
Franzway (2001: 33–4) developed the concept to highlight the problems greedy
institutions pose for women at work, particularly given the unequal division of
caring labour that still predominates in most societies. Greedy institutions can be
understood as gendered because the total commitment required (long hours,
privileging of work over social and intimate relationships, family, and social life)
comprises a form of ‘heroic masculinity’ (see, for example, Bellavita 1991; Terry
1991; Stivers 2002). This notion assumes there are others taking care of care
(including care of the hero), and devalues care work and relationships; it is
predicated on and reinforces a breadwinner–homemaker model.
For women, it presents a double bind in which they are expected to be as
committed to their work as male counterparts, while managing the practical
costs of caring responsibilities, and being ‘normatively required to give priority
to their family’ (Coser 1974: 94; see also Martin 2006; Stivers 2002). Women,
especially mothers, are still in the position where they are less likely to live up to
the inherited beliefs and practices of the bureaucracy. They are, therefore, less
likely to be perceived as high performers (Stivers 2002) or to accrue the benefits
associated with being a ‘good’ worker (Kelly et al. 2011) in greedy institutions.
THE GENDERED BUREAUCRACY

A N D TH E G R E ED Y C O URT
The beliefs and practices that comprise the gendered bureaucracy and ‘greedy
court’ include hierarchy and bureaucratic politics; civility, rationality, and
managing emotions; gendered patterns of work; and loyalty and commitment
as displayed by the long hours’ culture. I examine the way these features play
out in the everyday practices of the departmental court. I ask how things are
done around here. I seek to tease out the gendered consequences and costs of
these practices.
The Fieldwork
The original fieldwork was not concerned with how gender might play out in
these dynamics, and with what consequences (see Chapter 1, p. 9, this volume).
So, I re-analysed the reported data, the original transcribed interviews (TIs) and
the fieldwork note books (FWNB) by applying a gender lens. This thematic
analysis reveals new understandings of the traditions and practices of actors
in departmental courts. Unlike surveys, which are limited by the specific ques-
tions asked, ethnographic research is exploratory and characterized by deep
immersion in social worlds, so we can understand day-to-day practices, and
how these practices become meaningful. It lends itself to re-analysis wearing a

different set of spectacles. However, there are challenges when trying to uncover
beliefs and practices, and their gendered consequences; there are gaps and
silences. The relative lack of senior women as civil servants and ministers, and
their uneven distribution, pose practical problems. The interviews and fieldwork
observations were for citation but not for attribution; preserving anonymity
makes it difficult to undertake systematic comparison and fine-grained analysis
of, for example, male and female career trajectories or interdepartmental differ-
ences. Indeed, to preserve anonymity in the original study, I used the masculine
pronoun in reporting data on ministers and permanent secretaries, and collapsed
the three departments into one composite ‘court’.
A further issue for ethnographic approaches—which are about understanding
the daily world of actors on their own terms—is that the daily practices of gender
(and the beliefs underpinning such practices) are often unthinking rather than
purposive. Actors may not see the gendered consequences of daily practices
because of the taken-for-granted quality of gender relations and bureaucratic
beliefs and practices (Martin 2006; Stivers 2002). The question arises of whether
observation and interviews will uncover and analyse pervasive social relations
such as gender. Of course, much will depend on the skills of the observer, and
ethnographic fieldwork, like any other research method in the social sciences, has
its strengths and weaknesses (on which see Chapter 4, this volume).
GENDER AND THE ‘ DEPARTMENTAL COURT’
How are the institutions of the departmental court lived and enacted daily? In
this section, I describe the everyday practices associated with bureaucracy
(hierarchy and bureaucratic politics; civility, rationality, and managing emo-
tions; gendered patterns of work) and greedy institutions (loyalty and com-
mitment as demonstrated through long hours’ culture). The aim is to highlight
the ways in which, and with what consequences, gender is constructed, shaped,
and maintained through beliefs and practices of the departmental court.
Hierarchy and the Monarchical Tradition
It is a central tenet of feminist scholarship that masculinity is strongly

associated with hierarchical authority structures in many organizations
(Martin 2006). This association is particularly strong in political organizations
and bureaucracies (Lovenduski 1998; Savage and Witz 1992). Such studies
suggest that gender is practised in political institutions where men hold most
of the most powerful positions and most women are subordinate to men in the
formal authority structure, mirroring wider societal patterns of unequal gen-

der relations (Sjoberg 2014). It remains a commonplace observation that the
everyday life of the ‘departmental courts’ is still about the interactions of
‘overwhelmingly middle-aged, white, university-educated men’ (Bevir and
Rhodes 2006a: 111). This profile persists despite the long-standing formal
commitment to promoting equal opportunities and to targets increasing the
number of women and members of ethnic minorities in upper grades and the
senior civil service (Watson 1994; Annesley and Gains 2010). The departmen-
tal court constitutes gender as white, male, and middle-class and, therefore, as
I argue below, imposes significant constraints on female civil servants and
ministers seeking to act on an equal footing in their daily work.
Government departments embed culturally dominant masculine beliefs
and practices, which privilege hierarchical relationships of domination and
subordination, which in turn map onto cultural associations of masculinity
and femininity respectively (Stivers 2002; Savage and Witz 1992). The hier-
archy of bureaucracy is further reinforced by the monarchical tradition, which
persists as a central characteristic of the Westminster model and ministerial
practice in British government. Ministers are the public face of government.
They represent its authority. The minister is the Queen’s minister and accorded
due homage. The minister is called ‘Minister’ or ‘Secretary of State’ and rarely
addressed by his or her first name by officials. Outsiders display equivalent
verbal and physical deference. He or she is the centre of attention and this
simple fact is displayed in language, beliefs, and practices. Most ministers dress
to reinforce the appearance of rule. As a celebrity, the minister is escorted
everywhere in a chauffeur-driven car, greeted at doorways and on red carpets
by respectful hosts.
Hierarchy pervades every aspect of everyday life. I can take, for example, the
protocol concerning the ministerial telephone pecking order: ‘the more junior
minister rings and waits to be put through to the senior minister. Senior
ministers wait for no one on the phone other than the prime minister. The
prime minister waits for nobody.’ Whenever you hear the phrase, ‘Do you
want to put your minister on and I’ll put him through’, you know the
hierarchy protocol has been invoked. The departmental courts, like the rest
of the civil service, are highly stratified and hierarchical, with clear lines of
reporting and command. While informal practices of gossip and humour (see
Rhodes 2011a: Chapter 7) are used to express dissent, blow off steam, or ‘cut
people down to size’, this does not undermine the chain of command or dilute
loyalty to those at the apex of the power structure: the minister and the
permanent secretary. Loyalty is viewed as non-negotiable.
In seeking to understand the ways in which hierarchy has gendered conse-
quences, I turn my attention to three aspects of bureaucracy: bureaucratic
politics; civility, rationality, and managing emotions; and gendered patterns
of work.
Bureaucratic Politics
Explicit discussions of gender and ideas about appropriate gender relations

were not part of the original fieldwork. Despite that, I see evidence that the
culture of the departmental court is imbued with competitive masculinity both
in the language and practices of bureaucratic politics, and their underlying
beliefs. The hierarchical silos of government departments foster competition.
Bureaucratic politics is conceived as ‘turf wars’ rather than cooperation.
Officials from different departments attending meetings were ‘seen, even
described, as “strangers”’ (Rhodes 2011a: 182). Turf warfare is never far
away. The following example will suffice:
The Minister stands over my desk and says, ‘I want you to ring up [the PPS], and
say “I want you to pass a message to [your Minister] which is ‘get your tanks off my
lawn’.” ’ So I pick up the phone and I said, with [my Minister] standing there, ‘Are
you going to stand there?’ And he said, ‘Yes. I want you to pass that message on.’ So
I pick up the phone and I get [the PPS] and I said, ‘I am going to give you a message
to pass on to your Secretary of State and you have to pass it on without any
elaboration.’ ‘And just to be clear, my Secretary of State is standing beside me as
I give you this message and it is from my Secretary of State to your Minister, “get
your tanks off my lawn” ’ [Permanent Secretary, TI; see also Lodge and Rogers
2006: 44–5].
Militaristic metaphors like those above are strongly associated with dominant
forms of masculine authority and are commonly used to present and describe
the practice of departmental courts by both insiders and commentators.
As I suggested in Chapter 7, ministers are like medieval barons presiding
over their own court and turf. They will fight to defend it. While overt displays
of aggression are discouraged by the conventions of ‘polite behaviour’ (see
pp.141–2), nonetheless there are frequent non-verbal displays of culturally
masculine dominance by ministers and senior civil servants in committee
meetings. Thus, the body language expressed self-confidence, aggression,
and control. Many (both men and women) spoke with a polite voice and a
harsh body.
Competitiveness is illustrated by such displays of controlled aggression, the
use of military metaphors to describe encounters with other departments, and
the turf wars of bureaucratic politics. Such practices are strongly associated
with dominant forms of bureaucratic and political masculinities (Stivers 2002;
Lovenduski 1998). Confrontation is equated with masculinity and therefore
strength. Cooperation or consensus is equated with femininity and is, there-
fore, weaker (Duerst-Lahti and Kelly 1995). Thus, the practices of bureaucratic
politics are constrained by these embedded gendered beliefs and practices
about what constitutes authoritative action (Franzway et al. 1989; Sjoberg
2014). The consequences for all in the departmental court and particularly
senior women are that actions are measured against these gendered criteria
(see the discussion of Estelle Morris, p. 147 below).
Civility, Rationality, and Managing Emotion
Life in a departmental court is frenetic, unpredictable, stressful, and tense. I

discovered that a key daily task of the departmental court is to cope. Coping is
not a dramatic activity. It is surprisingly ordinary. Private offices exist to
‘domesticate’ trouble, to defuse problems; and take the emotion out of a crisis.
Confronting a major issue with a public corporation, the permanent secretary
commented, ‘Thank you, a good way of cheering me up.’ Everyone smiled.
The style of the permanent secretaries was low key.
Everyday emotions such as anger, fear, disappointment, aggression, and
conflict are also managed through understatement, detachment, and the
ritualized practices of politeness. Civility is an important but unremarked
ritualized means of coping—and a mechanism of ruling. Politeness ‘presup-
poses [the] potential for aggression as it seeks to disarm it, and makes possible
communication between potentially aggressive parties’ (Fox 2004: 97). Norms
of civility mask hierarchies of power and privilege elite insiders.
Norms of civility are also gendered in that they are an expression of
masculine bureaucratic rationality, in which emotion (of self and others) is
controlled, and detachment is prized. These are preeminent traits of bureau-
cratic masculinity, practised by both high status men and women. Conversely,
expressions of emotion are culturally associated with femininity and viewed as
weak and suspect (Stivers 2002; Young 1987).
Politeness governs most workplace encounters. So, most meetings start with
a discussion of the weather and general enquiries about one’s health, journey
to work and, of course with cups of tea or coffee. The most common way of
dealing with anger is to become cold. I came across variations of the phrase,
‘He was one of those quietly icy men’ [DS, TI]. ‘It’s a kind of withdrawal and
coldness’ [PPS, TI]. The following scene would be typical of the departments.
The permanent secretary is ‘mild’. It would be ‘unacceptable’ for him to swear.
If something goes wrong, the PPS will ‘confess’ that she lost the papers and
the permanent secretary will ‘sigh’. Then ‘you know you’ve been ticked off ’
[PS, FWNB]. Anger is managed by politeness; by detachment, not swearing.
An effective way of unearthing such language codes is to explore events
where they are breached. In the civil service the code of civility or politeness is
breached by anger and by swearing.
Consider the following scene. At an internal budget meeting, a DG lost his
temper. His section was suffering the largest budget cuts. He wanted a strategic
review of base spending and his colleagues did not. He is excited, short of
breath, and he raises his voice. His body language is stiff, angular. His colleagues
stare at the table and avoid eye contact. Some try to suggest compromise
solutions but they all involve cuts. It is clear he is getting nowhere so he leaves
the meeting. Everybody was embarrassed by this outbreak. The event was
described as the department ‘at our worst’. The DG was ‘OTT’ and the meeting
was ‘hard work’. No one thinks the DG should have lost his temper. It would
have been better if he had been ‘disappointed’. He had breached the civility
code [FWNB]. The permanent secretary apologized for this behaviour all the
way back to his office from the meeting. It simply wasn’t done. Overt aggression
was discouraged by the almost mandatory conventions of polite behaviour.
People do not run, they do not shout, and they do not express overt emotion.
Points are made politely. There are few if any cries of ‘rubbish’, and even
expostulations are expressed mildly. All defer to the Chair. Remarks are
addressed to others through the Chair. This scene prompted an extended
reflection from one civil servant.
Your bit about language and part about anger/aggression and civility/politeness
caused a great big lightbulb to flash on over my head. 33 years in the Civil Service,
I hadn't connected it all up. I knew, of course, that a refusal to speak the
management lingo marks you as an outsider—and I've certainly annoyed an
awful lot of senior people in this way over the past 20 years. But I hadn't
connected that to the typical senior civil servant's awkwardness about people
issues, and their fear of anger and emotion. Years ago I went to a meeting at the
(then) DES at which some clot said: ‘You lot really care about this, don't you?’ He
seemed aghast. We did—such was the leadership and the urgency and the
importance of our task. As the son of a soldier (who probably should have been
one himself), I'm mostly polite but have lost my temper a few times—only with
senior people which I thought was OK. I realised reading your paper that this plus
emotional commitment plus language differences has damaged an awful lot of my
professional relationships with senior civil servants, with whom I've long had a
problem. It all suddenly fell into place (personal communication, 8 August 2009).
Here a male civil servant was speaking, but one who regarded himself as still
an outsider after more than 30 years in the service. His remarks resonate
with Chappell’s (2006) analysis of the norm of bureaucratic neutrality
demonstrating that it is profoundly gendered, in terms of its cultural asso-
ciation with specific forms of masculinity, which disadvantages women—
and men—who do not live up to the dominant norm. The norm of neutrality
and emotional detachment limits the repertoire of skills and responses for
dealing with any situation. It renders enthusiasm, frankness, advocacy, and
appearing to ‘care’ as suspect and unprofessional in part because of the
cultural association of emotion with femininity. If you do not conform,
then you court the danger of being marginalized. It is also the case that the
more the norm of ‘neutrality’ is embedded and enforced, the harder it will be
for reformers to advance what will be perceived as ‘biased’ claims of gender
equality (Chappell 2006; Stivers 2002).
Gendered Division of Work
While bureaucracies are seemingly detached and depersonalized, they require

emotional work, including ‘taking care of ’ work in order to function, although
such work is often invisible, subordinate, and gendered (Savage and Witz
1992). The DS—who manages and coordinates the appointments of ministers
and senior civil servants and ‘smooths their day’—is a good example of ‘taking
care of ’ work in the departmental court. So are ministerial drivers and
messengers who come bearing the ‘ritual comfort of a cup of tea’. The work
is gendered, and of low standing in the official hierarchy, conventionally
carried out by women and lower status men.
The diary is managed by diary secretaries (DS), sometimes nowadays called
diary managers. They are key players in maintaining ‘willed ordinariness’ and
managing ‘rude surprises’. They regulate access to the minister and the
permanent secretary. The diary rules, so the DS is in a nodal position. As
one PS observed:
I’ve always thought, from the minute I started in Private Office, the Diary Secretary
is probably the most important person in that office because if the diary is wrong
the whole day collapses [PS, TI].
The minister agrees:

I wanted a Diary Secretary who was not just well organised and efficient and could
plan out my day [. . .], but also somebody who was effective and good at dealing
with officials right across the Department because the job of a Diary Secretary is to
get the material together that you need for whatever the event is that you’re going to
go to [Minister, TI].
The diary secretaries play a pivotal role as gatekeepers and ‘authorities’ on the
preferences of ‘their’ ministers but their status is ambiguous: the work is
valued informally but is not officially high status, and the unofficial authority
of the position is derived from and reinforces traditional gender roles. Some
have high informal standing. One DS was not managed by the PPS but
reported directly to the permanent secretary. A key part of the job is to protect
the minister and permanent secretary.
I can’t stand this old-fashioned thing of being the ‘lion at the gate’ or the ‘gate-
keeper’; it sounds so archaic. But I suppose that’s the way it is. But [the Assistant
Diary Secretary] and I tend to have an unwritten rule that we are the people that
make the changes to the diary (emphasis in original) [DS, TI].
So, they redirect calls to other members of the department, delay appointments
pending consultation, and even fake entries to discourage requests [FWNB].
The DS functions as, in the words of Rosemary Pringle (1989), the ‘Office
Wife’ in a relationship that blurs boundaries between professional and personal
services (see also Kanter 1977). The job is not limited to the diary and
scheduling. She—I never met a male DS—also smooths the minister’s day.
I see that as important because if [the Minister] is not happy or if it’s not done the
way he wants it and it doesn’t fit with him, you know, it will change. So, I will do
double the work on that sort of thing [DS, TI].
So, the DS is the authority on ministerial preferences both minor—for
example, sandwiches—and major—no more than two dinner engagements a
week. She will tell the minister whether it is black tie or lounge suit, short
cocktail or long dress. As one PPS commented with some venom, ‘the [Diary
Secretary] is the authority on the [Permanent Secretary]’ [PPS, FWNB].
Most DSs try to help the principal private secretaries by:
giving them an idea of what [the Permanent Secretary] would like and not like, and
pre-empting any problems and if they say this is the way to do it, I will say no he
won’t like it that way, you know, it’s best to do it this way [DS, TI].
One DS used to pin on the permanent secretary’s medals when he changed into
formal wear at work. Another DS described herself as ‘Mrs Fix It’ because she did
odd jobs like arranging for the permanent secretary’s home phone to be repaired.
On the one hand they keep order and train up novice private secretaries, but they
also take shorthand, order sandwiches, and arrange home maintenance. Some
DSs had been in post for 20 years. Some moved with their minister or permanent
secretary. They know what he or she wants before he or she wants it.
These boss–secretary relations are characterized by several ‘patrimonial’
features. The first characteristic is status contingency, whereby the secretary
derives her status not from her formal rank but from her boss. Second, the
relationship displays principled arbitrariness; that is, there are no boundaries
to managerial discretion as secretaries are at the beck and call of bosses and
called on to carry out domestic and personal as well as professional tasks.
Finally, the relationship demands fealty, which refers to the expectation of
unquestioning personal loyalty from secretaries to their bosses, who in turn
treat them as part of their personal ‘estate’ expecting emotional labour and
rewarding them with non-material benefits such as ‘appreciation’ (Kanter
1977; Savage and Witz 1992).
While some argue that such boss–secretary relations are a ‘relic’ (Kanter
1977), others view them as integral to bureaucracies and the gendering
assumptions on which they are built and continue to function (Pringle 1989;
Savage and Witz 1992; Stivers 2002). These typical relationships were strongly
in evidence in the fieldwork, and there were few signs that the role of DS was
undergoing significant change. Such embedded relationships and their daily
practice are a key mechanism of coping and imposing ‘willed ordinariness’.
They also provide powerful reinforcement for the gendered status quo in
which care work is associated with inherited beliefs about femininity and,
while seen as necessary work, is not valued for professional recognition or
reward in the bureaucracy. Diary secretaries, like most women workers in
public administration, are ‘on tap but not on top’ (Stivers 2002: 14). Such
practices are replicated even when female ministers and senior civil servants
are benefiting from the services of their diary secretaries.
The disjunction between official status and unofficial standing can fuel
resentment based on gender and rank. It is telling that one respondent, a
DS, complained using a gendered metaphor, that the senior civil servants she
worked with were hierarchal and grade-conscious, treating ‘the rest of us as
mere minions and scullery maids of the office’.
Commitment and the Long Hours’ Culture
Promoting women to top positions in politics and the bureaucracy has not
generally been matched by a rethinking of managerial work and the con-
straints under which it is done. So, women are obliged to conform to a
traditional, masculine long hours’ culture—‘with profound implications for
relationships, homes, and conceptions of self ’ (Martin 2006; Kelly et al. 2011;
Wacjman 1999). All departmental courts were greedy institutions with an
entrenched culture of long hours; a demonstration of commitment and loyalty.
It’s the culture of the office. You can’t, you couldn’t, it’s so busy, the volume of
business within the office, you couldn’t work on a 9–5 basis. You just couldn’t
[DS, TI].
A long hours’ culture is not gender-neutral in that it is premised on others
taking care of care, and assumes the primacy of work over other parts of life
(Stivers 2002; Savage and Witz 1992; Kelly et al. 2011).
The expectation and practice of long hours have costs for ministers and civil
servants, both male and female:
when I was up here before it was stressful and I remember when, just before
Christmas, I went home and I was very upset because I just found it so stressful
and people had been ringing me up and had been talking in this rapid way to me
about things I didn't understand—it was always stressful. I was always aware that
if I got something wrong it would be damaging, it would be embarrassing, people
would shout [PPS, TI].
Some suffer physical side effects:
I find I will have physiological reactions to the stress sometimes. I will have weeks
where I will have awful skin and my heart rate doesn’t want to go down. Yesterday
it was [the Minister] being in a bad mood. And that’s stressful just because the
service element of the job comes in. None of us knew how to make him feel better
about his day [PS, TI].
When I asked about their social life, the responses were almost identical:
Social life? I have not lost friends, but I have friends who are exhausted with saying,
‘Let’s go out Wednesday,’ and me saying, ‘Yes’ and ringing them up 20 minutes
before we are to go out saying, ‘There’s absolutely no way I can make it to the
cinema. Absolutely no way’ [PS, TI].
I mean that’s the worst side of it, I mean you ‘pack in’ a social life [PS, TI].
There is none [PPS, TI].
For members of the private office, it is hard to strike a decent work–life
balance, which accounts for a brisk turnover of staff. Commitment demon-
strated through long working hours is not a formal requirement but is a
powerful informal ‘rule’. It has consequences for all, but can have differential
consequences on the careers of female civil servants. I note that serving time in
departmental private offices is a standard part of the career path of fast stream
civil servants, typically in their late twenties and thirties. This age is also a stage
in women’s lives when they may plan to start families, or already have caring
responsibilities. Thus, the gendered practices of the departmental court are
extra obstacles to the career trajectories of female civil servants, and create
more burdens for individual women; indeed it is a greedy institution.
THE GENDER CONSEQUENCES

OF A GREEDY COURT
Do women act differently? The answer is ‘it depends’. However, the daily work
of women and men take place against the backcloth of an embedded set of
masculine beliefs and practices. Such behaviour is competitive, self-interested,
and about advancing one’s career. I observed that male and female ministers
and senior civil servants behave in similar ways and those ways involve
women ‘managing like men’ or, more precisely, measuring up to particular
templates of culturally dominant masculinity. Many of the quotes in preceding
sections are from women, although mostly you would not know. The quotes
illustrate the argument of Wajcman (1999) and others that senior women are
faced with severely constrained choices in organizations where ‘the norm for
the managerial occupation remains male’, and women are still perceived to be
the ‘wrong sort of chap’ (Watson 1994). In such circumstances women in, or
aiming to secure, senior positions may need to ‘practise masculinity’ in order
to be effective—or even intelligible (Britton 2000; Lovenduski 1998, 2005;
Wacjman 1999). ‘[W]omen who have made it have done so by adopting the
male model’ and ‘are still expected to “manage like a man”’ (Wacjman 1999:
159–60). Thus, for the most part, men and women manage in similar ways;
ways which are embedded in the inherited beliefs and practices about
masculinity.
A vivid example of one woman’s encounter with masculine practices is
provided by Estelle Morris’s resignation as Secretary of State for Education
(for a full account, see Rhodes 2011a: ch. 9). In her resignation letter, written
in part by Alastair Campbell (the prime minister’s Director of Communica-
tions), she said:
I am good at dealing with the issues and in communicating to the teaching
profession. I am less good at strategic management of a huge department and
I am not good at dealing with the modern media.
She resented the media and the distress they caused:
Getting home Sunday night and the press had been on to friends wanting to know
who you lived with, why you split up, things like that. At that time I needed my
privacy [Minister, TI].
She concluded, ‘I don’t think this is for me’ (Guardian, 24 October 2002).
David Blunkett (2006: 404), her predecessor at Education, thought the crisis
did not add up to a bag of beans and ‘she got in a panic’ but, with many others,
he saw her as:
the heroine [sic] of the moment–the honest politician, the person who says ‘I’m
not up to it,’ the person who says, ‘I liked my previous job but I don’t have the
strategic approach to manage this department.’
Above all, he felt sorry for her:
how can your heart not go out to her and want to support her, as some of us have
tried to do for the last two months, desperately trying to bolster her and having
more confidence in her than she has in herself (Blunkett 2006: 404).
Perhaps most significant for this chapter, he conceded that the Bull Elephant
style was not an option for her: ‘Yes, we were like Bull Elephants, because if you
didn’t stand up to [colleagues], they just held you in total contempt really’
[Minister, TI]. I doubt there could be a clearer instance of the specific content
of the masculine tradition, in which women manage.
But managing like a man is not the same as being an embodied man. There
are constraints and potential gendered costs. For example, women must
navigate the potential double bind whereby they face social sanctions for
being either too masculine or too feminine (Jamieson 1996). Although it is
important not to assume a false homogeneity among women, women have
fewer culturally acceptable modes of authoritative leadership. Women face the
additional cost of ‘managing their gender’, a problem that male leaders and
managers seldom have to consider (Stivers 2002).
It is noteworthy that when I revisited the fieldwork notes, women—
ministers and civil servants alike—were more concerned about work–home
balance than any male minister, permanent secretary or other official. Stories
of homework, ferrying kids to the scouts, and making breakfast did not figure
in any interview with a man. Although there was some evidence of changing
roles in terms of reaction to long hours’ culture of the departmental court, it
was more striking for its rarity:
My partner is pregnant. We are expecting our first baby in a month and I knew
that I wouldn’t physically be able to do these hours and have a family [APS, TI].
This instance was the only example of a male official voicing concerns about
family life. The silence may demonstrate the tenacity of the sexual division of
labour. As Kelly et al. (2011: 283) comment, male white-collar workers, even
those who are involved fathers, are reluctant publicly to raise family respon-
sibilities because of the strong beliefs that they should privilege professional
identity above other ties and responsibilities.
One female minister described her routine as a madhouse interspersed with
the ‘rule’ to her private office that:
Monday evening I don’t do, I just said to the office, ‘Right Monday evening I go
home, I see the children I come back for a 10:00 pm vote.’ Tuesday and Wednesday
I do business dinners or whatever is needed, Thursday evening I go home after the
7:00 pm vote and see the children, Fridays is constituency [Minister, TI].
One DS works ‘say 9 am to 7 pm. I enjoy the job, I enjoy the work, I have no
kids, I have a flexible husband’ [DS, TI].
This section illustrates the prosaic; the conflict between the newer expect-
ations that women have about work and older expectations around family life.
The phrase ‘I was juggling career and family life’ [Permanent Secretary, TI]
was repeated in some form or other by most women in this study and seldom
if at all by men in the study. This long-standing conflict had not been resolved
at the ministerial and permanent secretary level, where individuals have much
control, let alone elsewhere in the departmental court or at lower levels in the
departmental hierarchy.
It was only women who commented on the nigh irreconcilable demands
between children and partners, and work; home versus the greedy court.
Promoted early, one female civil servant reflected on the impact of her
elevation to the greedy court:
It was a difficult decision for me. It was a 60+ hours a week job and would have
major repercussions at home. My husband was proud of me, boasted of my achieve-
ments in public, but privately hated it. I believe he felt emasculated by my success [TI].
Contrast that experience, which ended in divorce, with the description of the
long-suffering but indulgent wife of a senior male civil servant.
She [his wife] keeps my feet on the ground. She has a good appreciation of the
opinion of the ‘man on the Clapham omnibus’, and combines this with a healthy
disrespect for anyone who gets too obsessed with their work. She’s also fairly fed up
by the fact that the career I’ve chosen is one often denigrated by Ministers and the
press. And one where the relative pay has got lower and lower. She also regards it—
fairly—as her role to make sure that what you might call the extramarital
relationship I have with my job doesn’t get out of hand [TI].
Taken together, these two scenes show how internal practices are also sus-
tained by gendered beliefs and practices in the family. As such, the reform of
the greedy court faces both internal and external sources which interact to
maintain the gendered status quo.
Some women, both ministers and civil servants, argued that skills and
experiences gained as parents in the private sphere were transferable to the
public world of governance. For example, one female minister observed, ‘it’s
nowhere near as bad as having small children. I tell you having babies is much
the best training to be a Minister’ [Minister, TI]. On the one hand, these
discussions could be seen as reinforcing gender stereotypes of caring as a
natural feminine attribute. On the other hand, they challenge dominant
understandings by asserting a positive link between skills gained from caring
work and the exercise of political competence; characterizing care as a social
practice rather than as a natural feminine attribute (MacKay 2001).
Women were also more likely to comment spontaneously on the existence
of sexist behaviour. The women staff in the correspondence section of the
court resented the way private secretaries routinely referred to them as ‘corres-
girls’—seeing it as a derogatory term intended to undermine them. The sexist
culture of other departments was also remarked on. For example, the Treasury
was seen as ‘a very controlling department, and more so than I remembered it
from the 1970s’ [Minister, TI]. It was said to have ‘a laddish culture’
[Minister, TI].
Rhodes’s (2011a) original study does not cover the formal priority given to
diversity and the relatively progressive equal opportunities policies of central
government. For example, as the fieldwork began, the Gender Equality Public
Service Agreement set formal targets to increase the number of female civil
servants in the upper reaches of the service (Grades 6/7) and the senior civil
service (Durose and Gains 2007). It is perhaps surprising, therefore, that issues
of gender equality policy were rarely mentioned. They cropped up only once
during the fieldwork and then for only one meeting with one female (and
feminist) minister on one day.
On the other hand, this relative silence is not surprising because it exem-
plifies the skill of the civil service at making formal gestures that translate
policy only slowly into everyday practices. Gender reform is one of those
policies; an example of ‘dynamic conservatism’ (Schon 1973). Permanent
secretaries take their cue from ministers. What is important to ministers is
important to the civil servants. One point to be drawn from this is that gender
reforms are not a priority for most ministers, even female—and feminist—
ministers, most of the time. Media commentators have observed that despite
the ‘warm words’ and commitment by the Cabinet Office to improve diversity
in the senior civil service, progress has been ‘at a snail’s pace’. ‘Initiatives have
withered on the vine [. . .] [or] run into the sand’. As one ex-senior civil servant
remarked, ‘the truth is that the top of the service, because it’s overwhelmingly
male, tends to self-perpetuate with a distinctly macho culture’ (Guardian
Public Magazine, 5 April 2011).
CONCLUSIO NS: GENDER AND THE GREEDY COURT
At the start, I asked, ‘How do the bureaucratic beliefs and practices of the
greedy court reproduce gender relations, and what are the gendered conse-
quences of such everyday practices?’ My data show the day-to-day practices of
the departmental court are premised on and reproduce gendered inequalities.
The protocols and ritualized practices are best conceived as coping mechan-
isms through which the departmental court maintains continuity, and
through which organizational change, notably equal opportunity reforms,
can be adopted, adapted, and resisted. So, the status quo is not challenged.
The comments on juggling family and career, sexism, marginalization, and
managing like men demonstrate the slow pace of change. It is easy for such
observations to be trivialized or passed off as unremarkable truisms. However,
they demonstrate the continuing gender consequences of beliefs and practices,
both internal and external, which continue to limit the opportunities and
capacity for women and men to participate on an equal footing. Also, if these
constraints on women operate at the apex of the bureaucracy, then there will
be many more consequences at lower levels where individuals have much less
autonomy. Finally, if the observation that the departmental court embeds
gendered beliefs and practices and constrains women to ‘adopt a masculine
administrative identity or to accept marginalisation in the bureaucratic hier-
archy’ (Stivers 2002: 12) confirms what I already knew, then it is worth
reflecting on the importance of that simple fact. The court is greedy and it
consumes men and women in similar ways. But, after decades of equal
opportunities reform, women, including senior women, still face greater
obstacles, dilemmas, and costs; plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, thanks
to tacit gender-specific practices and powerful informal rules.
The idea of ‘care’ refers not only to individuals’ caring responsibilities in the
domestic sphere, but also to ‘coping’ work in bureaucracies, and to public
policy-making issues about caring and the sustenance of society and individ-
uals (and, for the impact on street level bureaucrats, see Atkinson and Lucas
2012). Privileging the departmental court as a greedy institution means that all
these facets of caring are neglected, undervalued, and depoliticized. The daily
beliefs and practices of the greedy court—hierarchy and bureaucratic politics;
civility, neutrality, and detachment; the gendered pattern of coping work; and
loyalty and commitment to long hours’ culture—all work together to reinforce
particular sedimented and dominant forms of masculinity, and thus the
gendered status quo. Although the numerical presence and positional dom-
inance of men may have been challenged, that does not mean that particular
beliefs and practices of masculinity have been undermined. Nor does it
remove the different costs still paid by men and women in the greedy court.
The conclusion reached by Watson in 1994 remains relevant in the 2000s; the
civil service combines progressive formal equal opportunities policies and
exclusionary beliefs and practices. The findings reinforce the argument that
changing policies is perhaps less important than challenging the gendered
practices and culture (Kelly et al. 2011) of greedy institutions, and the tenacity
with which the long hours’ culture is seen to embody productivity, commit-
ment, loyalty, public service, and performance.
Focusing on everyday practices to explore the inner life of public bureau-
cracies enables us to better understand how things work around here. I have
demonstrated that fresh insights can be gained by applying a gender perspec-
tive to my ethnographic data gathered for another purpose. There are few
examples of ethnographic analysis in the study of British government elites
and even fewer of gender. Most gender studies have been theoretical critiques
of bureaucracy or studies of lower levels in the bureaucracy; for example,
implementing equal opportunities policies. This chapter breaks new ground in
casting light on the persistence of inherited beliefs and everyday practices that
maintain gender inequality at the apex of government, where policy is made.
Most public administration studies focus on recruitment and training. This
ethnographic analysis of gender and the departmental court seeks not only to
encourage more ethnographic studies but also to start a fruitful dialogue
between feminist political scientists and public administration scholars.
My ambition is to ‘ground’ the theoretical insights of the former with the
analysis of everyday administrative practice by the latter. By so doing, I provide
a new analytical lens for both. I show that blurring genres is edifying.
9
On Reform
In this chapter I ask two questions. What lessons about reforming the British
civil service can be learnt from using observational methods to study British
government departments? What are the strengths and weaknesses of such an
approach in the reform of public administration?1
This chapter is an exercise in applied anthropology. It blurs genres by
combining political science and cultural anthropology to explore civil service
reform. Interpretation is at the heart of cultural anthropology. It is not uncom-
mon for critics to talk of the ‘impossibility’ of a ‘positive contribution’ to policy
analysis from an interpretive approach because it is ‘descriptive rather than
evaluative or critical’ (Bobrow and Dryzek 1987: 171). Geertz (1983a: 35)
concurs. He suggests that as we blur genres of thought we bring ‘the social
technologist notion of what a social scientist is . . . into question’. Those relatives
of observational fieldwork such as action research and organizational learning
(Arygris and Schon 1996) are said to have limited applicability in civil service
reform because these approaches are compromised by the political environ-
ment (Common 2004: 36–8). Yet public administration prides itself on being
practical; on improving the management and delivery of public services, and
training public servants. Such administrative engineering is challenged by the
interpretive turn. I provide a radical reassessment of this practical orientation.
The chapter has four sections. The first section provides a brief account of the
main characteristics of public sector reform over the past decade; namely,
evidence-based policy-making, managerialism, and choice. The second section
compares the reform proposals with the fieldwork reported in Rhodes 2011a
and identifies plausible conjectures for would-be reformers. I use five axioms for
ease of exposition: coping and the appearance of rule, not strategic planning;
institutional memory, not internal structures; storytelling, not evidence-based
1
This chapter is a revised version of R. A. W. Rhodes (2013) ‘Political Anthropology and
Public Policy: Prospects and Limits’, Policy and Politics, 41 (4): 481–96. © Policy Press. Reprinted
with permission of Policy Press. Earlier versions of the paper were presented as keynote addresses
for: the Conference on ‘Forty years of Policy & Politics: Critical Reflections and Strategies for the
Future’, University of Bristol, 19 September 2012; and the Collaboratory on ‘Policy into Practices’,
Copenhagen Business School, Public–Private Platform, 23 and 24 May 2013.
On Reform 153
policy; contending traditions and stories, not managerialism; the politics of

implementation, not top-down innovation and control. The third section out-
lines an approach to reform drawing on these axioms and focusing on dilem-
mas. The final section discusses the prospects and limits of my approach both in
the study of public administration and for public sector reform. I confront the
‘social technologist’ issue and discuss whether recovering stories is a viable tool
for administrative engineering. I conclude that attempts to impose private sector
management beliefs and techniques on the public sector to increase its econ-
omy, efficiency, and effectiveness have had at best variable success. We do not
need more managerialism but a different approach to reform that recognizes the
centrality of organizational traditions and storytelling.
T H E REF O RM S
This section suggests that the reforms of the civil service proposed by both
think-tanks and the government over the past decade are pervaded by beliefs
in the instrumental rationality of evidence-based policy-making, managerial-
ism, and economic choice. These ideas are the shared, almost tacit, knowledge
of contributors to the continuing debate about public sector reform. I will be
brief because my remarks verge on the obvious.
Evidence-based Policy-making
The rational model of policy-making, or ‘policy cycle’, enjoins policy-makers

to identify issues, analyse the various alternatives, choose the appropriate
policy instrument, test the ideas through consultation, coordinate with other
affected government agencies, make the decision, implement it, and evaluate
the results. All such models have the instrumental rationality of means–ends
analysis at their core. Its popularity endures and the textbooks go through
numerous editions (see, for example, Althaus et al. 2007; Bardach 2009; Dunn
2011). The current fashion for ‘evidence-based policy’ is the rational model
reinvented (see, for example, Banks 2009; Bullock et al. 2001; Davies et al.
2000; Haynes et al. 2012; Sanderson 2002; and Chapter 10, this volume).
At the heart of the Cabinet Office’s (1999) professional policy-making model
is a belief in evidence-based policy-making. For example, their model ‘uses the
best available evidence from a wide range of sources’; and ‘learns from experi-
ence of what works and what doesn’t’ through systematic evaluation (Cabinet
Office 1999: para. 2.11). By July 2011, when the Coalition government launched
its Open Public Services White Paper (Cm 8145, 2011), little had changed.
Despite claims that ‘something very big and different is happening with this
White Paper’ (Cameron 2011), most observers saw only more of the same. The
emphasis fell on ‘building on evidence of what works’. Phrases like ‘sound
evidence base’, ‘what works’, and ‘robust evidence’ abound. Departments
would need a ‘clearer understanding of what their priorities are’ and need ‘to
ensure administrative resources match Government policy priorities’ so the
Government can get ‘value for taxpayers’ money in delivering its objectives’
(Cabinet Office 2012: 14, 16, and 20). The instrumental rationality of evidence-
based policy-making is alive and well and at the heart of the Coalition’s reform
agenda. Moreover, these views of the policy-making process are widely shared
inside and outside government (see Chapter 10 for more examples).2
Managerialism
Managerialism has a long history which cannot be retold here (see Pollitt
1993). In brief, it is a set of inherited beliefs about how private sector manage-
ment techniques would increase the economy, efficiency, and effectiveness—
the 3Es—of the public sector. Initially the beliefs focused on managerialism
or hands-on, professional management; explicit standards and measures of
performance; managing by results; and value for money. Subsequently, it also
embraced neo-liberal beliefs about competition and markets. It introduced
ideas about restructuring the incentive structures of public service provision
through contracting out; quasi-markets; and consumer choice. New Labour
introduced a third strand to managerialism with its service delivery agenda.
For my purpose, I need to show only that such reform persists (and for a
review of the 2000s, see Public Administration Select Committee, PASC 2009).
The core concern for decades has been better performance management,
whether called accountable management or management-by-objectives. Only
the labelling has changed. So, even today, ‘effective performance assessment
within government helps to identify how well public organizations are meeting
their objectives, as well as highlighting where improvements could be made’
(PASC 2009: 3; see also Cabinet Office 2012: 28–9; PASC 2003; Better
Government Institute (BGI) 2010: 33).
Delivery and Choice
The general principles informing the delivery agenda were outlined by

Michael Barber, the prime minister’s former Chief Adviser on Delivery in
his comments about education:
2
See, for example, Better Government Institute 2010; Bullock et al. 2001; Institute for
Government 2010; Mulgan 2009; National Audit Office 2001; Regulatory Policy Institute 2009;
and Sanderson 2002.
On Reform 155
Essentially it’s about creating different forms of a quasi-market in public services,
exploiting the power of choice, competition, transparency and incentives (inter-
view with Michael Barber, 13 January 2006; see also Barber 2007: ch. 3; and
PASC 2005).
Despite much brouhaha about its novelty, the Coalition government delivered
more of the same, focusing on service delivery and customers. Although
evidence-based policy-making and managerialism remain prominent strands
in the Coalition’s reform proposals, choice is the first principle of the reforms;
‘wherever possible we are increasing choice by giving people direct control
over the services they use’ (Cameron 2011). The White Paper claims that ‘the
old centralised approach to public service delivery is broken’, so ‘wherever
possible we will increase choice’ and ‘power will be decentralised to the lowest
appropriate level’. Such choice will only happen if service delivery is ‘opened
up to a range of providers of different sizes and different sectors’ (Cm 8145,
2011: 8–9). Choice, decentralization, and diversity of providers are three core
tenets of the proposed reforms.
All the ideas about evidence-based policy-making, managerialism, and choice
are part of the vocabulary of senior civil servants. For example, O’Donnell
(2012), former Head of the Home Civil Service, includes clear objectives,
objective evaluation, and honouring the evidence among his ten command-
ments of good policy-making. As the Regulatory Policy Institute (2009: para. 31)
observes, ‘every suggestion’ in the ‘numberless’ reports on civil service reform is
‘a version of the same, how better to manage an ever more centralised state’. In
sum, instrumental rationality, managerialism, and choice rule, and it is not
OK. It adds up to the ‘Civil Service reform syndrome’, which comprises:
ideas like total quality management, red tape bonfires, better consultation, risk
management, competency, evidence-based policy, joined-up government, deliv-
ery leadership, and now better policy making. Such initiatives come and go,
overlap and ignore each other, leaving behind residues of varying size and style
(Hood and Lodge 2007: 59).
The syndrome persists because the assumptions behind reforms are not fit for
public sector purpose.
PLAUSIBLE CONJECTURES
In Rhodes 2011a, I sought to understand the ways in which the political and
administrative elites of British central government departments made sense of
their worlds. I sought to domesticate the many competing beliefs and practices
of the departments. This section draws out my plausible conjectures or lessons
from that fieldwork and asks whether the various reform proposals blend with
the everyday beliefs and practices of civil servants and their ministers. I use
five axioms for clarity of exposition:
• coping and the appearance of rule, not strategic planning;
• institutional memory, not internal structures;
• storytelling, not evidence-based policy;
• contending traditions and stories, not just managerialism;
• the politics of implementation, not top-down innovation and control.
I accept that these axioms oversimplify but I want to dramatize the difference
between rational and storytelling reforms.
Coping and the Appearance of Rule, Not Strategic Planning
At the top of government departments, we find a class of political

administrators, not politicians or administrators. They live in a shared
world. Their priority and their skills are about surviving in a world of rude
surprises. The goal is willed ordinariness. They do not need more risk. They
are adrift in an ocean of storms. Only reformers have the luxury of choosing
which challenge they will respond to. Ministers and permanent secretaries
have to juggle the contradictory demands posed by recurring dilemmas. They
must appear to be in control. I incline to Weiss’s (1980) notions of decision
accretion and knowledge creep. Thus, policy emerges from routine and builds
like a coral reef. Similarly, rational policy analysis creeps into the decision
process almost by osmosis, by becoming part of the zeitgeist, rather than overt
deliberation. Civil service reform is not, therefore, a matter of solving specific
problems but of managing unfolding dilemmas and their inevitable unintended
consequences. There is no solution but a succession of solutions to problems
which are contested and redefined as they are ‘solved’. This analysis is an
anathema to the would-be reformers of the previous section, but it is the fate of
their rational schemes.
Strategic planning is a clumsy add-on to this world. Its timescale is too long.
Its concerns too far removed from the everyday life concerns of its short-stay
incumbents. The demands of political accountability and the media spotlight do
not pay attention to strategic priorities. Relatively trivial problems of imple-
mentation can threaten a minister’s career. Finally, the call for clear roles and
responsibilities, for objectives and targets, is an idealized rational model of
policy-making largely removed from the messy reality of public policy-making.
The limits to the rational model of policy-making have been spelt out so
often, I can be brief. They arise from: incomplete information; lack of, and costs
of, time; limited cognitive and technical skills; scarce expert personnel; the
monetary costs of analysis; the complexity of problems; theories that cannot
On Reform 157
predict; and hypotheses that we either cannot or have not tested (see Lindblom
1988: part II). Such problems are compounded by the political and economic
context that introduces powerful biases into the policy-making processes.
Crucially, as practised, rational analysis is retrospective not prospective. It is
used to justify decisions already taken by other means and for other reasons.
And the other reasons are usually political ones. There is no obvious reason to
prioritize economic rationality over political rationality, rather the converse.
I agree with Wildavsky, writing back in 1968 about the then fashionable
management reform of PPBS (Planning, Programming and Budgeting Sys-
tem), when he vigorously argued that ‘political rationality is the fundamental
kind of reason’; it determines ‘the decision structures [that] are the source of all
decisions’ (Wildavsky 1968: 393). So, much government is not about strategy
and priorities but the appearance of rule: ‘about stability. Keeping things
going, preventing anarchy, stopping society falling to bits. Still being here
tomorrow’ (Lynn and Jay 1984: 454). I do not seek, as did the authors of the
quote, to make people laugh. In this witticism is much wisdom, not cynicism.
Institutional Memory, Not Internal Structures
Reform all too frequently involves splitting up existing units, creating new
units, redeploying staff, bringing in outsiders, revamping IT systems. A key
unintended consequence is the loss of institutional memory. Pollitt (2008:
173) gives his recipe for eroding institutional memory: rotate staff rapidly,
change the IT system frequently, restructure every two years, reward manage-
ment over other skills, and adopt each new management fad. All three
departments met most of these criteria. There was a tacit policy of depleting
a proven asset for unproven gains. Institutional memory is the source of
stories; the department’s folk psychology, providing the everyday theory and
shared languages for storytelling. These stories are about making sense of
today by looking back to what we did last time. They explain past practice and
events and justify recommendations for the future. It is crucial if the civil
service is to tell accurate and reliable stories.
Of course, there is some awareness of the importance of some everyday
routines. The BGI (2010) report, written by senior officials, considers that
ministers and civil servants can move too often between jobs and subject areas.
As a result, ‘records of previous decisions or past events may no longer exist or
be easily available . . . [and there] . . . has been a serious weakening of corporate
memory with the risk of failure in strategy, policy and delivery’. It calls for
‘special attention . . . to the maintenance, preservation and accessibility of
departmental records’ (BGI 2010: 35, 36, and 41; see also PASC 2011:
13–14). But such suggestions are the exception not the rule.
Storytelling, Not Evidence-based Policy
Storytelling substitutes plausible conjecture for prediction. It does not exclude

rational policy analysis. It treats it simply as another way of telling a story
alongside all the other stories in a department. So, stories are modest in their
claims. Each story is one set of spectacles for looking at the world (see, for
example, Boje 1991; Czarniawska 2004; Gabriel 2000; and Weick 1995).
How can you tell which story makes the most sense? The short answer is
that the civil service has been doing it for years. So, they identify and construct
the storyline by asking, ‘What happened and why?’ They also ask whether a
story is defensible (to both internal and external audiences); accurate (in that it
is consistent with known and agreed ‘facts’), believable (in that it is consistent
with the departmental philosophy). Lying is seen as a worse sin than error,
accident, even incompetence. So, they test ‘facts’ in committee meetings and
rehearse storylines or explanations to see what they sound like and whether
there is agreement. They judge how a story will play publicly by the reactions
of their colleagues. In this way, they can anticipate the reaction of an external
audience. They compare stories in the same way.
Contending Traditions and Stories, Not Just Managerialism
Even today, ministers and civil servants act as if the nineteenth-century liberal
constitution sets the rules of the political game. The British constitution
reminds me of geological strata, a metaphor which captures the longevity of
the beliefs and practices. I do not want to suggest that nothing has changed.
Obviously much has changed, but much remains. Managerialism and network
governance have not replaced earlier beliefs and practices; rather, they coexist
with the inherited Westminster tradition. Ministers and civil servants are
fluent in all these languages, yet they continue to act as if earlier constitutional
beliefs and practices are reliable guides for present-day behaviour. So, my big
surprise was that British government was riven with incommensurable tradi-
tions and their stories. There was no agreed standard for comparing the
stories. Even within a government department, let alone across central gov-
ernment, there was no shared story of how British government worked.
Yesterday’s story remained an important guide to today’s practice. So, the
managerial story (in its various forms) and the governance stories about
networks (see Rhodes 2017, Volume I, Chapters 10 and 11) have not replaced
the Westminster tradition.
Elite actors displayed variable interest or concern in resolving such dilem-
mas. For example, ministers and civil servants have overlapping roles and
responsibilities. Typically, would-be reformers want to clarify the constitutional
On Reform 159
relationship between ministers and civil servants. They want to spell out
roles and relationships. For example, the PASC (2011: 29) argued:
The convention of ministerial responsibility . . . derived from the Haldane Report
at the beginning of the last century have, on the whole, stood the test of time.
However . . . it is timely to consider the development of a new Haldane model to
codify the changing accountabilities and organisation of government.
But, typically, ministers and their civil servants have a vested interest in the
current arrangements. Its ambiguity protects them from effective scrutiny.
Thus, the government’s response to the PASC recommendations was dismis-
sive, brusquely referring the committee to ‘the statutory position of civil
servants whose accountability is to Ministers who in turn are accountable to
Parliament’ (PASC 2012: 12). Haldane prevails because it serves the interests
of both ministers and their civil servants. And yet the government proclaims,
‘the old idea of a Civil Service “generalist” is dead’. Instead, they say they want
‘the right combination of professionalism, expert skills and subject matter
expertise’ (Cabinet Office 2012: 23). Where are the political antennae that
point out the hole to the minister before he or she falls in? Where are the
political skills that pull him or her out of the hole afterwards, and argue that he
or she never fell in? Have would-be reformers persuaded ministerial colleagues
to forsake the cocoon of willed ordinariness at the top of departments that
exists to protect the minister? Private offices exist to domesticate trouble, to
defuse problems, and to take the emotion out of a crisis. Protocols are the key
to managing this pressurized existence. Everyday routines are unquestioned
and unrecognized. The reformers know not what they seek to reform.
Similarly, managerial reform is all too often a secondary concern for ministers
and their civil servants. I agree that effective performance measurement needs
more clarity if performance management is what matters. My problem is that,
when I imagine myself in a minister’s or permanent secretary’s shoes, perform-
ance management does not seem to matter that much. Useful, but not where the
real action is. Ministers are not managers. It is not why they went into politics.
A minority of secretaries of state take an interest, even fewer ministers of state.
These brute facts undermine reform. The civil service exists to give ministers
what they want and most do not want anything to do with management reform.
At best, it is not a priority. At worst, it is not even on the radar.
The Politics of Implementation, Not Top-down

Innovation and Control
Politics and policies do not arise exclusively from the strategies and inter-
actions of elites. Other actors can resist, transform, and thwart the agendas of
elites. An ethnographic approach draws attention to the diverse traditions and
narratives that inform actions at lower levels of the hierarchy, and the actions
of citizens. For example, we know street-level bureaucrats shape service
delivery in crucial ways. They use local knowledge and local reasoning to
decide what policy will be for clients (see Maynard-Moody and Musheno
2003; and Chapter 10, this volume). In a similar vein, Lindblom (1990)
compares professional with lay knowledge to the discomfort of the former.
Understandings of how things work around here are embedded not only in the
taken for granted routines and rituals of the departmental court but also the
beliefs and practices of actors at lower levels of the hierarchy. Not only is such
knowledge rarely part of the policy process, it is not valued. Yet it is often
crucial to the success of policies especially in their implementation. Although
one strand in the British political tradition asserts that ‘leaders know best’, the
track record of much top-down innovation and control does not inspire
confidence.
Moreover, when implementation is part of government thinking, it is
strangely divorced from everyday knowledge. Thus, the Civil Service Reform
Plan (Cabinet Office 2012: ch. 3) adopts the top-down, rational model of
implementation with its imperatives for clear objectives, robust management
information, and project management. If social science research ever teaches
us anything, it tells us that the top-down model is plagued with implementa-
tion deficits (see O’Toole 2000; Pressman and Wildavsky 1984; and Sabatier
1986). Curiouser and curiouser, the report states that ‘much of this failure has
been because policy gets announced before implementation has been fully
thought through’ (2012: 18). From this statement, do we conclude that
ministers delay their history making policy announcements while their civil
servants spot snags? Ministers have short tenure. They will not sit around
waiting on what they see as mere detail. Probably, they will not be there when
the implementation problems arrive. Snag spotting irritates them (Rhodes
2011a: 185). Civil servants are wary of speaking too much truth to power. Even
more of a problem, the statement also assumes that civil servants are respon-
sible for implementation when many departments rely on third parties. They
have a hands-off, not hands-on, link to policy implementation. As Bovens
(1998: 46) puts it, they confront the ‘the problem of many hands’ where
responsibility for policy is shared. Everyday lay knowledge would tell policy-
makers about the limits to implementation, but no one would be listening.
DILEMMAS
What would an approach to reform informed by my analysis look like? It

should focus on traditions and dilemmas (see Chapter 2, this volume). British
government comprises several contending traditions, which have been grafted
On Reform 161
on to the Westminster tradition. The Westminster, managerial, and govern-

ance traditions coexist side by side. The Westminster narrative is the classical
constitutional view of British government. Its core tenet is a belief in central-
ization or hierarchy, with its roots in the royal prerogative and the monar-
chical origins of British government (see Rhodes 2017, Volume I, Chapter 11).
We have already met the managerial narrative. It is the reform story about
how private sector management techniques will improve the economy,
efficiency, and effectiveness of the public sector. The network governance
story—the differentiated polity—highlights ideas about policy networks, the
hollowing out of the state, the segmented nature of the core executive, and the
shift from government to network governance and metagovernance (see
Rhodes 2017, Volume I, Chapters 9 and 10).
These stories about how British government works are incommensurable.
There is a disconnection between the traditions, and their associated languages
and stories. They do not fit together, producing recurring dilemmas. For
example, during the twentieth century, civil servants were ‘socialised into the
idea of a profession’. Now that civil service appointments are increasingly made
by open competition, there are fears the newcomers will not be socialized in
the service’s traditions and organizational glue will be eroded. Loyalty might
become conditional and contingent, and formal mechanisms of coordination
may replace the glue of trust and shared codes. Shared protocols, routines, and
rituals are tools for managing uncertainty. To erode the effectiveness of such
tools for the ‘uncertain’ gains of private sector ‘management expertise’ is at best
unwise and at worst dangerous. One permanent secretary, who was not a career
civil servant, observed that working with a national politician involved ‘a steep
learning curve’. His position was ‘uncomfortable’ and his ‘credibility was
knocked with the department’ because he spent the first year ‘getting up to
speed on the political-management side of the job’. In sum, ‘what I hadn’t
understood at that point and which I understand much better now is (a) the
[minister] and (b) the political perspective’. Everyone confronts these dilemmas.
Individuals differ in how they change, or do not change, their beliefs and
practices to meet these dilemmas, but they all recognized and responded to
the challenges (and for more detail, see Rhodes 2011a).
So, we need to find out whether different sections of the elite draw on
different traditions to construct different narratives about the world, their
place within it, and their interests and values. Both the diversity and common
ground need to be specified, not taken for granted or ignored. We need to
specify the opportunities for, and obstacles to, change; otherwise reform will be
dogged with misfortune from the moment it starts. Such an approach favours
incremental change over more ambitious schemes and gives a distinctive twist
to ‘what works’.
The several traditions use distinct and distinctive languages. Westminster
itself has the classic liberal terminology streaked with the colonialism and class
languages of yesteryear such as ‘chaps’ and ‘Sherpas’. There is the ever-present

gobbledygook of acronyms. Managerialism has three main dialects: perform-
ance management, marketization, and delivery. Outsiders import new lan-
guages. Think-tanks, management consultants, and professional experts
(inside and outside the civil service) provide specialist advice in their preferred
professional language. Special advisers (SpAds) provide the party political
language. When and where are the different languages used? The choice of
language is not incidental or neutral. Westminster aspires to be the lingua
franca. It is the central stream. Other languages remain in play to the point of
ministerial decision; they are the tributaries. The Westminster language sym-
bolizes the constitutional verities and sustains the central role of minister and
permanent secretary. Their primacy means that critics of the civil service for
the slow pace of change attack the wrong target. They should look instead to
ministers as the main wellspring of change in British government As long as
ministers are in the spotlight for civil servants, they will give priority to
sustaining the cocoon and willed ordinariness.
Storytelling is not an example of academic whimsy. It is an everyday
practice. The challenge is to get the departmental court to wear night-vision
spectacles to identify and collect the many, relevant, and sometimes unheard
stories. At the heart of a storytelling approach would be collecting the several
voices in the department stories and increasing the voices heard. The second
step would be to develop transparent criteria for writing, evaluating, and
comparing stories. Currently, such criteria are embedded in words like
‘sound’, ‘judgement’, ‘experience’, and ‘safe pair of hands’. They communicate
understood, shared, but tacit meanings.
When collecting the several voices, the focus will be on everyday knowledge;
on institutional memory and the limits to implementation. Institutional
memory provides the everyday theory and shared languages for storytelling.
It is the knowledge base of snag spotting. Ministers are schizophrenic about it.
They complain about both the loss of institutional memory and about snag
spotting. Both are central to an effective civil service, yet I am not aware of any
official actions to preserve and enhance institutional memory. Similarly,
despite calls by the Coalition for more effective implementation, there is
nary a mention of lay knowledge. The beliefs and practices of actors at lower
levels of the hierarchy are not deemed important for the policy process. The
political-administrative elite knows best. The rational model is the favoured
way of legitimating decisions. So, lay knowledge is side-lined despite the
obvious limits of many top-down reforms. Effective reform hinges on legit-
imating lay knowledge; on accepting the inevitable influence of folk theories
(see Chapter 10, this volume).
My portrait of a storytelling political-administrative elite with beliefs and
practices rooted in the Westminster model that uses protocols and rituals to
domesticate rude surprises and recurrent dilemmas is not the conventional
On Reform 163
portrait. It is the antithesis of the instrumental rationality of evidence-based

policy-making, managerialism, and choice. Indubitably, the lessons of my
fieldwork are not the basis of conventional reform proposals. The key task
in civil service reform is to steer other actors using storytelling. Storytelling
organizes dialogues and fosters meanings, beliefs, and identities among the
relevant actors. It seeks to influence what actors think and do, and foster a
shared narrative of change. It is about continuities and preserving the depart-
mental philosophy and its everyday folk theories, shared languages, and
shared stories.
PROSPE CTS
What are the strengths and weaknesses of the storytelling, ethnographic

approach in the study of public administration? What do we know from my
story that we don’t know from Yes Minister and the existing public adminis-
tration and political science literature? The approach has several strengths
and I have discussed them in some detail in Chapter 4 (this volume, and see
p. 209 below for a summary). Here, I want to stress four advantages directly
relevant to discussing reform.
First, my approach takes the webs of meanings of actors as its basic building
blocks. For example, there is much agreement in the academic literature that
the constitution is in disarray (see, for example, Bogdanor 2003; and King
2007). There is much to agree about in these several critiques of the constitu-
tion and constitutional reform. Yet ministers and civil servants act as if the old
verities are constant; for example, they believe they are accountable to Parlia-
ment and act accordingly. My approach provides an actor-centred account of
British government. I focus on the social construction of practices through the
ability of individuals to create, and act on, meanings. I unpack practices as the
disparate and contingent beliefs and actions of individuals. I seek to describe
and understand their world before I try to reform it.
Second, the approach focuses on diversity. For example, I do not privilege
any one tradition but treat them all as living and contending traditions. No one
account is comprehensive. Each web of inherited beliefs and practices shapes
some ministerial and civil servant actions. Each explains some actions by some
people some of the time. Similarly, each tradition has its own language, often
with dialects. Whitehall is polyglot, combining Westminster, managerial,
professional, political, and networking languages. This diversity undermines
any reforms that assume one size fits all.
Third, the analysis of the dilemmas posed by the diverse traditions high-
lights how new ideas produce not only change but also resistance. To twist a
familiar saying, ‘you can change if you want but this practice is not for
changing’. Indeed, it is the embedding of yesterday’s beliefs in today’s proto-

cols and rituals that makes change such a hazardous enterprise.
Finally, this approach does not privilege managerial rationality or the
preferences of managers. Rather, it focuses on the manifold stories of govern-
ment departments. It seeks to give voice to the forgotten in the reform
literature. The focus is local, micro, and actual (Aronoff and Kubik 2013: 25;
and see Chapter 10, this volume).
LIMITS
What are the limits of such an approach for the reform of public administra-
tion? Playing the role of ‘social technologists’ and using observational field-
work to produce proposals for civil service reform poses several problems.
I consider them under the headings of: roles, relevance, time, evidence, and
working with elites.3
There is no agreement on the role of the anthropologist let alone on whether
anthropology should be ‘relevant’ and how that could be achieved. Van
Maanen (1978: 345–6) describes his relationship with the police he was
observing as: ‘a cop buff, a writer of books, an intruder, a student, a survey
researcher, a management specialist, a friend, an ally, an asshole, a historian, a
recruit and so on’. Similarly, Kedia and Van Willigen (2005: 11) distinguish
between ‘policy researcher or research analyst; evaluator; impact assessor, or
needs assessor; cultural broker; public participation specialist; and adminis-
trator or manager’. Applied anthropology can serve many masters.
For Van Willigen, applied anthropology is about providing information for
decision-makers so they can make rational decisions. Or, more formally,
applied anthropology is a ‘complex of related, research-based, instrumental
methods which produce change or stability in specific cultural systems
through the provision of data, initiation of direct action, and/or the formula-
tion of policy’ (Van Willigen 2002: 150 and ch. 11). Not everyone would agree
that the task is to help decision-makers. For Agar (1996: 27), ‘ethnography is
populist to the core’ and the task is to give a voice to the silent and be ‘sceptical
of the distant institutions that control local people’s lives’.
Managers are scarcely sympathetic to such aims. They see anthropologists
as ‘coming forward with awkward observations’ and ‘as wishing to preserve
“traditional” ways’ (Sillitoe 2006: 10). Managers criticize anthropologists
because their findings often ‘failed to conform to expectations held by employers
about the causes of problems and their solutions’. They were dismissed as
3
See Agar 1996; Kedia and Willigen 2005; Rhodes et al. 2007a; Sillitoe 2006; and Van
Willigen 2002.
On Reform 165
‘irrelevant or disruptive’ (Sillitoe 2006: 14). As Kedia and Van Willigen (2005:
16–20) observe, applied anthropology confronts an acute and recurring moral
dilemma ‘since the practitioner must negotiate an intricate balance between
the interests of the clients who commission the work, and those of the
community being studied’. Inevitably, there are issues about whose aims are
served by the research, who owns the research results, and individual privacy.
Given that observational fieldwork is about decentring an established organ-
ization to identify its several voices, its contending beliefs and practices, and its
traditions and stories (Bevir and Rhodes 2006a; and Chapter 2, this volume),
then the research is never about privileging any one voice. From the viewpoint
of the managers, therefore, there is always the potential for disruption and
irrelevance.
Given managerial concerns about such decentring and disruption, it is
ironic that my political science colleagues express concern about its conser-
vative outlook. In effect, they claim that by describing life at the top, I justify it.
I am too sympathetic to ministers ‘bleating about their world as one of high
risk and shock’ and I seek to ‘make the life of the political administrative class
more comfortable’. I agree that description can spill over into justification and,
therefore, seem conservative but that is not my intention. My aim is to
understand, not sympathize. I want would-be reformers to be aware of the
likely pitfalls; that is, to know what they are seeking to reform. After all, the
reformers have had the field to themselves for decades with, at best, modest
success. I am explaining why that success is modest. Reformers who advocate
evidence-based policy-making need to draw on observational evidence in
designing change. It is conspicuous for its absence. Ministers bleat for reforms
which they then do little to support. A key part of the inertia is not the civil
service but the politicians, and reformers will continue to see their reforms fail
because they continue to target the civil service.
The claim to relevance is further compounded by the problem of time.
Observation in the field is time consuming and fits uncomfortably if at all with
the demands of politicians and administrators alike. The brutal fact is that if
you want to understand everyday life you have to stick around, go where you
are led, and take what you are given. The minister and the department will not
wait on the results from such unstructured soaking. Of course, fieldwork does
not have to be the decade-long immersion of the lone researcher. There are
shortcuts; for example, by using teams of fieldworkers, collaborative working
with the client, snapshots across locations and time, and storytelling circles
(Czarniawska 2004: ch. 3). But getting below and behind the surface of official
accounts to provide texture, depth, and nuance, and opening the conscious-
ness of one group of people to another (Geertz 1988) cannot be done over-
night. I was lucky—the civil service agreed to my doing ‘curiosity research’.
Finally, there is the delicate issue of managing relationships with the elite.
I have considered this at length elsewhere (see Chapter 4, this volume) but two
points bear repetition. I was not studying the powerless. Rather, the research
‘subjects’ were more powerful than me. They can, and a minority did, refuse
interviews, deny access to the organization, declare documents secret, and
insist on anonymity for both themselves and their organization. All the
interviews and periods of observation took place with informed consent but
as the work unfolded I had to negotiate constantly to keep that cooperation.
Also, it is all too easy to affect the relationship between yourself and the
observed, causing them to behave differently. The aim of the so-called ‘non-
participant’ observer is to remain the outsider; ‘the professional stranger’
(Agar 1996). However, for lengthy on-site visits and extensive repeat inter-
views, you have to have a conversation and engage with the people around
you. You have to establish rapport. You are sucked into events, even if it is only
casual badinage to ease tension. For example, one permanent secretary gave
me a copy of his diaries. The analysis of his engagements and committee work
showed he was spending about one third of his time on corporate civil service
business outside the department. He was surprised. He had no clear picture of
the distribution of his workload. Immediately, he began to reduce his corpor-
ate commitments. He could exercise much control over his working life, and
he knew it. My example makes it clear that the powerful are different. They
can shape your research and change everyday life even as you look at it.
CONCLUSIONS
The interpretive turn challenges the dominant modernist-empiricism trad-

ition in political science. The argument for blurred genres takes as its starting
point a turning away from naturalism. This turn raises the problem of what
counts as evidence. It might seem obvious that ‘not everything that counts can
be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts’ (sign hanging in
Albert Einstein’s office at Princeton), but not when it comes to civil service
reform and policy analysis. It is a world of given facts, positive theory, and
hypothesis testing. Qualitative data simply does not meet these expectations
because it does not count as generalizable evidence. My observational data is
evidence as relevant to civil service reform as the evidence conventionally used
to support managerialism.
The attempts to impose private sector management beliefs and techniques
to increase the economy, efficiency, and effectiveness resulted in the civil
service reform syndrome. If private sector techniques offer such obvious and
available ways to manage, then why is so little implemented across govern-
ment? It is not because public managers are ill-trained, stupid, or venal, but
because private sector techniques do not fit the context. Such techniques can
be neutered by both bureaucratic and political games, and are subjected to
On Reform 167
public accountability. Public sector officials also do not share the same risks
and rewards. Similarly, rational means–ends analysis is largely removed from
the reality of public policy-making. Politics, value clashes, interests, cultures,
symbolic imperatives, processes, and accountability requirements all make the
rational actor model untenable in public policy decision-making. Internal
reorganization has marginal effects on beliefs, practices, and traditions. Chant-
ing the mantras of organizational change and leadership leaves most of the
organization untouched.
The rational, managerial approach has predominated since 1968, producing
little beyond the civil service reform syndrome. We do not need more of the
same. We need a different approach to reform. The storytelling approach is a
contender (see Rhodes 2017, Volume I, Chapter 12, pp. 217–20 for further
discussion). A bottom-up approach to reform rooted in the everyday know-
ledge of departments is a lone voice in this wilderness, but it can hardly do
worse. It holds out the prospect of reforms that command legitimacy at lower
levels of the bureaucracy even if they do not directly serve the interests of
ministers and permanent secretaries (see Chapter 10, this volume). Therein
lies the rub. We must never forget that civil service reform is about the
constitutional and political role of public administration in the polity; it is
not about better management.
10
On Local Knowledge
INTRODUCTION
So far in this book I have concentrated on showing how the genres of thought
common in the humanities can be edifying for political scientists. I have not
concentrated on genres of presentation. In Chapter 4 (this volume), I presented
stories from my fieldwork. Storytelling was my narrative device. I aimed for a
conversational tone. In Chapter 6 (this volume), I gave examples of how writers of
life history employed various narrative devices. In this chapter, I play with the
presentation of my argument moving from the passive language of official docu-
ments, to aphorisms in the philosophical style for dissecting local knowledge, to the
active voice of the ethnographer in the field practising the craft of recovering stories.1
In Chapter 9 (this volume), I concluded that reformers created many a
problem for the success of their reforms by ignoring local knowledge. The idea
of ‘local knowledge’ has positive connotations. It is associated with responsive
government and adapting national decisions to local conditions. It is seen as a
‘solution’ to implementation failures. This chapter decentres the normative
arguments favouring local knowledge, suggesting the notion is more elusive
than many recognize. It is an instance of complex specificity in context.
The first section summarizes the mainstream political science and the
interpretive views of local knowledge. The second section unpacks the family
of ideas that constitute local knowledge. It identifies ten family resemblances,
suggesting that local knowledge is: situated, embedded, ever-changing, con-
tested, contingent and generative, performative practice, experiential, special-
ized, and comprised of folk theories that are authentic, natural, and accessible.
The third section distinguishes between recovering local knowledge as advice
to decision-makers and as inscription. It describes four ways of collecting
stories about local knowledge; observation, questionnaire, focus group, and
1
This chapter is a revised version of Rhodes, R. A. W. (2016a) ‘Local Knowledge’. In Mark
Bevir and R. A. W. Rhodes (eds), Rethinking Governance: Ruling Rationalities and Resistance.
Studies in Governance and Public Policy. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, pp. 198–215. Reprinted
with permission of Taylor and Francis.
On Local Knowledge 169
MSC. The fourth section decentres local knowledge, highlighting its complex
specificity, contingency, and generative characteristics. These characteristics
mean that, whether as advice to decision-makers or as ‘inscription’, incorp-
orating local knowledge in public policy-making will be seen as disruptive by
elite decision-makers.
THE DOMINANT RATIONALITIES
The rise of neo-liberal and managerial rationalities using a technology of

performance measurement and targets spreads far beyond the central civil
service to encompass the control of localities. The rationalities of neo-
liberalism with its focus on markets and choice, and of managerialism with
its focus on performance measurement regimes, have dominated government
reform agendas since the 1980s. Governments have looked, on the one hand,
to economics and rational choice theory and, on the other hand, to manage-
ment studies for ways to redesign the state. Every government has had its
variations on these themes (see Chapter 9 for a summary). The UK Coalition
government’s Civil Service Reform Plan 20122 typifies the continuing domin-
ance of these rationalities in government thinking. It is another example of
managerial rationalism calling for: ‘Civil Service . . . staff with commissioning
and contracting skills; and project management capabilities need a serious
upgrade’ (2012: 9). The measures to improve policy-making similarly enshrine
both neo-liberalism in its call for greater contestability in policy advice and,
under the label ‘what works’, economic rationalism in its call for more
evidence-based policy-making (2012: ch. 2). In the 2010s, two variants on
this rationality have become prominent; evidence-based policy-making,
and nudge.
Evidence-based policy-making has become fashionable and displays a
marked predilection for randomized controlled trials (RCT). In brief, RCTs
involve identifying the new policy intervention, determining the anticipated
outcomes, and specifying ways of measuring those outcomes. Then, the
investigator chooses control groups, whether comprised of individuals or
institutions. The policy intervention is randomly assigned to the target groups
with a designated control group. Using a randomly assigned control group
enables the investigator to compare a new intervention with a group where
nothing has changed. The next step is to measure the impact of the interven-
tion and adapt the intervention because of the findings. The catchphrase for
the approach is ‘test, learn, adapt’ (paraphrased from Haynes et al. 2012: 5).
2
Available at: http://www.civilservice.gov.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/Civil-Service-
Reform-Plan-acc-final.pdf (last accessed 5 May 2015).
With its roots in clinical trials, the influence of the natural sciences’ methods is
plain for all to see.
The UK government’s Behavioural Insights Team and What Works Centres
exemplify this rationality. The Behavioural Insights Team claims to be the
‘global leaders in experiment design’, and to have ‘run more randomised
controlled trials than the rest of the UK government combined in its history’.3
They were also keen advocates of Nudge, which uses research on how people
make decisions—on the heuristics they use and the biases to which they are
prone (see, for example, Kahneman 2012)—to identify ways of ‘nudging’
people towards behaviours the government prefers (see Dolan et al. 2010;
John et al. 2011). For example, Boll (2016) shows how the tax authorities use
Nudge to push, motivate, and guide businesses to employ only contractors and
businesses who comply with tax laws, and to avoid the black economy.
The What Works Centres are more of the same. They were launched in
2013 with six centres for England and one each for Scotland and Wales. The
initiative combined existing and new centres with the shared aim of improving
‘the way government and other organizations create, share and use (or “gen-
erate, transmit and adopt”) high quality evidence for decision-making’.4 They
include new centres such as the College of Policing, which recently reviewed
RCTs on crime prevention. The initiative also rebranded existing centres such
as the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (NICE), which advises
on the drugs and treatments available on the National Health Service.
This summary has a simple purpose; to forestall any criticism that the
rationalities are a straw man; modernist social science provides the dominant
rationality in British government.5 Whether we are talking about civil service
reform in general or the more specific reforms just described, all are top-down,
with RCTs as the vanguard. All stress improving the evidential base of policy.
All are guided by economic and managerial rationalism. All are written in the
same deadening official prose. And there is a cost. It is top-down policy-
making by, and policy advice to, ministers. It is not for any other stakeholders
in public policy-making. What is missing from these efforts to improve policy-
making is any understanding of contests over meaning and the contingency of
policy outside Westminster and Whitehall. It ignores ‘local knowledge and
practice’.
3
See http://www.behaviouralinsights.co.uk/ (last accessed 5 May 2015).
4
See https://www.gov.uk/what-works-network (last accessed 5 May 2015). See also Cabinet
Office 2013; and What Works Network 2014.
5
A list of references on the modernist social science underpinnings of these reforms would be
extensive. On evidence-based policy-making and RCTs, see Cartwright and Hardie 2012; Davies
et al. 2000; Dunlop 2016; Haynes et al. 2012; Pawson 2006; and Rousseau 2012. On behavioural
economics and nudge, see Thaler and Sunstein 2009; John et al. 2011; and Boll 2016. On the
spread of nudge, see Lunn 2014.
WHAT IS LOCAL K NOWLEDGE?
The idea of ‘local knowledge’ has positive connotations. It is associated with

responsive government and adapting national decisions to local conditions. In
unpacking the idea of local knowledge, I am not making a normative argu-
ment. Local knowledge is not good or bad, better or worse compared with
other forms of knowledge. I am not suggesting that it is another way for elite
decision-makers to ‘improve’ policy-making. Rather, I decentre local know-
ledge by identifying the set of ideas encapsulated by the phrase. The first set of
ideas is drawn from political science and focuses on the limits to rational
decision-making. The second set of ideas is drawn from cultural anthropology
and interpretivism and focuses on the ‘family resemblances’ that constitute
local knowledge.
The View from Political Science
In political science, the most sustained argument for local knowledge in public
policy-making has come from Charles Lindblom in his analysis of the limits to
social science knowledge in public policy-making (Lindblom and Cohen 1979;
Lindblom 1990). Lindblom (1990: 136) claims he cannot ‘identify a single
social science finding or idea that is undeniably indispensable to any social
task or effort’. He cites approvingly Alasdair MacIntyre’s (1971b: 238) obser-
vation that:
What we have to learn from the social sciences as they now exist is how little
understanding the social sciences can give us beyond the everyday understanding
of social life that we have anyway.
Lindblom contrasts social science knowledge with ordinary knowledge. The
latter is:
knowledge that does not owe its origins, testing, degree of verification, truth
status, or currency to distinctive [professional social inquiry] . . . techniques but
rather to common sense, casual empiricism or thoughtful speculation and ana-
lysis. It is highly fallible, but we shall call it knowledge even if it is false . . . [W]
hether it is true or false, knowledge is knowledge to anyone who takes it as a basis
for some commitment or action (Lindblom and Cohen 1979: 12).
Lindblom suggests the difference between ordinary and social science know-
ledge does not lie in techniques or theory or data collection or causal analysis.
Ordinary people do all these activities but social scientists do them better,
although they continue to depend on ordinary knowledge for their investiga-
tions (Lindblom 1990: 160). In a phrase, ordinary knowledge probes while
social science knowledge aspires to prove. However, scientific analysis can
only supplement ordinary knowledge, never replace it. Far too little attention
is paid to ordinary knowledge. If more attention was paid to ordinary know-
ledge it would help ameliorate the problem of representation—more people
would participate in decision-making. Lindblom’s ideal is interactive
problem-solving in which experts and non-partisan social scientists hammer
out policy in constant cooperation with ordinary and partisan citizens. In sum,
Lindblom sees local knowledge as another form of knowledge to be incorp-
orated in public policy-making with professional social science knowledge. It
is modernist social science in another guise.6
The View from Interpretivism
If students of public policy have paid relatively little attention to local know-
ledge, it is a commonplace topic in both cultural anthropology, with its
concern for traditional and indigenous knowledge, and interpretive social
science. For example, Geertz (1983b: 75) defines it as ‘practical, collective
and strongly rooted in a particular place’ and it forms an ‘organised body
of thought based on immediacy of experience’. Common sense is an integral
part of local knowledge. It is a web of inherited, often tacit, folk theories
that pervade everyday life. They constitute ‘a relatively organised body of
considered thought’ (Geertz (1983b: 75–6). It is an ‘everywhere found cultural
form’:
Religion rests its case on revelation, science on method, ideology on moral
passion; but common sense rests its assertion that it is not a case at all, just life
in a nutshell. The world is its authority (Geertz 1983b: 75).
Similarly, from an interpretive perspective, Yanow (2004: s10–11) sees local
knowledge as ‘typically developed within a community of practitioners’ which
‘makes it “local” knowledge—that is, specific to a context and to a group of
people acting together in that context at that time; but it is seemingly not
recognised beyond the boundaries of that community’. Indeed,
its very locality, that first-hand experience that made its generation possible, is not
perceived as having any bearing on, or legitimacy in, or value to the wider organi-
sation. It (at times along with its ‘knowers’) is typically discounted and dismissed,
and sometimes even disparaged, by managers higher up in the organisation; and
those even higher than that rarely have any knowledge of its existence at all.
6
As might be expected, the planning literature with its concern about localities, communities,
and the use of space confronts the quandaries posed by local knowledge in planning. For want of
space, I cannot review this literature here, but see Corburn 2003; Fischer 2000; Forester 1988; and
Healey 2015.
So, local knowledge is the ‘mundane, yet expert understanding of and practical
reasoning about local conditions derived from lived experience’. It is ‘context-
ual knowledge’, it is ‘tacit knowledge’, and it develops out of interaction
‘specific to a local context, such as a work practice in an organisational setting’.
For Schwartz-Shea and Yanow (2012: 49), such bottom-up analysis is the heart
and soul of interpretive analysis.
My purpose in this section is to provide an interpretive analysis of the
characteristics of local knowledge that explores its usefulness in public policy-
making. So, the obvious first step is to identify its defining characteristics. For
example, Geertz (1983b: 85–92) identifies five ‘tonal shadings’ or ‘unstandard
properties’ of common sense; it is natural, practical, thin, ad hoc wisdom, and
accessible. The problem with such lists is that they court the danger of
essentialism and calling the list ‘tonal shadings’ only ducks the issue. They
understate the contested and contingent nature of local knowledge. I avoid
such dangers by discussing the family resemblances that frame local know-
ledge. My interest is in public policy-making and not the traditional and
indigenous knowledge of concern to anthropologists.
LOCAL KNOWLEDGE: THE ‘ F A M I L Y R E S E M BL A N C E’
When discussing the shared characteristics of games, Wittgenstein (2009

[1953]) suggests the best expression for capturing the similarities is:
‘§67 family resemblances’; for the various resemblances between members of a
family: build, features, colour of eyes, gait, temperament, etc. etc. overlap and
criss-cross in the same way.
This section continues in the same vein, presenting a set of aphorisms that
constitute the family resemblances of local knowledge under the following
headings: situated, embedded, ever changing, contested, contingent and gen-
erative, performative practice, experiential, specialized, incremental, and com-
prised of folk theories that are authentic, natural, and accessible.7
§1 Local is Situated Relative to Territory, and Webs of Belief
Local knowledge can refer to spatially bounded communities; to people’s grasp

of their own experiences and circumstances. Local is relative to territory.
7
This section draws on, among others, Aronoff and Kubik 2013; Bevir and Rhodes 2003,
2006a, 2015; Durose 2009; Geertz 1983; Goodsell 1992; March 2010; Rhodes 2011a, 2014b;
Schwartz-Shea and Yanow 2012; Vohnsen 2015; Wagenaar 2012; and Yanow 2004.
Within that territory, local knowledge is available to all but unequally
distributed.
Local reasoning takes place against the background of a particular web of
beliefs. While the content of the relevant web of beliefs varies from case to
case, there is no possibility of reasoning outside any background. Local
reasoning is relative to webs of belief.
Local reasoning may have spatial content, but it may not.
The creative nature of local reasoning is what prevents modernist social
scientists offering formal models of it.
§2 Local Knowledge Is Embedded in Shared Traditions

so Available to All
A tradition is a set of understandings received during socialization; for

example, the web of inherited beliefs and practices about the institutions
and history of British government.
Traditions are pragmatic constructs, defined in ways appropriate to explain-
ing the particular sets of beliefs and actions in which we are interested. For
example, there are at least three narratives of the British constitution: the
nineteenth-century Liberal constitution overlaid by both the Whitehall version
of the constitution, and the tradition of responsible government, and all three
continue to coexist.
A tradition is unavoidable. Everyone is socialized into one or more tradi-
tions. They are shared. But a tradition is a starting point. It does not determine
later actions.
Tradition does not refer to customary, unquestioned ways of behaving or
the entrenched folklore of pre-modern societies. Rather, this notion of trad-
ition emphasizes situated agency: that is, individuals using local reasoning
consciously and subconsciously to reflect on and modify their contingent
heritage.
§3 Local Knowledge is Ever-changing in Response to Dilemmas
A dilemma arises for an individual or institution when a new idea stands in

opposition to existing beliefs or practices and forces a reconsideration of these
existing beliefs and associated tradition.
Local knowledge is not distinguished by a slow rate of change because it is
not confined to customary knowledge.
Change arises from the intended and unintended consequences of dilem-
mas and practices.
§4 Local Knowledge Is Contested
People’s beliefs about their locality and its governance can conflict not only
with the beliefs and actions of others locally but also with the beliefs and
actions of central elites. The resulting dilemmas give rise to a political contest
over what constitutes the problem and what should be done about it. This
contest leads to changes in a policy but the changes pose new dilemmas,
leading to a further contest over meanings and policy agendas.
Local knowledge is peripheral to both organizational hierarchies and the
state, underpinning subaltern, defensive actions to elite actions.
Within a government bureaucracy, street-level bureaucrats (SLBs)—nurses,
social workers, police, and teachers—have local knowledge and use local
reasoning relevant to policy implementation.
SLBs exercise local discretion based on their reading of local situations
passed on in the stories they tell one another.
§5 Local Knowledge Is Contingent, So Generative
Beliefs, actions, and practices are contingent on their historical context. Webs
of beliefs relate the past, present, and future to one another, forming a
narrative stream that orders temporally distinct beliefs and actions.
Beliefs and actions are the result of contingent reasons, not necessary
causal links.
Local knowledge produces complex specificity in context. It is ever-different
and changing because actions intersect and interact spinning off to create and
recreate webs of inordinate complexity that are the product of no one person’s
intentions but become part of the beliefs and practices of all.
This spinning-off or generative effect is ever present. A one-to-one inter-
view at a female sports club to discuss inducting new members spun off into a
changing room conversation between team members. Discussing the way the
team was run led to the revelation that the coach visited players at home. Such
behaviour was seen as inappropriate, a surprise to several team members, and
an embarrassment to those he visited. In turn, this conversation spun off into a
revision of club rules—for example, introducing a team council to replace the
previous hierarchy—and the cessation of home visits by the coach.8
8
In 2014, I taught a research masters course on qualitative data analysis for the University of
Utrecht, The Netherlands. As part of the course, participants were asked to interview colleagues
at their place of work on ‘how things work around here’. This example from a sports club was
provided by Yvonne La Grouw. I wish to thank her and her colleagues at the sports club for
giving me permission to use the material.
If local knowledge is generative, it follows that what constitutes relevant

local knowledge varies from person to person and situation to situation and is
unique to each person and situation.
§6 Local Knowledge Is Enacted in Performative Practice
A practice is a set of actions, often a set of actions that displays a pattern,

perhaps even a pattern that remains relatively stable across time. Practices
consist simply of what a group of people do, and the unintended consequences
of their actions.
We explain people’s actions by reference to the beliefs and desires of the
relevant actors, not by reference to the practice itself. A practice is the
disparate and contingent beliefs and actions of individuals.
Practice is performance; strategies for intervening in a world of complex
specificity, generative contingency, and dilemmas. For example, in managing a
dilemma, public servants construct a story to explain what is going on. They
test the story on their colleagues, and adapt it until it is judged defensible,
reliable, and accurate. They judge how the story will play publicly. They
perform that agreed story on a public stage to the relevant audience; the
media and the public.
Storytelling and its associated practices is an intervention to tame, if only for
a moment, the buzzing blooming contingency that is their world.
§7 Local Knowledge Is Experiential
Learning from experience is imperfect because its lessons are constructed,

contested, ambiguous, and contradictory.
To call something a craft rather than a science is to accept the importance of
experiential knowledge as well as formal knowledge and technical rationality.
Experiential knowledge is practical knowledge; it is useful. It also displays
street-level credibility; ‘street smarts’. To say that a public servant has ‘a safe
pair of hands’ is to recognize her practical knowledge in both these senses.
§8 Local Knowledge Is Specialized
Local knowledge has its roots in, for example, knowledge of place, of tradition,
of organizations, and of craft guilds, which set its boundaries.
Bureaucracies incorporate craft knowledge, on tap but not on top.
A craft is a skill, an occupation, or profession requiring special skill or
knowledge. The craft is learned on the job. A craft involves passing on practical
knowledge from generation to generation. There is a ‘master’ and the novitiate

moves from apprentice to journeyman to master. Commonly, there is a
profession—or historically, a guild—and it controls membership, regulates
knowledge and practices, and resists ‘outsiders’. Much of the knowledge is
tacit. It has not been systematized. It is complex. Often it is secret.
As knowledge becomes formal and systematized, it conforms to the canons
of technical rationality, not local knowledge.
§9 Local Knowledge Is Comprised of Folk Theories or Wisdom
Folk theories (or people’s intuitive and shared beliefs about everyday life and
why it is as it is) are expressed as uncodified but organized ‘wisdom’.
Folk theories are not recorded in academic texts. They are passed on orally,
even tacitly in inherited practices, and their ‘truths’ exist as stories, metaphors,
and proverbs.
Politics abounds with gossip in which stories masquerade as the truth and
the same quotations recur to become gnomic clichés:
Events, dear boy, events (Harold Macmillan)
A week is a long time in politics (Harold Wilson)
He would, wouldn’t he (Mandy Rice Davis)
You can turn if you want; the lady’s not for turning (Margaret Thatcher)9
§10 Folk Theories Are Natural, Authentic, and Accessible
Folk theories are about plain speaking; ‘I speak as I find’. Its maxims can be
prefaced by ‘of course’ because the ‘facts’ of the matter are obvious.
Folk theories are authentic because they are ‘our’ beliefs not the beliefs of
‘outsiders’, whether they be ‘townies’, ‘bikers’, or the state. They engender
suspicion, defensive or subaltern behaviour, and the stigmatizing of the other.
Any sensible person can understand how things work around here.
HOW DO WE RECOVER LOCAL KNOWLEDGE?
Local knowledge can be treated as a source of advice to policy-makers or as a

way of recovering and giving voice to the silent many in public policy-making.
9
Political wisdom, the folk theories of politics, are not to be found in textbooks but in
dictionaries of quotations and their equivalent. See, for example, Jay 2012 [1996].
Advice to Policy-makers: Storytelling
Recovering local knowledge can be treated as a technique like a survey; a

means for acquiring data for policy-makers. For central elites, the question is:
‘how can we collect such data?’ In a phrase, the answer is ‘policy narratives’.
So, storytelling is a social technology collecting data about local knowledge for
central elites; an addition to the modernist social science toolbox.10 It is about
providing information for policy-makers so they can make rational decisions
(Van Willigen 2002: 150 and ch. 11). For example, Torfing et al. (2012: 156–9;
and ch. 7) argue that network governance requires new skills in managing the
mix of bureaucracy, markets, and networks. Such meta-governing involves
devising policy narratives that span organizational boundaries and build
collaborative leadership.
There are at least four approaches to collecting stories to provide advice to
policy-makers: observation, questionnaires, focus groups, and Most Signifi-
cant Change (MSC).
Observational fieldwork is the best way of collecting stories but involves
deep hanging out (see Chapter 3, pp. 43–5 and 53). The problem is that such
fieldwork is time consuming. So, deep hanging out is supplemented with
hit-and-run ethnography—short repeat visits. In every organization there
are some excellent places for hanging out—the water cooler, the coffee
machine, and the canteen. In my government departments, the microwave
in the office kitchen was a great place as people from across the department
hung out for coffee or lunch. There are many ways of ‘being there’.
An alternative way of collecting stories is to use a questionnaire (and for
more suggested questions, see Gabriel 2000: ch. 6). In the space available, I can
give only a few examples of useful questions for finding out how things work
around here. They are reassuringly obvious; for example, ‘if a new member of
staff asks you “how do things work around here?”, what do you tell them?’
Alternatively, you can ask about people rather than events; ‘who are the main
characters in this policy or this department? Why do you think they are
characters?’ In part, in the beginning, you are persuading people to relax so
there is no need to focus exclusively on work and colleagues. Instead, you can
ask whether there is any story about work that you told family or friends. Once
underway, there are a multitude of possible follow-up questions. You can ask if
there are conflicting versions of a story, and what the story means to different
people. On occasions, I have asked interviewees to write up their story. I then
ask questions based on that story to add more detail, more colour, more
analysis, and I rewrite after discussing their answers. We stop these iterations
10
Storytelling or narrative as a tool of management is an established part of the business
toolkit and there is a burgeoning literature. See, for example, Bevir 2011b; Gabriel 2000, 2015;
and Denning 2005. There is even a Dummies book (Dietz and Silverman 2014).
when the interviewee is too bored to continue revising or we agree that that’s
what happened. I can then ask other people whether this version is what really
happened (see Rhodes 2017, Volume I, pp. 87–92).
My favoured strategy for collecting stories is the focus group, sometimes
referred to as a storytelling circle (Snowden 2000a, 2000b). They involve
getting a group of people together to discuss their beliefs and practices. The
groups are interactive and group members are encouraged by a facilitator to
talk to one another. The researcher does not interview the group members but
facilitates their discussion (see Chapter 5, pp. 83–5).
It is important that the focus group should be coherent, comprised of
people from the same organization, and with shared experiences in that
organization. There has to be a shared history from which they can draw
stories. The questions discussed in the previous section can be used to start
people talking but it is important to let group members talk to one another and
not to the facilitator. Unstructured discussion can open new avenues. Ambi-
guity and its silences can provoke discussion. There are no conclusions, no
findings. The meaning of the stories will not be clear until the researcher
analyses and writes up the transcript. The focus group is shaking the bag of
organizational stories to identify its dramas (see Agar and MacDonald 1995;
and Chapter 5, this volume).
MSC or Most Significant Change collects stories of significant change ‘from
those most directly involved, such as beneficiaries, clients and field staff ’.
Unapologetically, it is a management tool (the following is paraphrased
from Dart and Davies 2003: 138–9). As before, the question is simple; for
example, ‘During the last month, in your opinion, what was the most signifi-
cant change that took place in the programme?’ The respondents decide not
only what is significant but also why it is significant. The stories are analysed
and filtered as they move through the hierarchy: ‘Each level in the hierarchy . . .
reviews a series of stories sent to them by the level below and selects the single
most significant account of change within each of the domains.’ In effect, they
select a ‘winning story’, give their reasons for the choice, and pass it up the
hierarchy. In this way, the many stories are whittled down. At the end of
the year, top management produces a summary of the winning stories and the
reasons for their selection. This document then goes to the:
program funders and they are asked to assess the stories, selecting those that most
fully represent the sort of outcomes they wish to fund. They are also asked to
document the reasons for their choice. This information is fed back to program
managers.
Such applied ethnography is now the stuff of management consultants, even

specialized government units. The explicit aim may not be to collect stories,
although they do, but it is always to provide advice for policy-makers. How-
ever, many parties are involved in, or affected by, public policy-making.
They can resist and subvert the intentions of central elites. So, a second
reason for collecting stories about local knowledge is to specify the voices of
the silent others.
Analysing Stories
Once collected, we need to be systematic in our analysis of our stories, and

thematic analysis is the tool I favour.11
The stages of thematic analysis are straightforward. Step 1 is to become
familiar with your data, whether interviews or fieldwork notes, by first of all
checking the transcript for accuracy then reading and re-reading the tran-
scripts making notes as you go along. In effect, it is a preliminary mapping of
your data. It is preparation for Step 2, which is preparing the code book across
all your data. It is usually an iterative process as you move forwards and
backwards between individual interviews and fieldwork notes and the com-
plete data set. You have to beware of the attention grabbing anecdote and
make sure your analysis is comprehensive. Step 3 is to collate the codes into
general themes and collate the data under those themes. It is important to be
reflexive and criticize your possible themes. So, Step 4 is to review the themes.
It helps if two people (or more) work on the same data and compare notes.
You ask whether the themes work both for specific transcripts and across the
complete data set. Are the themes internally coherent, consistent, and dis-
tinctive? Do the quotes illustrate the themes? Step 5 is drawing the themes
together in a coherent narrative. This drawing together may involve further
refinement, even redefinition, of the themes and, of course, it involves relating
the data to your puzzle and theoretical approach. If you were avoiding the
vivid anecdote at earlier stages of the analysis, such anecdotes can now be used
to make your article or book more readable. You need to write a persuasive
story in which there is a good fit between what you say you are going to do
and what you have done, and in which your quotes and anecdotes illustrate
your analysis.
There are several advantages to thematic analysis. It is flexible and easily
learned. The findings are comprehensible to a general reader. It is a method
that lends itself to co-production because participants in the research can
become collaborators in its analysis. It is well suited to generating thick
descriptions and summarizing large amounts of semi-structured interview
data. Often it leads to ‘surprises’ or unanticipated findings. Finally, it produces
data useful for policy-makers.
11
The following two paragraphs paraphrase Braun and Clarke 2006.
Inscribing: Recover, Recount, and Review
Recovering and analyzing local knowledge is not only about data for the
decision-maker but is also about inscribing complex specificity in its context
to give voice to the silent. The toolkit is the same. The differences lie in whom
we ask, for whom we collect the data, and how we use those data. The role is
not limited to advising policy-makers. The researcher has many roles. The
research does not privilege any one voice but represents the several voices in
public policy-making. So, instead of advice to policy-makers, the aim is
inscription; to recover, recount, and review. We recover the stories told to us
by politicians, public servants, and citizens. We systematize these accounts,
telling our version of their stories, and recounting them. Our version is
reviewed jointly by storywriter and storyteller to identify errors, divergences,
and lessons. The aim is a fusion of horizons that covers both agreement and
where we agree to disagree. Both are reported. We derive practical lessons
from lived experience; an interpretive equivalent of evidence-based policy-
making (and see Rhodes and Tiernan 2014b).
The problem is that politicians and bureaucrats are scarcely sympathetic to
giving voice. They will see the research as awkward and defending the status
quo. Findings do not conform to their expectations about the causes of
problems and their solutions. The research is not deemed ‘relevant’. It may
be today’s conventional wisdom that knowledge should be relevant to policy-
makers, and that they define relevance. However, it is not a given. It may be
disruptive but it is legitimate to focus on other people’s definition of relevance
and on people who hold views contrary to the government of the day. We can
choose to be servants of power and help the state win consent, but it is not
required. We can choose to contribute to debates that will enhance the
capacity of citizens to consider and voice differing perspectives in policy
debates. It is an alternative normative choice.
Any aphorism courts the danger of over-simplification. ‘Recover, recount,
and review’ is no exception because it attributes fixity to local knowledge when
it is often elusive and ambiguous. Thus, Vohnsen argues that ‘local knowledge
and practice is a tricky phenomenon’ because it is ‘dispersed, and not pos-
sessed equally by all’:
what one person holds to be of importance in one specific situation is not
necessarily what the same person might attribute importance to in a different
situation—in other words what people know to be of local relevance in one
situation might be different from what they know to be of local relevance in the
next situation (Vohnsen 2015: 158).
Moreover, the SLBs do not have clear, fixed identities; they ‘swap identities all
the time: one minute they are advocating the project like true politicians, while
the next moment they are criticising it like detached academic scholars’. They
are not local experts confronting a central plan. They know the plan cannot be
implemented so ‘implementation happens hand-in-hand with street-level
planning’. There is ‘a second, highly unstable planning phase’ locally that
continuously plans and redrafts the policy (Vohnsen 2015: 157–8).
To use Vohnsen’s colloquial phrase, local knowledge is ‘shifty’ or, more
formally, it is contested, contingent, and generative. It is not amenable to
central collection or direction. Local knowledge as advice to policy-makers
raises the question of whose local knowledge in what context. To recover local
knowledge is to inscribe these complex specificities in their ever varying
contexts, but at the cost of being dismissed as irrelevant by central elites.
CONCLUSIONS: W HAT COUNTS AS E VIDENCE?
This chapter identifies the family resemblances among the various accounts
of local knowledge, suggesting that local knowledge is: situated, embedded,
ever-changing, contested, contingent and generative, performative practice, ex-
periential, specialized, incremental, and comprised of folk theories that are
authentic, natural, and accessible. I have distinguished between recovering
local knowledge as advice to policy-makers and as inscription. I have described
four ways of collecting stories about local knowledge; observation, questionnaire,
focus group, and MSC. I have decentred local knowledge, arguing it is contested,
contingent, and generative. I have suggested these characteristics mean that
whether as advice to policy-makers or as inscription, incorporating local know-
ledge in public policy-making will be seen as irrelevant by elite policy-makers.
The problem of whether evidence is relevant to policy-makers is further
compounded by the political context. Evidence, whether local knowledge or
modernist social science, has different meanings and uses in different political,
especially party political, situations. Dunlop (2016) shows that that evidence is
not a ‘given’, but made, unmade, and remade by the contestants in a political
struggle. Success is contingent and evidence is slow to permeate policy-making
even if one assumes that key policy-makers are onside (see also Weiss 1986). If
they are not, then evidence is but a pawn in party political, bureaucratic, and
ideological games.
Recurring through any discussion of local knowledge for public policy-
making are the questions of what counts as evidence and evidence for whom.
It might seem obvious that ‘a good decision is based on knowledge and not on
numbers’ (Plato) but it is not obvious when it comes to the public administra-
tion world, with its given facts, positive theory, and hypothesis testing. The
popularity of evidence-based policy-making with its preference for random-
ized control trials simply makes matters worse. Qualitative data simply does
not meet such expectations so does not count as generalizable evidence.
The brute fact is that the knowledge criteria of naturalist social science—the
logic of vindication and of refutation—are inappropriate. Such notions as
reliability, validity, and generalization are not relevant when the aim of
research is complex specificity in its context (Wolcott 1995: 174). This differ-
ence does not mean we abandon objectivity and that there are no criteria for
comparing stories. In Chapter 2 (this volume), I identified such criteria and
defended the notion of objectivity as intersubjective agreement arising out of
the forensic challenge to, and comparison of, contending narratives. So, we
can still aspire to plausible conjectures. This claim may be modest compared
with much else in political science, and especially when compared with the
ambition of evidence-based policy-making, but it will do for now.
Scott (1998: 321) suggests that abstract, universalist, scientific knowledge
works best in those ‘spheres of human endeavour that are freest of contin-
gency, guesswork, context, desire and personal experience’. This is the playing
field for much evidence-based policy-making with its roots in modernist social
science. However, the professional fields of policy advice, planning, and much
else are spheres of knowledge in which practice, experience, and local know-
ledge are at a premium. Local knowledge rooted in inscription and giving
voice can produce plausible conjectures for policy-makers, professionals, and
citizens alike to puzzle about. When puzzling, the challenge is to extract
general statements from small facts. Local knowledge may be shifty, but it is
also substantive. For all its complex specificity, contingency, and generative
qualities, it is information for and about policy that is relevant to and for
somebody. 12 Better many voices because they are the first line of defence
against both markets and the state. In silence lies acquiescence and if freedom
means anything at all, it means the right to give voice and tell governing elites
what they don’t want to hear.13
12
Although there are no direct quotes, this paragraph expresses sentiments that anyone
familiar with the work of Clifford Geertz will recognize. See Geertz 1973: 3; 2001: 140.
13
This sentence is modified from the proposed preface to George Orwell, Animal Farm
(1945), which was eventually published in The Times Literary Supplement, 15 September
1972, and is now available at: http://orwell.ru/library/novels/Animal_Farm/english/efp_go/
(last accessed 10 July 2015).
11
On Westminster
One colleague asked, ‘Why should the rest of us, who do not live in this tiny
country across the Channel, pay any attention to your grand narrative of
governance?’ He was correct. It is crucial to show that my approach can travel
and illuminate governance practices in other countries.1
As one reviewer of Comparing Westminster (Rhodes et al. 2009) observed,
‘This is not political science, which may be both the book’s great strength and
its great weakness’ (O’Malley 2011: 97). In the language of the mainstream, it
is not an example of comparative politics, but of area studies. The designation
‘area studies’ refers to ‘someone who devotes all or a substantial portion of his
or her professional career to the study of another country or region of the
world’ (Lambert 1990: 712). My area of study is the dominion Westminster
countries. According to Hodgett (2018: 1) area studies has had a ‘bad press for
a very long time’. As Graham and Kantor (2007:1) argue, the conventional
wisdom equated social science with theory, mathematics, rigorous methods,
falsifiability, replicability, and scientific approaches, which is ‘good’, while area
studies was descriptive, cultural, historical, and contextual, which is ‘bad’.
Even worse (allegedly), area studies has become a collection of tribes and
‘most of the interaction is with the tribe and not . . . the people outside’
(Lambert 1990: 722). But this is the view from mainstream American political
science. To describe area studies as descriptive, cultural, historical, and con-
textual is not a criticism. As must be obvious from the argument of this book,
such a characterization is better viewed as praise because it means area studies
practice complex specificity in context. So, again, I can look further afield
confident that the several genres of thought in area studies share my aim of
finding more and better ways to talk of politics (and on developments in area
studies in the 2000’s see Hodgett 2018 and citations therein).
1
This chapter is a revised version of R. A. W. Rhodes, J. Wanna, and P. Weller (2008)
‘Reinventing Westminster—How Public Executives Reframe Their World’, Policy and Politics 36
(4): 461–79. © Policy Press. Reprinted with permission of Policy Press. It is not my first excursion
into area studies. See Bevir et al. 2003a and 2003b; Rhodes et al. 2007b; Rhodes and Weller 2001;
Rhodes et al. 2009; and Weller et al. 1997.
On Westminster 185
In this instance, my chosen method is the textual analysis of various

primary sources; speeches, writings, evidence to inquiries, and interviews by
heads of the public services (see Chapter 7, this volume). These texts may
express personal views but the official position of their authors lends weight to
the ideas and accords them a more general applicability. I have not updated
the analysis in the light of subsequent changes in the public services of the
three countries because I am not writing a contemporary history of public
service reform. Rather, I provide an example of the interpretive approach and
one of its methods at work. Again, I focus on beliefs of top public servants.
Such beliefs continue to change in response to dilemmas. Traditions continue
to be modified through practice. This chapter is an example of these processes.
T H E CR A F T O F C O M PA R I S O N
This chapter illustrates an approach to comparative studies based on the

analysis of dilemmas.2 Comparative interpretive research should be based on
explaining how actors understand and respond to dilemmas in everyday life.
Actors are situated agents. Public servants are situated in governmental
traditions; that is, a set of inherited beliefs and practices about the institutions
and history of government. However, traditions are also products of individual
agency. When people confront the unfamiliar, they have to extend or change
their heritage to encompass it, so developing their heritage. I use the term
‘dilemma’ to refer to challenges to existing beliefs and practices. Such dilem-
mas often lead to a reconsideration of both beliefs and associated tradition (see
Bevir and Rhodes 2003; and Chapter 2, this volume). For example, Rhodes
et al.’s (2009) study of five Westminster parliamentary democracies, identified
five shared dilemmas along which to compare them: the growth of prime
ministerial power; the decline in individual and collective ministerial account-
ability; the politicization of the public service; executive dominance of the
legislature; and the decline in the overall effectiveness of Westminster as a
system of government.
Such dilemmas function as a sort of intellectual skeleton key that unlocks
the potential of comparative interpretive research. By asking why actors act
politically in a particular context we uncover the choices and dilemmas they
confront. The result is a decentred approach that focuses on the social
construction of a practice through the ability of individuals to create, and
act on, meanings. So, comparison does not rely on the types of rigid categories
2
I must thank John Boswell and Jack Corbett (University of Southampton) for their help in
writing this section.
common to comparative politics—be they institutional or ideational. Instead,

decentred analysis allows us to see the many aspects of the political experience
that inform how actors see the world and act in it. Interpretive research offers
the most cogent set of tools suitable for uncovering meaning and dilemmas.
Although the starting point is that dilemmas are context specific, the key
research question is whether dilemmas exist in and across context. Do others
experience the same dilemmas, and how are their experiences similar or
different? There are no universal dilemmas, although there are shared ones.
There can be no typology of dilemmas because actors define dilemmas, not
researchers. The traditions and dilemmas we focus on are not natural. Obser-
vers construct them out of an undifferentiated context to explain whatever
interests them. As I explained in Chapter 2 (this volume), interpretive research
is abductive. It starts with a puzzle and iteratively seeks the best plausible
conjecture to explain that puzzle. So, I ask actors about the dilemmas they
confront and their explanations of what is happening and why. In this chapter,
the dilemma that confronted the Westminster countries was how to adjust
administrative traditions when confronted by political demands for both
greater responsiveness and management reform.
In this approach to comparative research ‘comparison is not a method or
even an academic technique; rather, it is a discursive strategy’ (Anderson 2016:
129–30). Dilemmas are to interpretive research what hypotheses are to nat-
uralist research. Abduction is to interpretive research what deduction is to
naturalist research. Plausible conjectures are to interpretive research what
generalizations are to naturalist research. My aim is complex specificity in
context, not generalizations.
THE P UBLIC S ERVICE
Office creates expectations. Rules provide direction. Precedents guide action.

Civil services are the creation of decades. They consist of both embedded
beliefs and practices and the actions of individuals. They are suffused with
formal rules, long memories, and established practices. Yet they are also
contested arenas. There are few certainties about how people should act in
given circumstances. Civil servants must constantly interpret their position;
they are situated agents.
That does not mean there is no formal documentation about the proper roles
of civil servants and their relationships with governments and clients. Any
government—Canada, Australia, and the United Kingdom in this example—will
On Westminster 187
have both legislation and guidelines about how civil servants should work.
They will prescribe proper behaviour between senior officials and ministers.
These documents are the rules of governments, handed down to suit their
political purposes yet even then they must be general in outlook.
My concern here is different. Even within the boundaries created by
government commands and formal legislation, civil servants must still make
sense of their position and their role. They are professionals on government,
heirs to long traditions; they need to explain to themselves and their colleagues
where they fit. As circumstances change, they need to rationalize how their
circumstances may have altered too and what expectations may now exist.
Making sense is not a matter of law but of self-positioning.
So, I do not ask here about the formal position of civil servants, but about
how they interpret and understand their place in the political firmament.
Since such an enterprise could be enormous, I focus discussion mainly on the
way three senior civil servants, each head of the civil service in their countries
at the time they spoke, explain their understanding of how they place
themselves in the broad tradition that shapes their working life. I look at
how heads of the civil service, or former heads, articulate and proselytize
about traditions of ‘constitutional bureaucracy’ (Parris 1969; Sossin 2006).
Each in their own way was protecting the eternal verities of their version of a
‘constitutional bureaucracy’. They are rearticulating what they see as enduring
traditions, selectively reinventing beliefs to equip themselves and the civil
services they lead to make sense of the present. Of course, their views shade
into the classic arts of political rhetoric and myth-making. But these are
influential myths.
The approach is deliberately general. I do not seek to show civil servants in
action; to provide examples of where these principles may have been put into
effect. I want to understand how they think and feel about their position, about
the ways they perceive the world. I identify the arguments they use to justify
and rationalize the relevance of the civil service in the new circumstances
in which they must now work. I show how they look for continuities and
consistency by appealing to the common themes and traditions despite diff-
erent national circumstances.
I recognize that even in similar Westminster-derived countries with some
shared heritage and common traditions of understanding government, there
remain distinct differences. Their respective civil services are not identical and
have constructed interpretations depending on the different dilemmas and
contexts they faced in the past. I am not claiming, therefore, that there is some
comparative convergence. I seek to show how key actors across these West-
minster jurisdictions re-engaged with their traditions and, in the process,
helped to reinvent new versions.
TRADITIONS
Traditions can be normative and idealized, practical and applied, or com-

binations of both. They are selective legacies passed down from generation to
generation and adapted to present-day use. Earlier traditions can be select-
ively reconstituted and re-formed. Actors draw from memory and previous
training to provide guides to their roles and responsibilities. So, practitioners
reach for historical notions of governance and call into play antecedent
notions to enable them to better manage or understand their present-day
circumstances. Such antecedents may allow scope for reinventing govern-
ance principles or provide a suitable rhetoric that practitioners can wield as a
defence mechanism. In this latter sense, governance legacies can be revisited
and rehabilitated in an almost atavistic manner provided they have plausi-
bility, believability, and authoritativeness. They provide a backdrop against
which today’s protagonists do not merely grasp their world but seek to guide
its directions.
Public services—sometimes referred to as civil services—in Westminster
systems have evolved according to a hybrid set of traditions of governance that
are partly inherited from the political and parliamentary realm and partly
learnt through administrative practice. On the one hand, civil services are not
the sole masters of their fates. They are not the autonomous inventors or
creators of their own identifiable traditions. They exist in and are subordi-
nate to a legitimate political authority. So, there is a derivative character to
their traditions. They work in formalized traditions of governance that are
dependent and contingent on the political process and notions of proper
decision-making and accountability. These political traditions, which I label
‘responsible government’, frame the dominant narratives in which they con-
struct and make sense of their roles and existence. There are distinct political
variations in this broad church of ideas—Tory-conservatism, Whig-liberalism,
Labour-socialism, and, especially in the former dominions, statist traditions of
social liberalism and agrarian socialism.
The civil service enjoys some institutional continuity and both keeps and
refracts these traditions of ‘responsible government’ while also remaining
embedded in it. So, although the formative political legacies of ‘responsible
government’ were created and moulded elsewhere—through parliament and
cabinet government, by the electoral process, by constitutionalists and the
judiciary, by interest groups, and by public consent or popular discourse—the
civil service nevertheless is an active conduit, conductor, and disseminator of
such traditions.
On the other hand, the civil service also embodies two related sets of
administrative traditions—the generalist and specialist traditions—that are
couched in the normative aspirations of a constitutional bureaucracy. These,
in turn, created professional administrative bureaucracies with strong norms,
On Westminster 189
precepts, and values. Such administrative traditions have organic or discrete

roots in the bureaucracy but must coexist with the political traditions. So,
evolving conventions of responsible government are complemented by evolv-
ing notions of professionalism, degrees of independence, expertise and tech-
nical proficiency, management, and preferred patterns of recruitment and
workforce composition.
In addition, bureaucratic organizations also develop distinctive agency
cultures and traditions based on their internal organizational cultures, their
continuing relationships and collective memories, their discrete training and
types of expertise, and their professional values and codes. Often these are
agency-specific, insular, and self-referential. These departmental philosophies
and cultures interact with the service-wide constitutional bureaucratic or
administrative traditions in complex and iterative ways.
Civil service traditions represent a plurality of inherited beliefs—sometimes
separate and distinct, sometimes coexisting but also competing. Such tradi-
tions are not passively picked up from the political framework of responsible
government. Rather, the civil service is an active cultivator and preserver of its
traditions. It functions as the repository of government history and institu-
tional practice. Its political and administrative traditions are not mutually
exclusive but are constantly intersecting together. They provide meaning not
in the form of some abstract, external constitutional doctrine but in the
intersection of daily practice and reflection—occasionally with tensions but
often in harmony.
RECALIBRATING TRADITIONS
Civil servants construct their understandings of these complementary and

competing traditions through two forms of socialization. First, they imbibe
beliefs through on-the-job learning and practitioner mentoring. They work
and operate in institutional settings and learn the transmitted belief structures
and norms. Career structures are learning apprenticeships. Second, they are
informed by a literature that packages dominant ideas or beliefs in the
traditions of responsible government. This literature has two strands—‘insiders’
and ‘outsiders’. The ‘insiders’ comprise former experienced public servants
expounding normative frameworks or explaining changing conventional
practice (for example, Bridges 1950, 1956 is the locus classicus but, more
recently, see Wilson 2003). The ‘outsiders’ comprise journalist, academic,
and constitutional writers attempting to describe and make sense of evolv-
ing political systems to explain to others (see, for example, Bagehot 1867;
Dicey 1914; and Hennessy 2001). There is a tendency with both forms of
socialization for anachronistic elements or nostalgia to characterize the nar-

rative structures.
But such socialization is not frozen in time. The civil service can be seen
to be continually recalibrating its traditions. It does so consciously, uncon-
sciously, and episodically as it confronts new dilemmas. Intensive episodes of
recalibration can be interpreted as attempts to update traditional legacies and
beliefs, or as attempts to endorse and legitimize cherished traditions in
changed circumstances. Traditions thus evolve and are reconfigured, but
they can also be more comprehensively reinvented when they confront
major dilemmas.
DILEMMAS
The main challenge faced by the Westminster-derived civil services over the
past decades has been the belief among governments that the civil service was
impervious to political rule (see Aucoin 1995; Lange 1998; Caiden 1990; Savoie
2003). There was a clear belief from the 1970s onwards shared across much of
the Westminster democracies that the bureaucracy had become too power-
ful and obstructionist. It was accused of having invested too much in its
own independence and permanency. It was accused of being insular, self-
referential, and unresponsive; and accused of being an ‘entrenched aristocracy
within a democracy’ and seeking to be above governments (Savioe 2003: 12).
In the UK, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher (1979–90) was out of sympathy
with the ethos of a ‘permanent’ civil service she thought too risk averse. Prime
Minister Tony Blair (1997–2007) extended rather than reversed this trend and
sought to make public agencies more responsive, contestable, and focused on
delivery. In Australia, successive governments eroded permanent appoint-
ments in the public service, expanded contractual employment, and intro-
duced performance regimes. Also, they used various mechanisms for exerting
political control over agencies and their agendas (such as the growth of
political advisers as policy managers). The story is similar in Canada, where
deputy ministers are personally exposed to public accountability, employed on
short-term contracts, and more open to political pressure. Their ministries are
run on results-based business lines.
Relationships at the centre of government between politicians and depart-
mental heads have also changed. The civil service now deals with a different set
of politicians. Since the nineteenth century, when much of the Westminster
system originated, politicians have become full-time career politicians, highly
educated, reflexive, and spin-conscious. Ministers are more interested in
immediate impact and effectiveness. They invest in driving change and inten-
sive media exposure makes them more directly accountable in the community
On Westminster 191
for the performance of their agencies. Many ministers are not prepared to
accept conventional ways of doing things but are interested in choices, in
alternative solutions, comparative experiences, and transforming the incentive
structures within policy frameworks (for instance, greater citizen-choice
models of delivery).
The roles and responsibilities of governments in Westminster systems have
also changed. Initially, government played largely a regulatory role and had
limited responsibilities. In the twentieth century governments created the
welfare state but that era of big government gave way to the managerialism
and outsourced services. Today, under the influence of neo-liberal ideas,
improving service delivery and choice have become key priorities for govern-
ment policy-making. Governments have far more discretion in their choice of
policy delivery instruments.
Most important for the civil service, there is far more contestability in policy
advice, research, and information. Much of the contestable advice is from
outside the public sector—from think-tanks, consultancy firms, management
consultants, academic centres, and peak bodies and their research arms. The
civil services no longer hold a monopoly on advice to ministers. Mostly the
policy units of departments play a lesser role in original policy formulation,
but instead ‘add value’ by collating, arbitrating, and recommending between
contestable options circulating the minister. The picture is further compli-
cated by ministerial advisers and minders. They not only mediate and liaise
between the department and the minister but also give the minister more
capacity to become involved and have an impact.
One Australian minister summed up these changes as follows:
There has been a transition over 25 years from the final days of an imperial public
service to a public service which is focused on policy advice and service contracts,
as an enterprise operating in a competitive environment where governments have
alternative sources of advice and service provision . . . it was an institutional
struggle between the democratically elected governments and the public service
for control over the public service. And in that struggle the elected governments
have won (cited in Weller 2001: 81).
BU T NOSTALGIA REMAINS
While core relationships at the top have changed over past decades, the key
bureaucratic actors did not always welcome the changes. There remains
nostalgia for the days when the civil servants were reputedly at their most
effective, when they were regarded as ‘statesmen in disguise’. Mostly this
golden era refers to the mid-twentieth century and to such giants of the
profession as Sir Warren Fisher and Sir Edward Bridges.3 These cabinet
secretaries in Britain were educated, urbane, effective, and regarded as the
archetypal mandarins. In Canada, the senior officials of a similar era became
the subject of a collective portrait, The Ottawa Men (Granatstein 1982), which
charted their considerable impact on post-war Canada.4 In Australia, a group
known collectively as the ‘Seven Dwarfs’, men small of stature (at least some
were) but of dominant intellect, ruled for decades at the top of the Australian
public service. They were scarcely a united team, but they were able to
monopolize the provision of advice in an environment where there was little
intellectual or institutional challenge to their position. The most dominant, Sir
Roland Wilson, was secretary of the Treasury for 15 years and regularly
participated at cabinet as if he were a senior minister.5
Why this particular era of civil servants attained such hallowed status is not
difficult to determine. It was that period between the mass mobilization of
society to pursue total war with its belief in the efficacy of state action, and the
decline of faith in state solutions in the late 1970s. Whether the giants of those
periods deserve the plaudits is debatable and disputed as the files become
available to historians. The other side of this nostalgic coin suggests that
today’s leading public executives are pale by comparison. But, as a former
Australian Secretary of the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet, Peter
Shergold, noted:
There is a growing tendency to look back to the Secretaries of the past with
nostalgia, finding in them qualities that have failed to withstand the passage of
time and which reflect badly on their contemporary incumbents. The past
becomes legend, and those who occupy the present are portrayed as unworthy
to stand in the shoes of those who have gone before (Shergold 2004b: 2).
In a subsequent reflection, he added:
The perceived decline in the power and status of public service often seems to
coincide with the departure of the perceiving public servant. There is a remark-
able conjunction of personal and administrative history. Whether individually, or
in collective groups . . . retired diplomats, military brass and mandarins have a
disarming if understandable tendency to see their successors as failing to live up
to their own high standards of truth, ethics and integrity (Shergold 2005: 2).
3
On Bridges, see Chapman 1988, and on Fisher, see O’Halpin 1989.
4
For the collective portrait of these senior officials (such as Oscar Skelton, Clifford Clark,
Norman Robertson, Graham Towers, Lester Pearson, Louis Rasminsky, Mitchell Sharp, and
Robert Bryce), see Granatstein 1982 and Savoie 2003: 62–9. Interestingly, many of these senior
administrators made the transition into elected office becoming ministers and, in Pearson’s case,
prime minister.
5
See, for example, Weller 2001: 37–52 and 183–8; Weller 2007: 100 and 113. There is no
overall study of the ‘Seven Dwarfs’ (Roland Wilson, Richard Randall, H. C. Coombs, Frederick
Shedden, Alan Brown, Henry Bland, and John Crawford), but some individual studies include:
Coombs 1981; Rowse 2002; Cornish 2002; Horner 2000; Arklay et al. 2006.
On Westminster 193
So, I have a puzzle: the so-called golden era of the civil service was regarded by
ministers as a period when officials were too powerful and there was a need to
reassert political leadership. Now in a period of enhanced political control, the
senior echelons of the civil service are regarded as ‘lacking the fearlessness and
courage’ of their predecessors, open to politicization and partisanship, and
ready to adopt a willingness-to-please mentality (Shergold 2004b: 2).
REINVENTING TRADITIONS
But the controversy is not an either-or debate. I focus here on three examples
of how the present leadership of the civil service goes about appropriating
and inventing its framing traditions. I am concerned to identify which
aspects of its traditions the leadership selects and embraces. Which elements
of the broader traditions do they engage with and select for endorsement or
dissemination?
In Britain, the touchstone for many practitioners are the principles reflected
in the Northcote–Trevelyan Report on the Organisation of the Permanent Civil
Service (Great Britain 1854), still regarded as the main foundation for the
modern civil service. There are no British references to the need to maintain
the Westminster system. Why would there be any such reference when that
would be mere self-description? So, Northcote–Trevelyan provides the source
of the administrative tradition read against the accepted backdrop of the
political tradition of responsible government.6 It provides an ‘ideal’, a related
set of ideas, and even a measuring stick against which to judge current
practice. Even if not often read or understood by officials today, appeals to
the supposed principles of Northcote–Trevelyan remain common features of
debates about the progress and the behaviour of the modern civil services.
In his valedictory address, the British Cabinet Secretary and Head of the
Home Civil Service, Sir Andrew Turnbull (2005: 1) concluded that:
The British Civil Service enjoys an excellent reputation and it is particularly
admired abroad . . . Yet it has its detractors and critics, particularly at home.
I have reflected on this and have come to the conclusion that the Civil Service
has been strongly shaped by the Northcote–Trevelyan report and the traditions
which have developed from it, but that this has also given rise to many of the
features which people find unsatisfactory.
6
For a more detailed account of the origins of Britain’s ‘constitutional bureaucracy’, see
Chapman and Greenaway 1980; Chester 1981; MacDonagh 1977; Parris 1969; Sutherland 1972;
and Rhodes 1994.
Turnbull argued (2005: 1) that:

The Northcote–Trevelyan report grew out of the clash between a growing
state and an administration based on nepotism. It recommended a series of
changes, which have shaped the organization even to this day. These were:
• a permanent and impartial civil service;
• accountable to ministers who are in turn accountable to Parliament;
• recruitment and promotion on merit;
• self-sufficiency—that is, it largely developed its own talent with the
presumption of one employer for a whole career;
• providing services from within with little outsourcing;
• federal, organized into departments each of whom has a secretary of state
accountable to Parliament.
Turnbull believed these principles were fundamental to Westminster civil
services.
Turnbull also noted there was a price to pay. This constitutional bureau-
cracy produces: a ‘closed world’ that was ‘hierarchical and inflexible’, that was
slow to change and draw on external talent or use outsourcing, that gave little
priority to the development of leadership, and had few incentives to improve
efficiency. The service was also ‘too reliant on the skills of those recruited
many years earlier, leaving it underpowered when requirements changed’
(Turnbull 2005: 2–3).
His direct appeal to, and criticism of, Northcote–Trevelyan is interesting
because the report was silent on many of the principles Turnbull itemizes.
Myth becomes synonymous with tradition.7 For example, apart from the term
‘Permanent Civil Service’ mentioned in the introduction, the report does not
mention permanency nor defend the case for it. Nor are key attributes such as
anonymity or impartiality discussed. The civil service is valued for having
‘sufficient independence’ but this is not expressed as demonstrating apolitical
values. There is no mention of self-sufficiency although the report did allow
for both recruitment from outside and for the dismissal of the indolent. Nor is
the civil service’s accountability to ministers mentioned or explored. The
authors content themselves with the comment that officials occupy ‘a position
duly subordinate to that of the Ministers who are directly responsible to the
Crown and to Parliament’.8
7
I am indebted to Rodney Lowe (2005) for his seminar at the Australian National University
on ‘Western Public Administration and the Myth of Northcote Trevelyan’, 12 October 2005. The
ideas in this paragraph were developed as a result of his seminar.
8
On the doctrine of ministerial responsibility, see the Ministry of Reconstruction (Haldane
Report) 1918. The ‘Haldane Model’ calls for ministers accountable to Parliament and civil
servants accountable to ministers.
On Westminster 195
Turnbull’s appeal to Northcote–Trevelyan attempts to identify and preserve

the virtues of the traditional civil service in the face of recent dilemmas. His
message is code for continuity, rather than fundamental change. It represents
a reinterpretation of administrative traditions by an administrative elite cop-
ing with present-day uncertainties and, in the process, defending their under-
standing of their administrative traditions. Put another way, Turnbull was
projecting his version of the eternal verities of a constitutional bureaucracy. He
was also critical of those inside government who did not share his view or his
preferred ways of working. For example, he described Chancellor Gordon
Brown’s operating style as ‘sheer Stalinist ruthlessness’ (Timmins 2007).9
Brown was perceived as challenging the sanctity of the administrative trad-
ition; Turnbull is defending it against such attacks.
The views expressed in Turnbull’s reinterpretation are not idiosyncratic.
Similar statements have been made by previous cabinet secretaries who were
themselves coping with earlier bouts of reform. For example, the 1994 White
Paper The Civil Service. Continuity and Change (Cm 2627 1994) claims that
the Northcote–Trevelyan report set out the principles that continue to under-
lie the civil service. According to the then head of the civil service, Sir Robin
Butler, they were ‘Integrity, impartiality, objectivity, selection and promotion
on merit and accountability through Ministers to Parliament’ (Cm 2627 1994:
para. 2.7, p. 8. See also Wilson 2003: 366–7). So, Northcote–Trevelyan is
employed as a myth, set up as an ideal, and used as a defence of the civil
service, not just to resist change but more to select the parts that fit with
existing departmental philosophies.
The Westminster notion of a non-partisan bureaucracy subordinate to
ministers is a long accepted feature of Australian government.10 The Royal
Commission on Australian Government Administration, headed by H. C. Coombs,
a public servant who was Australian of the Year in 1972, and nominated for
Australian of the Century in 1988, starts by commenting that:
This system has traditionally been identified and described as an example of the
Westminster system. The Commission has become increasingly aware of the
degree to which the Australian system in fact differs from the Westminster
model and of the significance for the administration of such differences (Coombs
Commission 1976, para. 2.1.2).
9
Turnbull said about Gordon Brown’s style of leadership: ‘There has been the absolute
ruthlessness with which Gordon Brown has played the denial of information as an instrument
of power. He has maintained an iron grip on spending and on the distribution to departments . . . .
Do those ends justify the means? It has enhanced Treasury control, but at the expense of any
government cohesion and any assessment of strategy. You can choose whether you are impressed
or depressed by that, but you cannot help admire the sheer Stalinist ruthlessness of it all’
(Timmins 2007).
10
For a more detailed account of the origins of Australia’s ‘constitutional bureaucracy’ and
administrative professionalism, see Caiden 1967; Caiden 1990; and Finn 1987.
The Coombs Commission’s definition was that:

The Westminster model envisages a government chosen from elected represen-
tatives and responsible and accountable to them. It presents the bureaucracy as
simply an extension of the minister’s capacity; it exists to inform and advise him;
to manage on his behalf programs for which he is responsible. Except where
Parliament specifically legislated otherwise, its power to make decisions or to act
derives entirely from the minister by his delegation and he remains responsible to
his Cabinet colleagues and to Parliament for decisions made and actions per-
formed under that delegation (Coombs Commission 1976: para. 2.1.4).
The Australian public service has long accepted this interpretation of their
position. Ask departmental secretaries about their relations with ministers and
they often say: ‘I’m a traditionalist; I believe in the Westminster system’—
meaning they are non-partisan but work entirely for the minister (Weller and
Grattan 1981: 69; see also Weller 2001). Ministerial supremacy was a given.
However, after a series of recent scandals in which the professionalism
of the public service was called into dispute, senior officials drew on inter-
pretations of Westminster to defend their position and responsiveness to
ministers.11 So, Peter Shergold, Andrew Turnbull’s Australian counterpart,
lamented in a speech entitled Once Was Camelot in Canberra? that recent
critics of public administration in Australia thought Westminster was now
dead. It could no longer be found in the public service. He summarized the
critics’ case thus:
The current view is that ‘accountability and responsibility Westminster-style no
longer exist’ and that the public service has been tarnished by ‘politicisation,
intimidation and demoralisation’. The public service, and particularly those who
head it, now lack the fearlessness and courage of [their predecessors]. Instead,
behind layers of secrecy, has been built a rotten edifice of ‘plausible deniability’,
designed to protect Ministers from unpleasant or inconvenient truths (Shergold
2004b: 2).
Shergold referred several times in his speech to the Westminster legacy. Most
references were used as an anchor for his argument and to dispel contrary views:
It is too often forgotten that a Westminster system depends on expectations of
confidentiality (Shergold 2004b: 2).
Australia may be rightly proud of its Westminster tradition but Canberra is far
more open to scrutiny than Whitehall. Over the last generation there has been a
11
Three significant scandals raising issues of propriety and professionalism by both ministers
and officials impacted on Australian politics between 2001 and 2006. These were the ‘children
overboard’ affair (where convenient untruths were told and left uncorrected), the scandals
over wrongful detention by the immigration department, and the Australian Wheat Board Ltd
scandal in which (known) kickbacks were paid to the Iraqi regime under Saddam Hussein
and covered up. For details, see Weller 2002; Marr and Wilkinson 2005; Palmer 2005; and
Botterill 2007.
On Westminster 197
profound increase in the extent to which public decision-making can be accessed
and examined (Shergold 2004b: 3).
I do not think that the particular and distinctive role of the ministerial staffer will
bring about the demise of the independent public service or destroy the West-
minster system (Shergold 2004b: 7).
To Shergold, Australia’s Westminster system was less precisely defined and
constantly adapting. He talked of Westminster ‘systems’, ‘traditions’, and
‘styles’, all in the same speech. He argued that its past ideals, variously
constructed, were still alive and well, and in some cases they were more robust
now than previously. He not only recognized the imperative to accommodate
and anticipate change, but also warned against distorting the picture by
simplistic or idealized versions drawn from perceptions of previous eras. He
disputed that only former heads were frank and fearless. His message was that
there was never a ‘Camelot’ in Canberra.
His version of the administrative traditions stressed that Westminster was
an evolving system involving relations of trust. It was based on balances and
counter-balances of power and position, roles and responsibilities, ideas and
advice. To him, administrative law and managerialism were enhancements to
Westminster not threats to it. While he eschewed the term ‘constitutional
bureaucracy’, his argument for an evolving continuity was a plea to be
‘bound . . . by the preservation of a shared tradition’ (2004: 9).
In Canada, the Privy Council Office’s (PCO) 1977 submission to the Royal
Commission on Financial Management and Accountability explained the
foundations of Canadian constitutional government.12 Its submission, entitled
Responsibility in the Constitution, commenced with the proposition that ‘Our
system of government, deriving from British and pre- and post-federation
practice, is ministerial in character’ (Privy Council Office 1993: 1.1). It traced
precedents back to the earliest constitutional developments of the Middle
Ages. ‘The system faithfully reflects the evolution of constitutional responsi-
bility stretching back to Magna Carta and beyond’ (Privy Council Office 1993:
1.21). Many of the early references to precedent were to British writers.
The PCO drew on British traditions, while delineating Canadian adaptation
and practice.
More recently, a commission of inquiry held over 2004–06 into the ‘spon-
sorship scandal’,13 led by Judge John Gomery, examined the behaviour of the
12
For a more detailed account of the origins of Canada’s ‘constitutional bureaucracy’, see
Sossin 2006; but also note Aucoin’s 1995 depiction of the Canadian bureaucracy as the ‘admin-
istrative state’ that was supposed to remain ‘constitutionally subordinate to its political masters’
but was often perceived to have ‘become an independent power in its own right’ (1995: 30).
13
The ‘sponsorship scandal’ refers to the Canadian federal government’s ‘sponsorship pro-
gram’ in the province of Quebec, established originally as an effort to raise awareness of the
Government of Canada’s contributions to Quebec industries and other activities and counter the
efforts of Quebec’s Parti Québécois government to promote Quebec separatism.
civil service. Gomery criticized the lack of formal accountability in the system.
He disagreed with officials on the meaning of conventions, writing in his final
report that the ‘government expresses the belief “that the public service has no
independent identity, and hence no accountability apart from that of Minis-
ters and the government of the day”’ (Gomery 2006: 62). Instead, he agreed
with one of his academic advisers, Lorne Sossin, who argued forcefully that:
A range of unwritten constitutional conventions and principles clearly give rise to
obligations, responsibilities and constraints on decision-making by members of
the public service which arguably together confer constitutional status on the
public service as an organ of government (Sossin 2006: 30).
Gomery’s interpretation was a response to a host of senior Canadian public
service executives appearing before the commission who used the opportunity
to defend their record with a re-statement of the traditional verities of their
profession. They had evoked the principles of Westminster to explain their
behaviour and that of ministers in the scandal. Some used Westminster
conventions to lay responsibility squarely on the shoulders of ministers,
while others wielded their understandings of Westminster to shield them-
selves from direct accountability.
Unlike Australia, key actors in the Canadian government do not often
explicitly articulate traditions of Westminster, principally because it would
imply English cultural dominance over French sensitivities. Canadians talk of
‘responsible and representative government’ derived from parliamentary prac-
tice (Jackson and Jackson 2006: 35–51). However, in the context of the
Gomery inquiry, a number of senior officials described the Canadian variant
of Westminster as they interpreted it. The former Clerk of the Privy Council
and head of the Canadian public service, Jocelyne Bourgon, in her testimony
to the Commission on 8 and 9 December 2004, spoke of the strength of the
‘parliamentary accountability system’ in which a minister ‘assumes full min-
isterial responsibility’ (Gomery 2004b: 8162 and 8257). Ministers were
accountable for every decision, while public servants were only accountable
for the advice they gave or for ‘personal responsibilities’. In her view, ‘we’re
always responsible for advice we may have given, good or bad, for lack of
courage in not giving any when it needed to be given. We’re responsible for
our personal actions’ (Gomery 2004b: 8257).
Alex Himelfarb, the Clerk of the Privy Council and Secretary to the Cabinet
at the time of the inquiry, in his testimony before the Commission on
27 September 2004, stressed that the Canadian public service was one of the
variety of ‘Westminster systems’, each with slight differences in convention
and law:
The public service has a long tradition of continuity. It precedes and often exists
longer than a government of the day. So it brings all of that accumulative
On Westminster 199
knowledge of the processes, of the procedures, of the conventions to bear on its
advice. It provides a degree of continuity that political advice doesn’t. It also has
particular responsibilities by tradition (Gomery 2004a: 1835–6).
He argued that the public service had to remain ‘non-partisan’ in its provision
of advice and in implementing policies (Gomery 2004a: 1833). Continuity
gave the public service specific duties and responsibilities—to advise the
minister as best they could independently. But elected officials ‘are ultimately
responsible for everything that happens in their portfolio or department under
mandate’ (Gomery 2004a: 1905). He defended a precise definition of minis-
terial responsibility by stating:
The principle of ministerial responsibility in the Westminster system is that a

minister would be answerable in parliament for everything in their mandate even
for things over which they have no authority; in fact, for decisions that they may
be obligated not to interfere with (Gomery 2004a: 1889).
He contrasted legal responsibility (‘to our superiors through the hierarchy of

government and, ultimately, to parliament’) with ethical responsibility (‘to
report wrongdoing even if you don’t have the authority’). He commented that
‘every public servant coming across wrongdoing has a larger responsibility’.
However, he continued there was a ‘lacuna’ in the system that left ‘enormous
space for judgment and courage’ (Gomery 2004a: 1934).
Again, the appeal to notions of Westminster serves more than its ostensible
purpose of describing the system. Himelfarb and colleagues were answering
from the dock under oath, emphasizing the inherent ambiguity of Westmin-
ster administrative traditions, but insisting that lines of responsibility still
exist. They stressed the ambiguities because otherwise they could be accused
of reneging on their professional responsibilities. Westminster is variously an
ideal, an explanation, and a defence all rolled into the same expressions of
principle and convention.
C ONCLUSIONS — WHY AND WHY NOW?
Such appeals to Westminster from the heads of the respective civil services do
not imply that nothing has changed. Some academics have recently portrayed
the systems as radically changed. Donald Savoie (2003) writes about the
fracturing of the implicit agreement or ‘bargain’ between politicians and civil
servants. Campbell and Wilson (1995) write about the end of Whitehall.
Mulgan (2006) talks of ‘undue partisanship’ by public servants straining the
principles of Westminster. The pictures they paint are apocalyptic. The old
principles have been rejected and the new precepts, according to academic
critics, lack accountability and principle.
I do not see the four horse riders of this apocalyptic vision. Rather, I see
traditions under challenge that reshape reforms as reforms reshape them.
Indeed, what some academics see as revolutionary and discomforting, the
practitioners see as evolutionary and normal adaptation. The latter are reflect-
ing on what specific legacies are important to them and the parts of the
managerial public sector systems they will run with. Patently, the managerial
tradition is not a total replacement for traditional Westminster ideas. It is
grafted on to the previous set of beliefs. So, the generalist public service
tradition had to be—and was—rescued by reinvention.
The rise of managerialism in its various guises in the 1980s led to recurring
dilemmas for existing administrative traditions over the ensuing decades
(Rhodes 2011a: 131–3, 203–5, and ch. 10). In early stages of these reforms,
senior public servants would not have referred to their traditions and such
nineteenth-century notions as permanence and impartiality. These ideas
would have sounded anachronistic, self-serving, and reactionary. Shergold
has recently admitted that such views would have been regarded as ‘inward-
looking and defensive, focused on process not outcomes, hierarchical, risk-
averse, short-term view, predictable, lacking in innovation’ (Shergold 2004a: 2).
The mood of the day stressed the need for ‘ultra-responsiveness’ and for the
‘can-do manager’ motivated by results-based achievement, managerial com-
petence, and performance-driven commitment. Managerialism arrived and
was eagerly embraced by a professional public service and talk of Westminster
was largely suspended by the architects of reform.
Today, these same civil servants are prepared to discuss whether—or
how far—they have moved from Westminster, and from the Northcote–
Trevelyan ideals. Current and former heads of the civil service have each
mused about which aspects of their respective traditions still survive; how
the traditions shape today’s practices; and how Westminster traditions
provide both a defence from powerful critics and coping mechanisms for
future changes. So, in the 2000s, historical legacies are increasingly seen
as important. Thus, Shergold (2004b: 8) was anxious to stress today’s
continuity with the previous norms of the public service but in different
contexts:
The Westminster tradition today, just as fifty years ago, refers to a complex set of
balanced relationships, marked by subtleties and nuances. For that reason the
sign of a good Secretary is not marked alone by the independence of his mind or
the robustness of her advice. Rather it is indicated by the extent to which they
fully appreciate the respective roles of elected government and appointed public
servant. Nowhere is the necessary balance of Secretarial responsibility better
articulated than in the key public service value set out in the bipartisan Public
Service Act 1999, namely that: ‘The APS is responsible to the Government in
On Westminster 201
providing frank, honest, comprehensive, accurate and timely advice and in
implementing the Government’s policies and programmes.’
In addition, the set of ideas and myths surrounding, say, Northcote–Trevelyan
are called on as a means of legitimizing change and defending practices.
Turnbull, Shergold, and Himelfarb each defended the confluence of political
and non-partisan advice to ministers. There was benefit in having separate
‘political’ advice at the centre while preserving the expertise of bureaucratic
advisers. Himelfarb stated that ‘good policy’ emerged from the combination of
political advice from the Prime Minister’s Office and a non-partisan source of
advice from the Privy Council. He argued that the PMO
has a Policy Research Unit where they assess a range of issues that come to their
attention from departments or from the outside in terms of their consistency with
the government’s overall agenda, and they provide advice independently of the
Public Service to the Prime Minister on a range of policy issues that they
themselves have researched and assessed, generally in close communication
with departments and the PCO . . . . PCO provides non-partisan advice, that is,
advice that—well, non-partisan policy advice. PMO provides a political lens on
policy advice. It is not duplicative. It often converges as good policy, is often good
politics. But the Prime Minister has access to both a political lens, in particular, a
partisan political lens, and a non-partisan source of advice often on the same
issues (Gomery 2004a: 1833).
Equally, Turnbull welcomed ‘the fact that we are much more open to ideas
from think-tanks, consultancies, governments abroad, special advisers, and
front-line practitioners’ (Turnbull 2005: 3). He ventured: ‘In developing policy
we not only consult more widely than we used to but involve outsiders to a far
greater degree in the policy making process’. He then quoted Shergold
approvingly:
Let me make it clear that I extol the fact that the public service policy advice is
increasingly contested. I welcome it intellectually: our perspectives and strategies
benefit from challenge. I also welcome it professionally, as a public servant. In my
view, more Ministerial advisers does not represent the ‘politicisation of the APS’
(Australian Public Service), still less the demise of an independent public service
or undermining of the Westminster tradition (Turnbull 2005: 3).
For civil servants, the challenge is to know whom the minister has consulted
and from what direction they approach the problem (see Savoie 2003). Civil
servants now have to justify their involvement and contribution, argue for
their expertise, and prove their worth to their political bosses. They are not
accepted as merely part of the infrastructure. Indeed, one Canadian political
chief of staff challenged the right of bureaucrats to be there at all, arguing they
‘should get back to their real job—to implement decisions and see to it that
government operations run smoothly and leave policy to us’ (Savoie 2003: 124).
Alternatively, as one Australian secretary noted, the growth in the number of

ministerial advisers
has fundamentally transformed the role of a secretary. I constantly have to compete
for the policy attention of the minister with those in the minister’s office. No two
ways about it; I have to fight for my position at the table (Weller 2001: 103).
I am not charting a convergence of traditions as Westminster-derived juris-
dictions wrestle with new challenges to their understanding of governance.
Rather, we can see empirically that the heads of the civil services have found
‘space’ or ‘voice’ to articulate innovative ways of combining past traditions
with new organizing principles of governance. In each case—the UK, Canada,
and Australia—it is not a question of ‘in with the new, out with the old’, but of
‘in with the new alongside key components of the old’.
Although each head legitimated Westminster traditions, they fudge the
crucial elements they wish to hold on to. Sometimes they cling to the myths
of Westminster. At other times, they are simply not specific about which
aspects they continue to consider legitimate. Sometimes they disagree—
while Himelfarb is anxious to hold on to anonymity at all costs, Shergold
finds the new requirements holding public servants personally to account as a
positive attribute to open scrutiny consistent with the Westminster system.
Turnbull is critical of much of the old trappings of what he saw as the
Northcote–Trevelyan legacy, but does not want to discard many of the most
important attributes he cherishes: the impartiality of the civil service; some
degree of permanency (indeed, he prides the UK on having retained
more permanency than Australia); a close accountability between ministers,
officials, and parliament; the promotion of staff by merit; and even the
advantages of departments as non-statutory organizations of state. To para-
phrase Shergold, if Westminster was never ‘Camelot’, this does not mean that
some of the myths that sustain the Camelot legend do not remain germane to
the modern public service.
This chapter provides an example of the comparative interpretive research
using traditions and dilemmas as the skeleton keys for decentring changes in
responsible government. It has also shown how much can be gleaned from
such sources as speeches, writings, evidence to inquiries, and interviews.
Moreover, although Westminster government is supposed to be dead or at
least dying, it displays remarkable resilience as:
• Inheritance—elite actors’ shared governmental narrative understood as
both precedents and nostalgia.
• Political tool—the expedient cloak worn by governments, politicians, and
public servants to defend themselves and criticize opponents. It is deployed
by public servants not just to resist change but more to select the parts that
fit with existing departmental philosophies.
On Westminster 203
• Legitimizing tradition—it provides legitimacy and a context for elite

actions, serving as a point of reference to navigate this uncertain world.
• Idealized institutional category—it remains a useful descriptor of a loose
family of governments with shared origins and characteristics used to
compare reforms and other systems of government to their disadvantage.
In other words, comparing Westminster governments is a ‘discursive strategy’
(Anderson 2016: 130).
In Parts II and III, I have visited the disciplines or subfields of political
anthropology, life history, contemporary history, women’s studies, and area
studies. I have provided an illustrative example of each at work. I have
explored such genres of thought as interpretivism and feminism. I have played
with such genres of presentation as telling tales from the field and aphorisms
in the philosophical style as well as describing the various ways in which others
tell their stories. In the concluding chapter, I take stock of my journey by
itemizing the ways in which these explorations are edifying, reply to my critics,
and essay some plausible conjectures about the future of interpretivism.
Conclusion
12
What is New About the ‘Interpretive Turn’

and Why Does it Matter?
The opening chapter of Cao Xueqin’s Dream of the Red Chamber (1791)
contains the couplet:
Truth becomes fiction when the fiction’s true;
Real becomes not-real where the unreal’s real.
This most famous of Chinese novels extends to some 120 chapters and
850,000 words. It juxtaposes a history of eighteenth-century Chinese culture
with the story of the fall of two branches of the wealthy, aristocratic Jia
dynasty. The couplet refers to the impossibility of distinguishing between
truth and fiction, reality and illusion in both fiction and the so-called ‘real’
world. This conundrum lies at the heart of the interpretive venture.1
This chapter summarizes what is new or edifying about the interpretive
turn, and why this approach matters. I restate the case for drawing on the
genres of thought and presentation common in the humanities. I revisit some
of the more common criticisms of the interpretive approach before looking at
the future of interpretivism in political science.
EDIFICATION AND BLURRING GENRES
According to Turnbull (2016b: 383–6) the advantages of interpretive theory

are its ‘whole analytical approach, from its philosophical basis through to meth-
odologies’; its concern with the social construction of policy and problems;
the use of narrative analysis; and the emphasis on practice. So far so good,
but there is more.
1
This chapter is new but includes some material from previous replies to critics. See the
Appendix (‘Bibliography on the Interpretive Debate’) following this chapter. I would like to
thank John Boswell and Jack Corbett for helpful suggestions, and phrases, when I was writing
this chapter.
I start with the bold and contentious claim that the interpretive approach
encourages creativity. Creativity sits uncomfortably with the strict procedures of
naturalism, although many scientists concede that inspiration comes from else-
where and that scientific procedures rationalize an insight arrived at by other
means (Polanyi 1958; Watson 1970). Natural scientists would seem more laid
back on these matters than their social science counterparts who fear creativity
may be sacrificed on the altar of rigour. For example, Collier et al. (2010: 197)
write that naturalist procedures may ‘sharply narrow their substantive research
questions, thus producing studies that are less important’. They identify a conflict
between ‘the methodological goals of improving descriptive and causal inference’
and ‘the objective of studying humanly important outcomes’.
No such concerns in the humanities. The logic of abduction—of puzzle
solving—encourages imagination, even intuition, because it encourages a
search for new connections. The logic of moving iteratively between an
inductive reading of the data and a deductive reading of the literature is not,
however, an invitation to a free-for-all. In the humanities as elsewhere:
all scholarly and scientific inquiry is governed by broadly similar canons of
accuracy and precision, of rigour in argument and clarity in presentation, of
respect for the evidence and openness to criticism (Collini 2012: 62; and
As a postgraduate, I read C. Wright Mills, The Sociological Imagination (1959).
At the time, I was in thrall to American behavioural political science, and I had
completed three months of intensive training at the Essex Summer School in
Social Science Data Analysis. I remember to this day Mills’s strictures that
theory and methods were ‘marginal notes on work-in-progress’ and his clear
disapproval of limiting ‘in the name of “natural science”, the problems upon
which we shall work’. Method was about producing ‘durable answers’ and
theory was about ‘paying close attention to the words one is using’. The
primary purpose of both was the ‘release rather than the restriction of the
sociological imagination’ (Mills 1970: 134–5).
The danger that social sciences become more concerned with methods than
substantive problems persists to this day. That technocratic exercise known
as the REF, which assesses the quality of research in British universities,
commented:
Despite an almost step-level increase in rigour being identified, it was not the case
that international standards of rigour always or automatically produced work
judged to attain a similar international standard in terms of originality and
significance. Indeed, the sub-panel was concerned that, in an understandable desire
to return work seen as methodologically robust (particularly where that work had
been exactingly peer-reviewed), submitting units sometimes returned work that fell
short of international standards of originality and significance (REF 2015: 79).
The ‘Interpretive Turn’: Why Does it Matter? 209
In short, and to translate: too much methods, too little thought. We must start
with a puzzle or a dilemma before we look to theory or decide on our methods.
Puzzles drive research, not methods or abstruse theorizing. Puzzles encourage
creativity. Procedures fence it in.
Edification and blurring genres are also about ‘a contest between an
entrenched vocabulary and a half formed new vocabulary which vaguely
promises new things’. My intent has been ‘to redescribe lots and lots of things
in new ways’; to create ‘a pattern of linguistic behaviour which will tempt
new generations to adopt it’ (Rorty 1989: 9, 12, and 73). I play off the old
vocabularies of Westminster, managerialism, and network governance against
the new vocabulary of beliefs, practices, and traditions and dilemmas. Creating
any new vocabulary is a matter of trial and error. Who knows where we will
end up. I don’t. But I am inviting my readers to try and think about govern-
ment and politics in an interpretive way. It is not a final vocabulary, or the only
vocabulary, but it an edifying one.
Edification also arises from the the practice of interpretive fieldwork. I went
through the distinct and distinctive contribution of interpretive fieldwork,
with examples, in Chapter 4, so here I provide only a brief summary.
• It is a source of data not available elsewhere.

• It is often the only way to identify key individuals and core processes.
• It identifies ‘voices’ all too often ignored.
• By disaggregating organizations, it leads to an understanding of ‘the black
box’ or the internal processes of groups and organizations.
• It recovers the beliefs and practices of actors.
• It gets below and behind the surface of official accounts by providing
texture, depth, and nuance, so our stories have richness as well as context.
• It lets interviewees explain the meaning of their actions, providing an
authenticity that can only come from the main characters involved in
the story.
• It allows us to frame (and reframe and reframe) research questions in a
way that recognizes how our understandings of how things work around
here evolves during the fieldwork.
• It admits of surprises—of moments of epiphany, serendipity, and
happenstance—that can open new research agendas.
• It helps us to see and analyse the symbolic and performative aspects of
political action.
This summary suggests there are significant, distinct, and distinctive advan-
tages in employing an interpretive approach.
Specifically, I have argued for interpretive theory and methods, and given
many examples of its edifying properties. More generally, I have argued for a
hunting licence for political scientists among the humanities because it opens
the discipline to different genres of thought. Interpretive theory is common to
many of the humanities but there are many other approaches; for example,
hermeneutics, structuralism, and post-structuralism, race and ethnic studies,
cultural studies, and so on. There may be examples of all these genres of
thought in political science but each is an example of a marginalized area of
inquiry outside the established discipline and departments. Indeed, the pro-
ponents seem to prefer life in their intellectual ghettos to engaging with the
discipline at large. I remember with a shudder the conference discussion where
applying for an impact factor for their journal was seen as ‘selling out’ instead
of reaching out for more contributors and readers. I seek to persuade such
isolationists that they must engage more broadly and I seek to persuade
political scientists to accord their contribution a more central position.
WHY DOES I T MATTER?
I incline to Fish’s (2008b) view that:

To the question ‘of what use are the humanities?’, the only honest answer is none
whatsoever. And it is an answer that brings honor to its subject. Justification, after
all, confers value on an activity from a perspective outside its performance. An
activity that cannot be justified is an activity that refuses to regard itself as
instrumental to some larger good. The humanities are their own good. There is
nothing more to say, and anything that is said . . . diminishes the object of its
supposed praise (see also Fish 2008a: 154).
In other words, edification is more than enough, but we live in the era of
relevance where ‘impact’ is king. So, I must not ignore the instrumental
question for fear I will dubbed ‘irrelevant’! Without diminishing the subject,
ethnographic fieldwork has some singular advantages when it comes to
working with practitioners. It involves working with the end users of research.
We are not detached observers. Distance comes later when we write up our
fieldwork. Rather the researcher and the researched are inseparable, interact-
ing with, and influencing one another, leading to shared interpretations; a
fusion of horizons. I identified two board approaches to relevance and impact.
Applied ethnography’s goal is relevance. It provides information for decision-
makers so they can make rational decisions (Van Willigen 2002). Inscription
or ‘recovering’ stories, ‘recounting’ them back, and jointly ‘reviewing’ them is
about ‘giving voice’ to the silent members of an institution. It is about being
sceptical towards the institutions that control their lives. I may provide an
instrumental justification for my subject but sharing horizons and giving voice
to the silent do not diminish it.
An interpretive approach can address also questions of the day. I have
shown in Chapter 9 (this volume) that it can make a ‘relevant’ contribution
to reforming the civil service. Another clear example is the study of imple-
mentation, which remains a stubborn problem for governments of all per-
suasions. Government policies fail, both nationally and internationally. The
outcomes of policies do not live up to their supporters’ expectations. Clients
are disappointed by the services they receive. Why? How do we explain these
policy implementation deficits? Ethnographic fieldwork that studies through
and across both hierarchies and webs of organizations makes it possible to
identify the several ways in which policies are framed in networks (see
Chapter 3, this volume). The aim is to compare and contrast the divergent
narratives of (say) managers and street-level bureaucrats; to observe the ways
in which other actors can resist, transform, and thwart the agendas of elites.
The different narratives framing policies across hierarchies and networks are
central to any explanation of implementation deficits. Policy arenas are sites
of struggles not just between strategic elites, but between all kinds of actors
with different views and ideals reached against the background of different
traditions. Subordinate actors can resist the intentions and policies of elites
by reconstructing them in ways that draw on their local traditions and their
local reasoning.
Curiously, curiosity research appeals to practitioners. Surprisingly, they
grasp the interpretive turn, a point best illustrated with a short story. In
1997, I delivered a paper on postmodernism in the study of British govern-
ment to a mixed audience of historians, political scientists, and civil servants at
the Public Records Office (PRO) in Kew. The historians in the audience took
serious exception to the claim, common in historiography since Collingwood,
that historians construct facts. They did not accept that all facts come with a
point of view. The criticism was as endless as it was vehement and from people
who gave the impression they had never read any historiography. I thought
I gave as good as I got, but afterwards I found a quiet corridor and walked up
and down breathing slowly to regain my composure. I now knew the inter-
pretive road would be a rocky one. The punch line is in the coda. Towards the
end of the session, two former permanent secretaries spoke. As they rose,
I feared the final blow. I was the minstrel in the gallery but I was not looking
down on smiling faces. I remember thinking, ‘Oh God, what now?’
I misjudged my speakers. Their comments were both sympathetic and apt.
‘Postmodernism is only a posh way of saying what Henry Ford said: history is
bunk! I remember coming to this conclusion when I was the Principal Private
Secretary at No. 10. You could not give an accurate account of 24 hours there,
especially at times of crisis (i.e. most days). It was a painful re-education of an
Oxford-educated history student.’ And, more succinctly: ‘It seems like chaos.
We impose some order for the Minister but it is so arbitrary.’ I am English—

Yorkshire to be precise—so it was unthinkable that I should hug them for their
contribution—but I wanted to! In short, the world we describe is recognizable
to those who live and work in it.
TH E CRI T I C S
According to Turnbull (2016b: 386–8) the main debates about interpretive

theory focus on the generalizability of its findings, narratives as explanation,
the separation of interpretivism from institutions, and structure versus agency.
In Chapter 2, I dealt with such general criticisms of interpretive theory as its
relativism and its inability to generalize and to explain. I do not know what
else to say when criticized, again, for relativism except to repeat myself. So, to
vary the mix, I resort to replies to such criticisms from third parties. Thus,
Wagenaar (2016: 134) caustically comments:
Marsh, for example, claims that the notion of ‘truth’ does not apply to interpret-
ations and chides BR [Bevir and Rhodes] for suggesting so (2011: 36). But this
shows only that Marsh implicitly adheres to a naïve realist correspondence theory
of truth, in which each representation has an exact correspondence somewhere
out there in the world ( . . . Wagenaar 2011: 59). (This is yet another example of
the sway that empiricism holds over social scientists of all stripes.) . . . [A]fter
Nietzsche ‘Truth’ has become ‘truth’: multifaceted, theoretically loaded, and
embedded in historically situated language games and ordinary practice.
My defence is in safe if overly vigorous hands; truths are made by human
beings (Rorty 1989: 21).
Before looking at the main criticisms of interpretive theory, I should deal
with the claim that I caricature the political science discipline in Britain.
Ostensibly, British scholars remain sceptical about the American science of
politics and its methods. For example, Bogdanor (1999: 149) is keen to
distinguish British political science from its American counterpart and argues
the main characteristics of British political science are its aversion to the ‘over-
arching theory’ and ‘positivism’ of American political science. The distinction
is too sharp. If British political scientists were uncomfortable with the hypoth-
esis testing and deductive methods of rational choice, they were at ease with
‘modernist-empiricism’. They were all too willing to treat institutions such as
legislatures, constitutions, and policy networks as discrete objects to be com-
pared, measured, and classified. Many remain comfortable with Bryce’s
exhortation (1921 vol. 1: 13) that ‘it is Facts that are needed: Facts, Facts, Facts’.
What is more, their modernist-empiricism overlapped with behaviouralism.
Both adopted comparisons across time and space as a means of uncover-
ing regularities and probabilistic explanations to be tested against neutral
evidence. These overlaps provided a channel through which many British

political scientists had their ‘homoeopathic doses of American political sci-
ence’ (Hayward 1991: 104). So, British political science expanded its toolkit to
encompass quantitative methods and there was a new methodological rigour
in the subject.
I am not the only person to claim that modernist-empiricism is the dominant
tradition in the Anglo-Saxon world. For example, Goodin and Klingemann
(1996) claim that political science has an overarching intellectual agenda and is
increasingly mature and professionalized. They claim ‘a “common core” which
can be taken to define “minimal professional competence”’ and ‘an increasing
tendency to judge work . . . in terms of increasingly higher standards of profes-
sional excellence’. Above all, there is a shared intellectual agenda because:
Contemporary political science . . . certainly has taken lessons of the hermeneutic
critique on board. Subjective aspects of political life, the internal mental life of
actors, meanings and beliefs and intentions and values – all these are now central
to political analysis across the board.
As a result there is rapprochement on all fronts, including, for example,

‘structure/agency, interests/institutions, . . . realism/idealism, . . . science/story-
telling’. The argument for this common core hinges on the authors’ belief
there is ‘a theoretical framework which can straddle and integrate all these
levels of analysis’ and therein ‘lies the great power of rational choice analysis
and the new institutionalism’ (all foregoing quotes are from Goodin and
Klingemann 1996: 4, 6, 22, 11–13, and 20 respectively). In a later survey of
the field, Goodin (2009: 9) drew back slightly from these claims. He admits
that those who scoffed at his rosy view of the discipline ‘were right, in part’.
‘Progress comes in fits and starts in different times, different sub-disciplines
and in different countries’ but ‘there is movement in the right direction in
most places’. The notions of ‘progress’ and the ‘right direction’ give the game
away. We are still in the land of soft, rational choice and the new institution-
alism. Indeed, the periodic culture wars in American political science presup-
pose such a mainstream to fight against.
In a similar vein, Rose (1990) describes the socialization of students into the
shared craft of political science. Nowadays, the new member of the profession
will have a doctorate. It was not required when I started in 1970. Political
scientists publish in refereed journals and, increasingly, there is a pecking order
among those journals. Rose’s (1990: 598) comment is apt: ‘A young professional
submitting a journal article will be expected to write about an established topic,
review a mass of familiar literature and carry out research in professionally
recognized ways.’ Such practices have become more entrenched over recent
decades, with the national research evaluation exercise an important driver.
Of course, there are variations. Commonly, political science has a great
many subfields and the influence of interpretive theory varies greatly between
them. In American politics, British politics, and political behaviour, it is

conspicuous for its absence. In methodology, formal theory, modelling, and
rational choice, it might even be an anathema. In political theory and political
philosophy, there are pockets with a long-standing interest. In comparative
politics and area studies, those scholars who undertake fieldwork will engage
with the interpretive approach. In the study of international relations, in the
guise of constructivism, it is commonplace. In my area of specialization, public
administration, it is a minority interest, although in public policy there is now
an established European cadre. To further complicate the picture, interpreti-
vism itself comes in many guises (for surveys, see Bevir and Rhodes 2010: ch. 1;
Bevir and Rhodes 2015: chs 2–10; Turnbull 2016b; and Wagenaar 2011).
These qualifications are just that—qualifications. There is a mainstream, it
is empiricist, and rarely does it have a clearly articulated philosophical
grounding.
So, it is plausible to conjecture that modernist-empiricism is an embedded
practice in the study of political science but that the interpretive approach is
developing in Britain with a larger and growing community of European
scholars. The more American political science goes down the path of empiri-
cist, ‘large N’ studies, the fewer its British and Northern European adherents,
let alone adherents among the legal tradition still strong in Southern Europe.
Although the claim may err on the side of overstatement, the danger exists
that American modernist-empiricism will be seen as a dead-end street.
Increasingly, it would seem that America and Europe are two relatively self-
contained, even self-referential, communities (and see Rhodes 2011b for a
survey). As Sharman and Weller (2009) show, the overwhelming proportion
of content in American political science and public administration journals is
by Americans for Americans on America. Europe is a tad different. The
journals in Europe are less focused on one country; for example, in the
2000s, some 45 per cent of the articles in Public Administration were written
by authors from outside Britain, mainly from Continental Europe. If only
because of its sheer size, the intellectual fads and fashions of American
political science will exercise an influence. But it will be another case of buyers
beware. Such intellectual trends as reinventing government and public value
are heavily conditioned by their American constitutional and political context.
They travel poorly, and probably should not travel at all (Rhodes and Wanna
2009). America will remain the Dark Continent for many British and Con-
tinental European scholars.
All we are left with are unanswerable questions. Is genre blurring the future?
Will deep hanging out and hit-and-run ethnography become common
research tools? Or, is the natural science model too well entrenched? Are
those colleagues of an interpretive persuasion condemned to criticize from the
sidelines? It is too early to tell, but there is a new clarion call—modernist-
empiricism is a dead-end street, long live ‘blurred genres’ and ‘the interpretive
turn’. But if the future is interpretation, the critics must be confronted. So, now,
I turn to the specific criticisms of Bevir and Rhodes on structure, tradition,
practice, and institutions and the state.
Structure
There is a real world ‘out there’ but that world is not independent of our beliefs
and folk theories. An account of a human action in terms of folk psychology is
inevitably an interpretation of an interpretation. In other words, to describe
people’s beliefs is to interpret their interpretation of the world. An interpretive
approach recognizes that the human sciences offer interpretations of inter-
pretations. So, I concentrate on spelling out the meanings—the beliefs and
traditions—embedded in human actions and practices (as in Rhodes 2011a).
The complaint from critical realists is that the interpretive approach accords
too much importance to agency and not enough to structure.2 For example,
McAnulla (2006a: 121) argues that structures are emergent or temporal
mechanisms rather than reifications: ‘the actions of individuals produce emer-
gent properties (whether conceived as structure, discourse, tradition or cul-
ture) which can later serve to “act back” on people’.
The problem with the notion of emergent structure is that McAnulla does
not explain how these structures differ from my notion of practices, or how
structures determine individual actions without passing through intentional
consciousness. He provides no clear account of why agents cannot change
emergent structures. The structure emerges from actions, so presumably if all
the relevant people change their actions, they will stop producing that struc-
ture, so changing it. Emergent structures are better understood as practices.
They consist simply of what a bundle of people do and the unintended
consequences of these actions. Of course, structure can be used as a metaphor
for the way in which practices coalesce into patterns. But the metaphors
have a bewitching effect and people treat them as real, reified entities. Thus,
McAnulla (2006a: 121–2) posits that structure has ‘causal powers which [it]
can express in relation to agency’. Despite his protestations to the contrary
(McAnulla 2006b), this formulation implies a reified notion of structure.
I ignore the silly assertion that, in Bevir and Rhodes, ‘all causal weight is
burdened onto agency’ (McAnulla 2006a: 122, emphasis added; and see Hay
2011: 175–6). It is palpably inaccurate. However, I agree there is a major fault
2
On ‘critical realism’, see, for example, Archer 1995; Archer et al. 1998; Bhaskar 1997 [1975];
George and Bennett 2005; and Sayer 2000. There are also criticisms of Bevir and Rhodes from
this standpoint by Dowding 2004 and McAnulla 2006a, 2006b. McAnulla is indebted to Archer
(1995). For a thorough-going critique of Archer from an interpretive standpoint, see King 1999.
See also the exchange between Hay 2005 and McAnulla 2005; and Hay 2011.
line between the two positions. McAnulla wants a ‘stronger concept of social
structure’ that refers ‘to relations of a broadly material nature’, which have
‘causal powers’ (2006b: 411; 2006b: 132 and 121). I prefer to understand
emergent structure as practices that are embedded, durable, constraining,
but not immovable.
An interpretive approach rejects the idea that such notions as the state,
institutions, class, or gender are material objects or emergent structures or
social forms. I reject the claim that the ‘pre-existence [of social forms] implies
their autonomy as possible objects of scientific investigation; and their causal
efficacy confirms their reality’ (Jessop, 2005: 42). I reject the idea that the
state, for example, is a pre-existing causal structure that can be understood
independently of people’s beliefs and practices. As MacIntyre (1971a: 263)
argued:
It is an obvious truism that no institution or practice is what it is, or does what it
does, independent of what anyone whatsoever thinks or feels about it. For
institutions are always partially, even if to differing degrees, constituted by what
certain people think or feel about them (see also Craig 2016: 101–6).
Studying the state or other structures is not about building formal theories; it is
about telling stories about other people’s meanings; it is about narratives of
their narratives. As Finlayson and Martin (2006: 167) stress, the object of
analysis is not the state but:
A diverse range of agencies, apparatuses and practices producing varied mech-
anisms of control and varied forms of knowledge that make areas or aspects of
social life available for governmental action.
An interpretive political science highlights contests among diverse and con-
tingent meanings. As a result, it privileges distinctive empirical topics, includ-
ing rule and elite narratives, rationalities and technologies of governance, and
resistance and local knowledge. It espouses unearthing whatever the existing
literature does not cover. It seeks out whoever is left out of existing accounts.
Tradition
The interpretive approach decentres governance and recentres it using the

aggregate concepts of tradition and dilemma. To decentre is to unpack a
practice into the disparate beliefs of the relevant actors. It is to recognize
diverse narratives inform the practice of governance. To recentre using our
concepts of ‘tradition’ and ‘dilemma’ is to accept political scientists can tell
different narratives about governance depending on what they hope to
explain. It is to accept that we can only tell particular stories from particular
perspectives; we cannot identify a uniquely accurate model.
I reject reified and essentialist analyses of traditions as natural entities,

which have core features waiting to be discovered by political scientists
(Bevir 1999: 174–220; Bevir and Rhodes 2003: 33–5). Rather, I define tradi-
tions pragmatically depending on what I want to explain. Tradition is not an
unavoidable influence on all we do; to assume that would leave too slight a role
for agency. Rather, tradition is a first influence on people that colours their
later actions only if their agency has not led them to change it.
This pragmatic analysis of tradition implies political scientists can locate an
individual in various traditions depending on what questions they ask. So,
from our perspective, the contrast between a dominant tradition and several
competing traditions is a false one (Marsh 2008; Marsh and Hall 2016). The
pragmatic analysis of tradition implies it is fine to appeal to all kinds of
traditions at all kinds of levels. If political scientists want to explain broad
shared beliefs and actions across British politics compared with (say) other
Westminster systems, they might appeal to a general British Political Trad-
ition. If they want to explain conflicts and differences within British politics,
then their purpose would be better served by appealing to several competing
traditions.
I do not rule out appeals to a dominant political tradition. I just argue that
such appeals must be justified pragmatically. It is ironic that Marsh does not
mention the close resemblance of his account of New Labour’s constitutional
reforms to Bevir’s (2005 and 2007) account. Both see the reforms as rooted in a
tradition of liberal representative democracy that has dominated the Labour
Party as well as British politics.
Interpretive theory suggests that political scientists should pay more atten-
tion to the high politics of the court; to the traditions against which elites
construct their world-views including their views of their own interests. Court
politics (Chapter 7, this volume) is the site for ruling elites and their ration-
alities of governance. I am not subscribing to any notion of a ruling elite or a
ruling class. The central elite need not be a uniform group, all the members of
which see their interests in the same way, share a common culture, or speak a
shared discourse. My interpretive, decentred approach suggests that political
scientists should ask whether different sections of the elite draw on different
traditions to construct different narratives about the world, their place in it,
and their interests and values. In Britain, for example, the different members
of the central elite are inspired by Tory, Whig, Liberal, and Socialist narratives.
The dominant narrative in the central civil service used to be the Whig story of
the generalist civil servant, spotting snags and muddling through. It has been
challenged by a neo-liberal managerial narrative that sees civil servants as
hands-on, can-do managers trained at business schools not on the job. But the
traditions coexist sometimes separately but sometimes bumping into one
another to create dilemmas. Thus, civil servants continue to believe in the
Westminster notions of ministerial accountability to parliament, a centralizing
idea, even as they decentralize decision-making to conform to managerial
notions (see also Chapter 4, this volume; and Bevir and Rhodes 2015: ch. 1).
Here, of course, I differ from Marsh (2008), Marsh and Hall (2016), and
Diamond et al. (2016) who treat tradition as an essentialist concept. In their
view, there is a dominant British political tradition: it is a fixed, even monolithic,
entity. My analysis does not preclude a dominant tradition but it also, and
crucially, directs attention to contending elite narratives and to changes in any
dominant tradition. So, when looking at the beliefs and practices of governing
elites, I focus on ‘situated agents’ and contending elite narratives because it is often
the dilemmas posed by the contending narratives that underpin change, and it is
the change I want to explain. I move back and forth between aggregate concepts
such as tradition and the beliefs and practices at play in specific contexts.
Diamond et al. know there are forces for change:
September 2014 Scottish referendum may retrospectively come to be seen as
an exogenous shock to this aggregate tradition of a central, power hoarding
approach. The response of both the main parties in the aftermath of the referen-
dum reveals a series of contingencies potentially challenging the key tenets of the
British political tradition.
But the debate over Scotland is not a one-off event, an aberration, ‘an
exogenous shock’. It is the most recent of many manifestations of a contending
narrative about British government that is often labelled ‘Home Rule’. This
long-standing tradition has its roots in Irish independence and the dilemmas it
poses are now being played out again in Scotland, and not for the first time
(see, for example, Kilbrandon Commission 1973). Scotland has already gained
many powers and more devolution is unavoidable. Nor is ‘Home Rule’ the
only such challenge. British membership of the European Union was a
constraint on elite actions—Clifton (2014) talks of the EU ‘straightjacketing
the state’ in the so-called age of austerity. Even after our exit from the EU, our
relationship with Europe divides the British elites, and that divide is now long-
lived and pervasive in its effects. It is hard to see how a power hoarding model
copes with such major, persistent, and increasingly successful challenges to its
authority. So, I insist that even when there is a dominant tradition, other
traditions persist and are a wellspring of dilemmas, and therefore of change,
for that tradition. To focus on the dominant tradition is to look at British
government through the wrong end of a telescope; it excludes too much.
Exploring contending elite narratives does not preclude a dominant tradition
yet directs attention to the rival traditions.
Practices
Wagenaar (2016: 137–8) criticizes Bevir and Rhodes’s use of the notion of
‘practice’ because ‘the concept of practice has considerable more inner
complexity to it’ than we have allowed hitherto.3 I find his emphasis on the
performative analysis of the concept helpful. For example, in Rhodes 2011a
I report that most if not all civil servants will accept that the art of storytelling
is an integral part of their work. Such storytelling had three characteristics: a
language game, performing game, and management game. The language game
identified and constructed the storyline, answering the questions of what
happened and why. The resulting story had to be reliable, defensible, accurate,
and consistent with the department’s traditions. The performing game told the
story to a wider audience, inside and outside the department. Officials tested
the facts and rehearsed the storyline in official meetings to see how their
colleagues responded. They had to adapt the story to suit the minister, and
both ministers and officials had to judge how the story would play publicly.
Then they performed that agreed story on a public stage to the media,
parliament, and the public. Finally, there was the management game, which
both implemented any policy changes and, perhaps even more important, let
them get on with ‘business as usual’ as quickly as possible.
I agree also with Helen Sullivan’s (2016: 183–4) observation that people
make sense of situations not only by thinking about them in the context of
their traditions but also by acting on the situations. I agree with her that ‘the
concept of “situated agency” coupled with “local reasoning”’ provides the
analytical tools ‘to identify why actors in apparently similar contexts may
develop different interpretations and responses to policy ideas’. Also, focusing
on practices will provide a fine-grained analysis of ‘situated agency’; of ‘what it
is that evaluators, policy makers etc. do in the process of making and judging
policy’ (Sullivan 2016: 188; see also Craig 2016: 6).
Another reason for focusing on ‘practice’ is it’s central to understanding how
people’s actions change. Practice is about strategies for intervening in a world
of complex specificity. As I argued in Chapter 10 , (this volume), local practices
and local reasoning are generative; that is, actions intersect and interact with
intended and unintended consequences. Such consequences spin off to create
and recreate webs of inordinate complexity that constrain the actions of others
and create dilemmas for some. This generative effect is ever present.
The State
Both Turnbull (2016b: 387) and Hay (2011: 179) criticize the omission of
institutions from Bevir and Rhodes’s version of interpretive theory. In fact, we
treat institutions in the same way we treat structure, class, or the state; we
decentre them into their constituent beliefs and practices. We focus on the
social construction of practices. However, and crucially, we account for the
3
However, we note, with a tinge of disappointment, that he continues to ignore our more
recent work on traditions (Bevir 2011a) and everyday practices (Rhodes 2011a).
solidity and persistence of institutions by rethinking institutions as the sedi-
mented products of contingent beliefs, preferences, and practices (Bevir and
Rhodes 2003: 41, 63).
As I argued in Chapter 2 (this volume), a concept such as the state or
institution or structure is an abstract proxy for the multiple, complex beliefs
and actions of all the individuals we classify under such labels. They are
shorthand, even on occasion analytically useful, but they are bewitching
metaphors that we reify as ‘real’. I reject the idea of the state or institutions
as pre-existing causal structures that can be understood independently of
people’s beliefs and practices. Rather, the state is the diverse set of practices
rooted in varied beliefs about the public sphere, authority, and power. All are
constructed differently in contending traditions. The state is just an aggregate
description for this array of meaningful actions that coalesce into contingent,
shifting, and contested practices. This approach allows that an institution or
the state is durable; beliefs and practices become sedimented, so it looks ‘as if ’
an institution or the state is fixed and ‘real’ (Craig 2016: 112; Hay 2005). As
Abrams (1988: 58) observes, ‘the state’ is a mask that prevents us seeing
political practices, and it is the political practices to which the metaphor of
the ‘stateless state’ directs us (Bevir and Rhodes 2010: ch. 5).
The notion of a monolithic state in control of itself and civil society was
always a myth. The myth obscured the diversity of state practices that escaped
the control of the centre because they arose from the contingent beliefs and
actions of diverse actors at the boundary of state and civil society. The state is
never monolithic and it always negotiates with others. Patterns of rule always
traverse the public, private, and voluntary sectors. The boundaries between
state and civil society are always blurred. Transnational and international links
and flows always disrupt national borders. In short, state authority is con-
stantly being remade, negotiated, and contested in widely different ways in the
widely varying everyday practices of situated agents (see Bevir and Rhodes
2010: ch. 5; see also Abrams 1988).
For Torfing et al. (2012: 13–14):
the problem with this postfoundationalist view is that it becomes difficult to put
bounds on governance. Governance becomes everything and, thus, nothing.
This statement is only meaningful if you assume that governance has given
and stable properties. Proponents of the first and second waves of government
seek comprehensive accounts of governance based on identifying its essential
properties (Rhodes 2017, Volume I, pp. 214–16). For example, an essential
property of governance is said to be multiplying networks and this property is
general and characterizes all cases of networks. This search for comprehensive
accounts arises from a preoccupation with the natural sciences, which is
counter-productive in the human sciences. Human practices are not governed
by social logics or law-like regularities associated with their allegedly essential
properties. They arise instead out of the contingent activity of individuals.

Therefore, when we seek to explain particular cases of governance, we do so by
reference to the contingent activity of the relevant individuals, not to a social
logic or law-like regularity. So, I see network governance arising from the
bottom up. I tell stories about other people’s stories about ‘how things work
around here’. I suggest that central intervention will undermine the bottom-up
construction of governance, provoking resistance and generating unintended
consequences. I aim for complex specificity in context, not comprehensiveness,
and I do not privilege academic accounts over everyday stories.
The recent upsurge of ‘anti-politics’ illustrates the advantages of a bottom-
up, decentred approach. Whatever the preferred phrase—anti-politics, social
movements, populism, the expectations gap, crisis of democracy—the claim
that we no longer either trust or believe in the efficacy of our governing elite is
pervasive (Stoker 2006; Hay 2007). Survey after survey reports public disaf-
fection with our leaders. They are seen as corrupt and self-serving. There is a
growing gap between what citizens expect of their government and what it
delivers and the fault lies with the political class because they are incompetent,
self-serving, and duplicitous (Jennings et al. 2016). The resulting patterns of
resistance are dramatic and most evident in the Brexit referendum and the
vote to leave the EU. It is an illustration of the contested authority of the
political class and the contingent nature of the state. Citizens who felt excluded
from employment by migration, penalized by cuts in the welfare state, and left
behind voiced their discontents by voting for Brexit.4
My arguments about differentiated policy and dis-United Kingdom are
borne out by recent events (see Rhodes 2017, Volume I, Part II and
Chapter 12). The recent referenda on Scottish independence and Brexit are
clear evidence of a contested and contingent state. The effects are exacerbated
by neoliberal policies. Competition undermines cooperative behaviour in
networks adding divisiveness to differentiation. As I have noted already, the
Conservative government favours a free-market, small-state, low-tax, tight-
borders, tougher sentences, eco- and Euro-sceptical Britain (Rhodes 2017,
Volume I, Chapter 8). Since 2010, it has sought to introduce the ‘franchise
state’ in which power is concentrated in the centre, services are outsourced,
and managers are empowered. The undeserving poor get more poverty and
worse public services. They are excluded, so little surprise there is a gulf
4
Apart from the ‘self-evident truths’ in the media about the political class, we know little
about what elites do, how the rising tide of disaffection shapes the challenges and opportunities
they face when seeking to govern, or how they interpret specific dilemmas. It is a startling
omission. We need to open the black box of government and study the practices (and under-
pinning beliefs) of those at the apex of public life; and compare these data with the understand-
ings and expectations of the public to provide a detailed picture of the evolving relationship
between the governors and the governed.
between the political class and many citizens. Little surprise the cast-off resist
and vote for populist parties or leaders and against the government of the day.
There is a clear price to pay for a faulty map of British government; for the
failure to recognize the differentiated polity and disunited kingdom. The reach
of our political class was always overstated, and it is now in disarray.
CHALLENGES FROM INTERPRETIVISM
The format for concluding chapters of books is to follow a summary of the

book and a discussion of its limitations with reflections on future research.
I deploy a broader palette. I discuss two challenges that preoccupy me: the
distinction between fiction and non-fiction; and handing down the interpret-
ive tradition.
Fiction or Non-Fiction: The Aesthetics of Political Science
The epigram to this chapter poses the puzzle: truth becomes fiction when the
fiction’s true. In the human sciences, the novel is seen as a hybrid of fiction and
non-fiction because it draws on experience and observation as well as imagin-
ation (Chamberlain and Thompson 1998: 3). Similarly, a drama series like The
West Wing and a comedy like Yes Minister succeed as fiction because they are
grounded in non-fiction. I cannot resist noting also that appeals to non-fiction
can be fiction. Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series of science-fiction novels
posits the science of psychohistory. It is a combination of history, sociology,
and mathematical statistics that makes general predictions about the future
behaviour of people. There are two core axioms; the population must be large,
and ignorant of the predictions. The belief in naturalism is all too apparent,
and am I the only one to see shades of ‘Nudge’ here (Chapter 10, this volume,
p. 170)? Fortunately this new ‘science’ does not exist and the effort to sidestep
human agency is as profoundly undemocratic as it is laughable. The purpose
of these remarks is to draw attention to the blurred line between fact and
fiction in life history and ethnography and the key importance of storytelling
in both (Hammersley and Atkinson 2007: ch. 9). To borrow phrases from
Boswell and Corbett (2015), when reporting our fieldwork we need a broader
palette so we can paint with the brushstrokes of an impressionist painter. Or,
more prosaically, we need to write better, and we can learn from novels and
the fine arts.
I used the phrase ‘genre blurring’ not only to draw attention to genres of
thought but also to genres of presentation, especially storytelling. As Sword
(2012: vi and 4) comments, too many academic papers are ‘badly written’ and
‘unreadable’ and the phrase ‘stylish academic writing’ is an ‘oxymoron’. Of

course, one person’s stylish writing is another one’s indigestion, but do we
have to be addicted to nominalizations; that is, to converting adjectives and
verbs into nouns? We do not pay enough attention to the way we present our
work, and its intelligibility is at stake.5 The examples of cultural anthropology
(Geertz 1973; and Chapter 3, this volume), biography (Pimlott 1992; and
Chapter 6, this volume) and contemporary history (Hennessy 1999; and
Chapter 7, this volume) are there for us to follow. We need to ‘improve our
prose’ and ‘decrease our dullness’ (Anderson 2016: 162). This book is not the
place for a manual on how to write political science (see, for example, Sword
2012: ch. 3). The reader will judge whether my own stylistic preferences
alleviate the dullness, but I try. I use catchphrases such as ‘from government
to governance’ and ‘the greedy institution’ to grasp the reader’s attention.
I sprinkle the text with literary and musical allusions to leaven the mix.
I include personal anecdotes so I am present in my text and not an impersonal,
detached commentator. I experiment with different genres of presentation,
including telling tales from the field and aphorisms in the philosophical style.
I write in the first person and the active voice. I realize in commenting on my
writing, I become hostage to a reviewer’s jibes. I do not claim to succeed.
I claim only that I make self-conscious choices.
It is worth reflecting not only on how we write but also who we are writing
for. The goal is not only to write better but also to write in different ways for
different audiences. I had an early introduction to this craft in my first job at
INLOGOV, University of Birmingham. The Institute taught long and short
management courses for local government officers and conducted consultancy
research for government. We were encouraged to write for our local govern-
ment audience as well as academic journals. So, I cut my teeth on the Local
Government Chronicle, Municipal Review, and Municipal Journal as well as
academic journals such as the Journal of Common Market Studies and Public
Administration. Because the local government journals were run like news-
papers, sub-editors revised my work and helped me learn to write for them. No
such luck with my Home Office consultancy report on The Councillor, Infor-
mation and Urban Deprivation (July 1975). I wrote it using systems theory to
organize the data. The disdain of the civil servant on reading it was palpable.
I have not worked for the Home Office again. That matters not. The point is
that from the beginning, with varying degrees of success, I was being taught
how to write for different audiences. The ability to write in this way is referred
to by Flinders (2013) as the ‘art of translation’. The phrase refers to translating
academic articles, books, and chapters into accessible pieces for professional
journals, teaching material for school and university students, and discussion
5
The best example I know of translating social science jargon into plain English is C. Wright
Mills’s (1970: 35–42) ‘translation’ of passages from Talcott Parsons’s The Social System (1951).
pieces for newspapers and social media. We train our PhD students in
quantitative and qualitative methods but we do not teach them how to
write, let alone how to practise the art of translation. Indeed, I struggle to
find the equivalent of Van Maanen’s Tales from the Field (1988) for political
science. It is a major oversight and one that can be repaired by turning to the
example of our colleagues in the humanities.6
In the fine arts, aesthetics refers to the appreciation of the beautiful, the ugly,
and the sublime. It requires that we look at the principles underlying the work
of a particular individual or movement. So, if we look at political science as if it
is an artistic movement, we are likely to characterize it as a micro, quantitative,
formal, empiricist craft (following Goodin and Klingemann 1996; Goodin
2009). Many of these characteristics are estimable but what is lacking is
breadth and challenge; it does not look for the sublime.
White (1978: 49) argues ‘the burden of the historian’ is the ‘moral charge to
free men from the burden of history’. So:
insofar as historical events and processes become understandable, as conservatives
maintain, or explainable, as radicals believe them to be, they can never serve as the
basis for a visionary politics . . . concerned to endow social life with meaning.
White emphasizes the nihilism of history, the absurdity of the human condi-
tion, and the necessity of human aspiration to construct shards of meaning
from chaos. So, the historian should abjure imposing order where there is none
and focus on ‘the notion of the historical sublime’ because human dignity and
freedom emerge out of our reaction against the meaninglessness of history; we
are transmuted into something higher, nobler, or more excellent (see also
Berman 1982, 1984). As I write these sentences, the paucity of my own ambi-
tion, let alone anyone else’s, bears down on me. We do not aim high enough.
Handing Down the Tradition
It is all too easy nowadays to carp about the twenty-first-century university.

We are spoilt for adjectival choice—corporatized, managerial, bureaucratized
(see, for example, Collini 2012; Fish 2008a; Halsey 1995; and Hil 2012). The
problems of reduced resources, rapid growth in student numbers, erosion of
salaries, and dominance of the business model of the university have been
noted often and just as often ignored by the government of the day. I have a
more specific concern occasioned by reading some recent university strategic
6
Sword (2012: 117–20) provides an instructive comparison of the jargon used by many
Foucauldian devotees with the ‘relentlessly concrete’ writing of their master. Becker 2007 is
helpful pending a guide specifically for political scientists.
plans. Amid all the slogans about global partnerships, league tables, student
satisfaction, improved leadership, and agile governance, there was no mention
of ‘scholarship’.
Universities come in many shapes and sizes. There is no fixed template, no
definitive set of values, for a university. In the nineteenth century in Britain, for
John Henry Newman (1801–1890), the university was about cultivation of the
intellect through teaching. The focus was on students. In Germany, for Wil-
helm von Humboldt (1767–1835), the core idea of a university was the
research–teaching nexus (see Davis 2010: ch. 3). The research-based university
is a twentieth-century idea. A common informing idea spanning this variety is
that of ‘scholarship’.
Scholarship means to:
• ‘Introduce students to bodies of knowledge and traditions of inquiry that

had not been previously part of their experience’; and
• ‘Equip those students with the analytical skills—of argument, statistical
modelling, laboratory procedure—that will enable them to move confi-
dently within those traditions and to engage in independent research after
a course is over’ (Fish 2008a: 13).
• Engage in independent research and publication that preserves and
advances the tradition (see Collini 2012: 7 and 106).
As I have shown, an interpretive approach can be relevant as applied

ethnography, storytelling, and inscription. But interpretive theory is also
its own good because it challenges the naturalist mainstream by introducing
new genres of thought and presentation to political science. Specifically, it
encourages:
• Empathy—‘a thoroughgoing revision of our understanding of what it is

to open . . . the consciousness of one group of people to . . . the life-form
of another’ (Geertz 1988: 143).
• Enabling conversations—enlarging ‘the possibility of intelligible dis-
course between people quite different from one another in interest,
outlook, wealth and power’ (Geertz 1988: 147).
• Edification—finding ‘new, better, more interesting, more fruitful ways of
speaking about’ politics and government (Rorty 1980: 360).
Empathy, enabling conversations, and edification are worthy goals in any walk
of life but they have no obvious economic value and are unlikely to bring large
research grants to a university. These values will thrive only in a tradition of
scholarship. It behoves us to defend that tradition as the essential core of the
modern university.
The challenges of the sublime and of defending scholarship border on the

grandiloquent. To soften that impression, I end with a quote from that great
Classics scholar, Gilbert Murray (1866–1957):
As far as knowledge and conscious reason will go, we should follow resolutely
their austere guidance. When they cease, as cease they must, we must use as best
we can those fainter powers of apprehension and surmise and sensitiveness by
which, after all, most higher truth has been reached as well as most high art and
poetry: careful always really to seek for truth and not for our own emotional
satisfaction, careful not to neglect the real needs of men and women through
basing our life on dreams; and remembering above all to walk gently in a world
where the lights are dim and the very stars wander (Murray 1935: 171).
I will try to walk gently in the world, and I will seek to construct my own
‘truth’ through conscious reason, faint apprehension, and, lest I forget I am a
Yorkshireman, sheer bloody-mindedness. Nobody’s perfect.
APPENDIX
Bibliography on the Interpretive Debate
Criticism and Commentary

Bevir, M. (2011) ‘Public Administration as Storytelling’, Public Administration, 89:
183–95.
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Quarterly, 85: 437–44.
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Reflections on Political Life History in Britain (and Beyond)’, Political Studies
Review, 13: 506–19.
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Tradition: Explaining Contingency in New Labour’s and the Coalition’s Governance
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228 Bibliography on the Interpretive Debate
Marsh, D. and Hall, M. (2016) ‘The British Political Tradition and the Material–
Ideational Debate’, The British Journal of Politics and International Relations, 18:
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Marsh, D., Richards, D., and Smith, M. J. (2003) ‘Unequal Plurality: Towards an
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A Reply to Bevir and Rhodes’, British Politics, 1: 404–12.
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R. A. W. Rhodes, Editor, Public Administration, 1986 to 2010’. Special issue of
Public Administration 89: 1–219.
The Replies
Bevir, M. (2007) ‘New Labour in Time’, Parliamentary Affairs, 60: 332–40.
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Critique’, British Journal of Politics and International Relations, 6: 156–64.
Bevir, Mark and Rhodes, R. A. W. (2004b) ‘Interpreting British Governance’, British
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Bevir, Mark and Rhodes, R. A. W. (2006) ‘Disaggregating Structures as an Agenda for
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Bevir, Mark and Rhodes, R. A. W. (2008a) ‘The Differentiated Polity as Narrative’,
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Bevir, Mark and Rhodes, R. A. W. (2008b) ‘Politics as Cultural Practice’, Political
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Bevir, Mark and Rhodes, R. A. W. (2012) ‘Interpretivism and the Analysis of Tradi-
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Bevir, Mark and Rhodes, R. A. W. (2016) ‘Interpreting British Governance: Ten Years
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Author Index
Abélès, M. 13 Bhaskar, R. A. 215n2

Abrams, P. 220 Billing, Y. D. 135
Abse, L. 102n10 Birch, A. 112
Adler, P. 57n2 Bird, S. R. 136
Adler, P. A. 57n2 Blair, Tony 67, 70, 102n10, 120, 121,
Agar, M. 45, 54, 58, 83, 92, 164, 164n3, 127, 128, 190
166, 179 Blake, R. 98, 100
Althaus, C. 153 Bland, Henry 192n5
Alvermann, D. E. 106n13 Blatter, J. 101n9
Anderson, B. 97n2, 129, 186, 203, 223 Blewett, N. 123n9
Ankersmit, F. R. 117n4 Blondel, J. 76, 101
Annesley, C. 133, 139 Bloor, M. 83, 86, 89, 92, 94
Archer, M. 215n2 Blunkett, David 66–7, 67n5, 123n9, 147
Arklay, T. 101, 192n5 Bobrow, D. B. 152
Aronoff, M. J. 39, 43, 55, 164, 173n7 Bogdanor, V. 163, 212
Arygris, C. 152 Boje, D. 157
Asimov, Isaac 222 Boll, K. 11, 170, 170n5
Atkinson, C. 150 Bolton, G. 99
Atkinson, P. 39, 43, 45, 49, 51–2, 57n2, Boothby, Robert 99
77, 222 Borges, Jorge Luis 10
Attlee, Clement 126 Borins, S. F. 126
Aucoin, P. 190, 197n13 Boswell, J. 49, 185n2, 207n1, 222
Auyero, J. 12, 39 Botterill, L. C. 196n11
Boudon, R. 34, 76
Bagehot, Walter 189 Bourgon, Jocelyne 198
Baldwin, Stanley 118, 119, 127 Bovens, M. 160
Banks, G. 153 Bradbury, J. 122
Barber, Michael 154–5 Braithwaite, J. 8
Bardach, E. 153 Braun, V. 50, 72, 106n14, 180n11
Barnett, D. 96n2 Brett, J. 78, 100n8, 109–10
Barthes, R. 4, 105, 106n13, 116n3, 117n4 Bridges, Sir Edward 189, 192
Becker, H. S. 224n6 Brigard, E. de 54
Beckett, F. 123n9 Britton, D. M. 135, 136, 146
Bell, C. 69 Brown, Alan 192n5
Bellavita, C. 137 Brown, Gordon 120, 121, 125, 127, 128, 195,
Bennett, A. 76, 101n9, 215n2 195n10
Bennister, M. 126 Brown, V. 28
Bentley, M. 117n5 Bryce, J. 212
Berger, P. 19, 105n12 Bryce, Robert 192n5
Berman, M. 4, 224 Bryman, A. 39, 45
Berman, S. 19 Bryson, Bill 7
Bernstein, R. 4, 18n3, 104n11 Buckley, F. H. 121n8, 124n10
Berrington, H. 5, 102n10 Budd, Dale 85, 88
Bevir, M. 4, 5–6, 8, 9, 11n5, 17–18, 17n1, 19, Buller, J. 121, 121n8, 122, 123
22, 23n6, 26, 31, 39n1, 40, 42, 50, 51, 59, 76, Bullock, H. 153, 154n2
82, 91, 93, 104, 105n12, 106n13, 106n14, Bulpitt, J. 115, 121–3, 121n8, 126, 127
116, 117, 119, 121n8, 122, 123, 127, 139, Bunzl, M. 48
165, 168n1, 173n7, 178n10, 184n1, 185, Burawoy, A. 44
212, 214, 215, 217, 218, 219–20, 219n3 Burch, M. 125
258 Author Index
Burchell, G. 19 Davis, A. 113
Burns, T. 69, 75 Davis, G. 6, 115n1, 225
Butler, Rab 121 Denning, S. 178n10
Denzin, N. K. 10, 43, 96, 104, 104n11, 105,
Caiden, G. E. 190, 195n10 105n12, 106, 106n14, 107, 110
Cameron, David 97n2, 154, 155 DeWalt, K. M. 45
Campbell, Alastair 147 Dexter, L. 46, 73n6, 121n8
Campbell, C. 199 Diamond, P. 97n3, 218
Campbell, J. 121n8, 128 Dicey, A. V. 189
Campbell, Kim 126 Dietz, K. 178n10
Carnap, R. 31 Disraeli, Benjamin 128
Cartwright, N. 170n5 Dogan, M. 76
Castenada, Carlos 10 Doig, J. W. 110n17
Catron, B. 20 Dolan, P. 170
Chamberlain, M. 222 Dowding, K. 13, 28, 215n2
Chapman, R. A. 192n4, 193n6 Dreyfus, H. 19n4
Chappell, L. 142 Dryzek, J. 8, 34n8, 152
Charmley, J. 97n4 Duerst-Lahti, G. 134, 140
Chester, N. 193n6 Dunlop, C. 170n5, 182
Chrétien, Jean 126 Dunn, W. N. 153
Clark, Clifford 192n5 Durose, C. 149, 173n7
Clarke, V. 50, 72, 106n14, 180n11 Durrell, Lawrence 111n18
Clendinnen, I. 99n7
Clifford, J. 51 Eckstein, H. 44, 76, 101n9
Clifford, J. 47, 48, 77 Edel, L. 102, 107
Clifton, J. 218 Eden, Anthony 126
Cohen, D. K. 171 Einstein, A. 166, 182
Cohen, G. 97n3, 114 Elgie, R. 115
Cohen, Leonard 8 Elton, G. R. 121n7
Collier, D. 208 Emerson, R. M. 45, 77
Collingwood, R. G. 4, 5, 116, 117n4, 119, 211 Epstein, David 88, 89
Collini, S. 10, 17, 17n2, 112, 208, 224, 225 Evans, Graham 88, 90
Common, R. 152 Evans, M. 98, 99, 103
Connell, R. W. 136
Cook, Robin 70 Faucher-King, F. 39
Cooke, R. 5 Faulkner, William 111n18
Coombs, H. C. 99n7, 192n5 Feely, Nicole 88, 89, 93
Corbett, J. 49, 110n17, 185n2, 207n1, 222 Fenno, R. E. 12, 40, 41, 57n2, 79n7
Corburn, J. 172n6 Ferguson, K. 135
Cornish, S. 192n5 Ferry, Brian 4
Corr, P. J. 113n19 Feyerabend, P. 10
Coser, L. A. 136, 137 Finlayson, A. 216
Cowling, M. 3n1, 115, 117–18, 117n6, Finn, P. D. 195n10
119–20, 121, 124, 126, 127 Finnemore, M. 19
Craig, D. 117n5, 118, 118n6, 119, 219, 220 Fischer, F. 34n8, 172n6
Craik, J. 6 Fish, S. 105, 210, 224, 225
Crawford, John 192n5 Fisher, Warren 192
Crewe, E. 39, 44 Flaubert, Gustave 110
Crick, Bernard 98, 102 Fleming, Anne 99
Croce, B. 116 Fleming, Ian 99
Czarniawska, B. 51, 106n13, 158, 165 Flinders, M. 223
Flyvbjerg, B. 76
Dart, J. 179 Fodor, J. 19
Davidson, D. 23n6, 25n7, 26 Ford, Henry 211
Davies, H. T. O. 153, 170n5 Forester, J. 34n8, 172n6
Davies, R. 179 Forster, E. M. 64
Author Index 259
Foucault, M. 4, 19n4 Hil, R. 224
Fox, Charles James 121, 128 Himelfarb, Alex 198–9, 201, 202
Fox, K. 48, 141 Hitler, Adolf 119
Franzway, D. 135, 137, 140 Hodgett, S. 11, 11n4, 184
Fraser, Malcolm 81, 84, 85, 88, 108–9 Holliday, I. 125
Freud, S. 102, 112, 113 Holmes, D. R. 55
Funder, D. C. 113n19 Homberger, E. 97n4
Hood, C. 155
Gabriel, Y. 108n15, 158, 178, 178n10 Hooper, C. 134
Gains, F. 46, 133, 139, 149 Horne, A. 99
Gaitskell, Hugh 99 Horner, D. 192n5
Gamble, A. 100–1 Howard, John 84, 85, 88, 90n3, 92, 93,
Geertz, C. 4, 9–10, 13, 42, 43, 50, 57n2, 58, 76, 96n2, 126
77, 78, 80, 105n12, 126, 152, 165, 172, 173, Humboldt, Wilhelm von 225
173n7, 183n12, 223, 225 Hume, Alex Douglas 126
Geneen, Harold 66 Hummel, R. P. 34n8
George, A. L. 76, 101n9, 215n2 Humphreys, M. 109n16
Gerring, J. 26
Ghosh, P. 118, 118n6 Iremonger, L. 102n10
Giddens, A. 72
Gillard, Julia 120, 128 Jackson, D. 198
Gomery, John 197–9, 201 Jackson, J. E. 45
Goodin, R. E. 8, 13, 17, 213, 224 Jackson, R. J. 198
Goodsell, C. T. 126, 173n7 Jacob, K. 8
Goward, P. 96n2 James, S. 101
Graham, L. 184 James, T. S. 121n8, 122, 123
Granatstein, J. L. 192n5 Jamieson, K. H. 147
Grattan, M. 196 Jay, Antony 62n3, 79n7, 157, 177n9
Green, E. H. H. 117n5 Jenkins, K. 117n4
Greenaway, J. R. 193n6 Jennings, B. 34n8
Guba, E. G. 42, 50, 51, 54, 55 Jennings, W. 221
Gutting, G. 19n4 Jessop, B. 216
John, P. 170, 170n5
Hajer, M. A. 34n8 Johnson, N. 3n1
Hall, M. 217, 218 Joseph, L. 12, 39
Halsey, A. H. 224
Hammersley, M. 43, 45, 49, 51–2, 57n2, 70, Kahneman, D. 170
77, 222 Kanter, R. M. 144
Hardie, J. 170n5 Kantor, J. M. 184
Hardy, B. 73n6 Kaposzewski, D. 39
Hargrove, E. C. 110n17 Kass, H. 20
Harland, R. 19n4 Kaufman, H. 40–1
Harmsworth, Esmond 99 Kavanagh, D. 120, 121n8
Harradine, Brian 90, 90n3 Keates, D. 18n3
Haverland, M. 101n9 Keating, Mike 93
Hawke, Allan 89, 95 Keating, Paul 85, 86n2, 88, 89, 95, 109
Hawke, Bob 85, 88 Kedar, A. 40, 116
Hawkesworth, M. 134 Kedia, S. 164, 164n3, 165
Hay, C. 19, 215, 215n2, 219, 220, 221 Kellow, A. 8
Haynes, L. 153, 169, 170n5 Kelly, E. L. 136, 137, 145, 148, 151
Hayward, J. 213 Kelly, R. M. 134, 140
Healy, P. 34n8, 172n6 Kemp, David 84, 85, 88, 90
Heffernan, R. 123 Kenney, S. J. 134
Hencke, D. 123n9 Kernell, S. 84, 85
Hennessy, P. 124, 189, 223 Kertzer, D. 44
Heseltine, Michael 65, 65n4 Keynes, John Maynard 97–8
260 Author Index
Killer, Graham 89 Maynard-Moody, S. 39, 40, 42, 160
King, A. 6, 163, 215n2 McAllister, I. 8
Klingemann, H-D. 213, 224 McAnulla, S. 25, 215–16, 215n2
Klosko, G. 11n5 McGinn, C. 23n6
Krueger, R. A. 83 McMahon, William 126
Kubik, J. 39, 43, 55, 164, 173n7 McPherson, A. 73n6
McTavish, D. 133
La Grouw, Y. 175n8 Menzies, Robert 88, 109–10, 126
Lakatos, I. 31 Milburn, Alan 71
Lambert, R. D. 184 Miller, K. 133
Lange, D. 190 Mills, C. Wright 208, 223n5
Larsson, Stieg 11 Moore, C. 128
Lawrence, J. 117n5, 120 Moran, A. 78
Lee, M. 72 Morgan, D. 53, 83, 87, 91, 94, 108
LePore, E. 19 Morgan, K. 97n3, 114
Levi-Strauss, C. 43 Morgan, K. O. 100
Lieberman, R. 19 Morris, Estelle 141, 147
Lilleker, D. G. 73n6 Morris, Grahame 89, 92
Lincoln, Y. S. 10, 42, 43, 50, 51, 54, 55, Mulgan, R. 154n2, 199
104n11, 105, 106n14 Murray, Gilbert 226
Lindblom, C. E. 4, 157, 171–2 Musheno, M. 39, 40, 42, 160
Lipsky, M. 40
Llosa, Mario Vargas 111n18 Nader, L. 45
Lodge, David 17, 96 Namier, L. 122
Lodge, G. 123n9, 128, 140 Newby, H. 69
Lodge, M. 155 Newman, John Henry 225
Lovenduski, J. 138, 140, 146 Nicolson, H. 100, 103, 112, 113
Lowe, R. 194 Noordegraaf, M. 9, 57n1
Lucas, R. 150 Norton, P. 121
Luckman, T. 19, 105n12 Nugent, S. 45, 46
Lunn, P. 170n5
Lynn, Jonathan 62n3, 79n7, 157 Oakeshott, M. 3n1, 42, 117n4, 119
O’Brien, P. 97n4, 98, 98n6, 112, 113
MacDonagh, O. 193n6 O’Donnell, Gus 155
MacDonald, J. 54, 83, 92, 179 O’Halpin, E. 192n4
Macfarlane, A. 129 Olsen, J. P. 24
Machiavelli, Niccolò 102n10 O’Malley, R. 184
MacIntyre, A. 171, 216 Orwell, George 98, 102, 183n13
Mackay, F. 133n1, 149 O’Toole, L. 160
Macklin, R. 97n2 Ozer, D. J. 113n19
Macmillan, Harold 99, 121, 128, 177
Malpas, J. 55 Palmer, M. J. 196n11
Mandelson, P. 123n9 Parker, M. 135
March, J. G. 24, 173n7 Parkes, Henry 99n7
Marcus, G. E. 47, 48, 55, 58, 77, 97n4, Parris, H. 187, 193n6
102, 103 Parsons, Talcott 223n5
Marquand, D. 97, 97n3, 97n4, 98, 99, Pawson, N. 170n5
100, 101, 108 Paxman, Jeremy 70–1
Marr, D. 196n11 Pearson, Lester 192n5
Marsh, D. 212, 217, 218 Pederson, S. 117n5, 119, 120
Martin, A. W. 99n7 Pelassy, D. 76
Martin, J. 216 Peston, R. 123n9, 128
Martin, P. Y. 137, 138, 145 Peters, B. G. 124n10
Martin, Paul 125 Pimlott, B. 97, 97n4, 98, 98n6, 99, 100, 102,
Mathers, H. 97, 97n3, 101 103–4, 107, 108, 113, 223
Matthews, G. 113n19 Pink, S. 54
Author Index 261
Pitt, William, the Younger 121 Schwartz-Shea, P. 27, 49, 50, 52, 106n14,
Plumb, J. 122 173, 173n7
Polanyi, M. 208 Scott, J. 18n3
Pollitt, C. 91n4, 154, 157 Scott, J. C. 183
Popkin, S. L. 84, 85 Scott, J. W. 134
Popper, K. 31 Seldon, A. 73, 102n10, 123n9, 127, 128
Powell, J. 102n10 Sharman, J. C. 214
Pressman, J. 160 Sharp, M. 192n5
Pringle, R. 143, 144 Shedden, Frederick 192n5
Punch, M. 57n2, 69, 70, 75 Shergold, Peter 192, 193, 196–7, 200–1, 202
Shore, C. 45, 46, 48, 52–3, 58, 128
Raab, C. 73n6 Sikkink, K. 19
Rabinow, P. 18n3, 19n4, 104n11 Sillitoe, P. 164, 164n3, 165
Ramsay, K. 135 Silverman, L. 178n10
Randall, Richard 192n5 Sinodinos, Arthur 84, 86n2
Rasminsky, Louis 192n5 Sjoberg, L. 134, 139, 140
Rawnsley, A. 46, 70, 71, 123n9, Skelton, Oscar 192n5
127, 128 Skidelsky, R. 97, 100
Reckwitz, A. 25 Skinner, Q. 116n2, 117
Reeher, G. 110n17 Smith, L. M. 96
Rein, M. 25n7, 34 Smith, M. J. 39
Renshon, R. 113n19 Snowden, D. 179
Ricci, D. 31 Sossin, L. 187, 197n13, 198
Rice Davis, Mandy 177 St. Clair, W. 103, 107
Richards, D. 39, 73n6, 97, 97n3, 101 Starkey, D. 121n7
Richards, S. 123n9 Stedman-Jones, G. 117n4, 117n5
Richardson, L. 77, 106n14 Stevenson, J. 117n5
Ricoeur, P. 106n13 Stivers, C. M. 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140,
Rivers, Richard Godfrey 6–7 141, 142, 144, 145, 147, 150
Roberts, B. 50, 96, 99–100, 101, 103, 105, Stoker, G. 221
105n12, 106n14 Stone, D. 52
Robertson, Norman 192n5 Strachey, L. 97n4, 98, 102, 112, 113
Roe, E. 26 Strangio, P. 115n1, 126
Rogers, B. 140 Sullivan, H. 219
Rorty, R. 14, 209, 225 Sullivan, T. 84, 85
Rose, R. 213 Sullivan, W. 18n3, 104n11
Rosenau, P. M. 104n11 Sunstein, C. R. 170n5
Rousseau, D. M. 170n5 Sutherland, G. 193n6
Rowse, T. 99n7, 192n5 Sword, H. 222–3, 224n6
Rudd, Kevin 81, 84, 85, 88, 97n2, 120, Symons, A. J. A. 110–11
126, 128
Russell, Don 86n2, 88 Tanner, D. M. 117n5
Taylor, C. 19
Sabatier, P. 160 Taylor, L. 12–13
Sanderson, I. 153, 154n2 Taylor, M. 117n5, 120
Sanjek, R. 45, 57n2, 77 Terry, L. D. 137
Sartre, Jean-Paul 110 Thaler, R. H. 170n5
Savage, M. 138, 139, 143, 144, 145 ’t Hart, P. 9, 57n1, 100n8, 104, 113, 115n1,
Savoie, D. 115, 121, 121n8, 123–6, 123n9, 126, 127
124n10, 190, 192n5, 199, 201 Thatcher, Margaret 102n10, 112, 126,
Sayer, A. 215n2 177, 190
Schaeffer, J. H. 54 Theakston, K. 97n4, 110n17
Schatz, E. 39 Thedvall, R. 54
Schoepfle, G. M. 41, 47 Thomas, D. S. 7, 105
Schon, D. 25n7, 149, 152 Thomas, W. I. 7, 105
Schultz, W. T. 97n5 Thompson, H. S. 128
262 Author Index
Thompson, P. 222 Weller, P. 6, 7–8, 85, 91, 108–9, 110, 184n1,
Thwaite, A. 103 191, 192n5, 196, 196n11, 202, 214
Tiernan, A. 11, 53, 81, 81n1, 82, 84, 85–6, 87, Wells, H. G. 96
88, 89, 90, 91, 91n4, 92, 93, 94, 95, 127, 181 Wells, P. 123n9
Timmins, N. 195, 195n10 Wendt, A. 26
Torfing, J. 178, 220 Werner, O. 41, 47
Towers, Graham 192n5 White, H. 4, 106n13, 108, 116, 116n3, 117,
Trudeau, Pierre 126 117n4, 224
Turnbull, Andrew 193–5, 195n10, 201, 202 Whitlam, Gough 87
Turnbull, N. 115n1, 207, 212, 214, 219 Wildavsky, A. 68, 157, 160
Turner, John 126 Wilkinson, M. 196n11
Williams, P. 99
Van Eeten, M. J. G. 34, 34n8 Williamson, P. 117n5, 118–19, 118n6,
Van Maanen, J. 4, 42, 48–9, 57n2, 58, 76, 78, 120, 127
107, 108, 164, 224 Wilson, G. K. 199
Van Willigen, J. 164, 164n3, 165, 178, 210 Wilson, Harold 97, 108, 177
Vernon, J. 117n5 Wilson, Richard 9, 189
Vohnsen, N. H. 11, 173n7, 181, 182 Wilson, Roland 192, 192n5
Wittgenstein, L. 22, 31, 173
Wacjman, J. 145, 146–7 Witz, A. 138, 139, 143, 144, 145
Wagenaar, H. 34n8, 39, 173n7, 212, 214, Wolcott, H. F. 45, 50, 183
218–19 Wood, E. J. 43, 44
Waldo, D. 126 Wood, N. 17
Walsh, Geoff 89 Wright, J. 5
Walter, J. 97n5, 100n8, 104, 107, 113, Wright, S. 48, 58
115n1, 127 Wright, V. 124n10
Wanna, J. 6, 184n1, 214 Wulff, H. 48, 58
Watson, D. 102n10, 109, 110, 123n9
Watson, G. 52 Xueqin, Cao 207
Watson, J. D. 208
Watson, S. 136, 139, 146, 151 Yanow, D. 27, 34n8, 49, 50, 52, 72, 106n14,
Wedeen, L. 39, 52 172, 173, 173n7
Weick, K. E. 158 Yeatman, A. 135
Weiss, C. H. 156 Yin, R. K. 44, 76, 101n9
Weiss, R. A. 73n6 Young, I. M. 141
Subject Index
access 84, 127–8 bureaucracies, gendered. See gendered

accountability 63, 124, 194, 198 bureaucracies
actions
in court politics 121 Canada
gender and 134 civil service in 190, 192, 197–9, 201
and the interpretive approach 5–6, 18–23, Sponsorship Scandal 197–9, 197n13
25–7, 28, 33, 42, 51, 52, 76, 78, 116, case studies 58, 76
120, 215 centralization 124–6, 161
life history and 105 change 22
local knowledge and 174, 175 chiefs of staff (CoSs)
American political science 17, 212–13 in Australia 81–95
anthropology, applied. See applied in the United States 81, 83–4
anthropology choice 154–5
anthropology, cultural. See cultural civility 137, 141
anthropology civil service. See also departmental courts;
anti-politics 221–2 public sector reform
ANZSOG 84 in Australia 190, 191, 192, 195–7, 200–1
applied anthropology 152, 164–5 beliefs in the 185, 189
area studies 11, 184 in Canada 190, 192, 197–9, 201
Australia diary secretaries (DS) 60, 61, 141,
chiefs of staff (CoSs) in 81–95 143–5, 148
civil service in 190, 191, 192, 195–7, 200–1 dilemmas in the 185–6, 190–1, 195, 200
focus group research in 81–95 director generals (DGs) 62, 135, 141–2
life history tradition in 97n5, 104, 108–10 ethnographical research of 60–7, 69–70,
autobiography. See life history 74, 137–8, 165–6
autoethnography 109, 109n16 gendered bureaucracies in 133, 134, 135–51
autonomy 21, 22 as a greedy institution 4, 133–4, 136–8,
145, 146–51
Behavioural Insights Team 170 Northcote–Trevelyan report 193–5, 200,
beliefs 201, 202
in the civil service 185, 189 nostalgia in 191–3
in court politics 121, 122, 123, permanent secretaries 62, 65–6, 74, 75, 134,
126–7 140, 141, 144, 148, 161, 166
focus groups and 93 practices of the 185
gender and 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, principal private secretaries (PPS) 60–1,
140, 149, 150–1 62–3, 65, 66, 75, 134–5, 141, 144, 145,
and the interpretive approach 5–6, 18–30, 146, 211
33, 42, 51, 52, 59, 63, 76, 78, 120, 209, private secretaries (PS) 135, 141, 143, 144,
215, 216, 218 146, 149
life history and 105–6, 107 socialization in 189–90
local knowledge and 173–7 storytelling in 42, 66, 219
state and 219–21 traditions in the 161, 185, 186–203, 217
webs of 5, 173–4, 175 Civil Service Reform Plan 2012 160, 169,
bias 46, 47 169n2
biography. See life history civil society 220
blurring genres. See genre blurring College of Policing 170
bottom-up approaches 6, 20, 167, 221. common sense 172. See also local knowledge
See also local knowledge comparative studies 185–6
Brexit 218, 221 context 59
264 Subject Index
contingency 20, 21, 30, 118, 175, 176 quantitative and qualitative distinction
Coombs Commission 195–6 in 52–3
cooperation 140 reflexivity in 51–2
court politics 4, 115, 120–9, 217. See also relationships and 74–5
departmental courts representation by 47–9, 59, 77
creativity 208 storytelling in 55–6, 76–8, 162–4
critical realism 25, 215 studying down 40, 45
cultural anthropology 10, 39, 43, 47, 57, studying through 48, 58
152, 223 studying up 40, 45–6, 48
trust and 71, 79, 84
data checking 71–2, 92, 93, 94 visual ethnography 54
data for interpretive approaches 27–8 vs. journalism 70–1
decentred theory 19, 216 writing up process 76–8, 79
departmental courts 65–6, 133, 134–5, 136, yo-yo research 48, 58
138–51. See also court politics evidence-based policy making 153–4, 163,
Department for Environment, Food and Rural 165, 169–70, 181, 182, 183
Affairs (DEFRA) 62 explanation in ethnography 51
diary secretaries (DS) 60, 61, 141,
143–5, 148 fieldwork. See ethnography
differentiated polity 221 focus groups 53–4, 81–95
dilemmas advantages of 91–3
in the civil service 156, 160–3, 185–6, analysis and interpretation of 91, 93
190–1, 195, 200 for collecting stories 179
in court politics 126 disadvantages of 93–4
and the interpretive approach 5, 22, 23, 26, group dynamics in 86–90
30, 33, 76, 209, 216, 218 preparation for 85–6
life history and 107 research design for 83–5
local knowledge and 174–5, 176 folk theories 163, 177, 215
director generals (DGs) 62, 135, 141–2 franchise state 221
division of work 143–5
gender
Economic and Social Science Research division of work and 143–5
Council (ESRC) gendered bureaucracies 133, 134,
Whitehall Programme 5, 9 135–51
emotions, management of 137, 141–2 hierarchy and 138–9
ESRC. See Economic and Social Science long hours’ culture and 136, 137, 145–6,
Research Council (ESRC) 148, 151
ethnography management of emotions and 137, 141–2
access and 84, 127–8 management style and 146–7, 150
advice for 78–80 rationality and 135, 141
autoethnography 109, 109n16 work–home balance 148–9
benefits of 12, 57–68, 163–4, 210–11 gendered bureaucracies 133, 134, 135–51
bias in 46, 47 Gender Equality Public Service
data checking 71–2, 92, 93, 94 Agreement 149
explanation in 51 generalization in ethnography 49–50, 76
focus groups in 53–4, 81–95, 179 genre blurring 3, 9–11, 13, 96, 104, 111, 126,
generalization in 49–50, 76 151, 166, 209, 214–15, 222–3
interpretive approach to 40, 42–5, 47, 50–1, government departments. See also civil
52–3, 56, 58–9, 79, 93–4, 129 service
interviews 46–7, 58, 64–5, 72–4, 82, 85, 91 ethnography of 57–70, 74, 137–8, 165–6
limits of 164–6 gendered bureaucracies in 133, 134,
naturalist ethnography 40–1 135–51
objectivity in 50–1 as greedy institutions 4, 133–4, 136–8, 145,
observation 12–14, 39, 45–6, 48, 57–72, 146–51
74–80, 165, 178 greedy institutions 4, 133–4, 136–8, 145,
para-ethnography 54–5 146–51
problems in the field 12, 68–78 group dynamics in focus groups 86–90
Subject Index 265

Haldane Report 159, 194n8 management styles 146–7, 150
hierarchy 137, 138–9, 161 managerialism 64, 154, 158–9, 161, 162, 169,
high politics 117–20, 121 191, 200, 209, 217–18
historiography 10, 211 meanings 5–6, 18–20, 21, 23, 27, 31, 42, 51,
Home Rule 218 52, 76, 82, 105–6, 215, 216
humanities 10–11, 208, 210 military metaphors 140
ministers
implementation 159–60, 211. See also service ethnographical research of 58, 59–70, 74
delivery ministerial accountability 63
institutional memory 157, 162 modernist-empiricism 3, 4, 17–18, 101, 102,
institutions 5–6, 219–20. See also greedy 106, 166, 212, 213, 214
institutions Most Significant Change (MSC) 179–80
interpretive approach 17–35. See also actions;
beliefs; meanings; practices; situated narratives 30, 32–4, 51, 76, 216, 218. See also
agency; traditions storytelling
adoption of 3–6 National Institute for Health and Care
advantages of 57–68, 207–12, 225–6 Excellence (NICE) 170
as common sense 22–3 naturalism 3, 17, 22–3, 166, 170, 208, 222
to court politics 120–1, 122, 123, naturalist ethnography 40–1, 50
126–9 neo-liberalism 154, 169, 191, 217
criticisms of 22, 28, 33, 212–22 network governance 161, 209, 220–1
data for 27–8 new institutionalism 19, 213
to ethnography 40, 42–5, 47, 50–1, 52–3, New Labour 154
56, 58–9, 79, 93–4, 129 New Political History 117–20, 126
explanation and 26–7 Northcote–Trevelyan report 193–5, 200,
handing down the tradition 224–6 201, 202
and history 116–17, 129 nudging 170, 222
to life history 103–8, 113–14
to local knowledge 172–83 objectivity 30–3, 50–1, 100–2, 106, 183
objectivity and 30–3 observation 39, 45–6, 48, 57–72, 74–80, 165,
policy advice and 33–4 178. See also ethnography
power and 29–30
rhetoric and 28–9 para-ethnography 54–5
interviews 46–7, 58, 64–5, 72–4, 82, 85, 91 parliamentary questions (PQ) 63
path-dependency 59
journalism vs. ethnography 70–1 permanent secretaries 5, 62, 65–6, 74, 134,
140, 141, 144, 148, 161, 166
language 161–2 plausible conjectures 3–4, 33–4, 55, 76,
language games 63–4 155–60
life history 96–114 policy advice 33–4
Australian tradition of 97n5, 104, 108–10 politeness. See civility
British tradition of 97–104, 111–14 postmodernism 105, 211
character of the subject 102–3, 112–13 poststructuralism 19, 20–1
interpretive approach to 103–8, 113–14 power 29–30
life myths 107, 111 practices
objectivity in 100–2, 106 in court politics 121, 122, 123, 126–7
separating public and private life 98–9 criticisms of 218–19
situated agency and 106–7, 111 ethnography of 137–8
as storytelling 103, 107–8, 111 focus groups and 82, 93
theoretical debates in 99–100 gender and 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138,
tombstone biography 97–8, 104–5 140, 149, 150–1
local knowledge 55–6, 160, 162–3, 168–9, and the interpretive approach 5–6, 18–26,
170–83, 219 33, 42, 51, 59, 63, 76, 78, 120, 185, 209,
local reasoning 116, 160, 219 215, 216
long hours’ culture 136, 137, 145–6, life history and 105–6
148, 151 local knowledge and 174–7
loyalty 136, 137, 139, 144, 151, 161 performative 176
266 Subject Index

practices (cont.) sponsorship scandal 197–9, 197n13
state and 219–21 state 219–22
preferences 5, 42, 105 statecraft 121–3, 126
prime ministerial predominance 125–6 storytelling. See also narratives
principal private secretaries (PPS) 60–1, analysis of stories 180
62–3, 65, 66, 75, 134–5, 141, 144, 145, in the civil service 42, 66, 219
146, 211 life history as 103, 107–8, 111
private secretaries (PS) 135, 141, 143, 144, public sector reform and 158, 167
146, 149 recovering of local knowledge by 55–6,
public sector reform 152–67. See also civil 162–3, 178–82
service use of metaphors in 34
Civil Service Reform Plan 2012 160, 169, writing process in 76–8
169n2 writing skills in 222–4
contending traditions and stories 158–9 strategic planning 156
coping and appearance of rule 156–7 street-level bureaucrats (SLBs) 40, 42, 160,
delivery and choice 154–5 175, 181–2
dilemmas and 156, 160–3 structures 24–6, 215–16
evidence-based policy making 153–4, 163, studying down 40, 45
165, 169–70, 181, 182, 183 studying through 48, 58
institutional memory 157, 162 studying up 40, 45–6, 48
limited success of 165 symbols 67
managerialism 154, 191, 200, 217–18
politics of implementation 159–60, 211 thick descriptions 13, 43, 58, 63, 76, 78, 105
storytelling and 158, 167 tombstone biography 97–8, 104–5
unintended consequences of 156, 157 traditions
administrative traditions 188–9
qualitative methods 52–3 in the civil service 161, 185, 186–203, 217
quantitative methods 52–3 in court politics 122, 123, 126–7, 217
questionnaires 178–9 focus groups and 82
and the interpretive approach 5–6, 20, 22,
randomized controlled trials (RCTs), 23, 25, 26–7, 29–30, 33, 59, 76, 116, 209,
169–70, 182 215, 216–18
rational choice 212, 213 life history and 107
rationality 135, 137 local knowledge and 174
RCTs. See randomized controlled trials political traditions 188
(RCTs) Westminster tradition 112, 158, 161,
REF. See Research Excellence Framework 193–202, 209
(REF) trust 71, 79, 84, 136, 161
reflexivity in ethnography 51–2 truth 207, 212, 222
relativism 30, 31, 212
representation by ethnography 47–9, 59, 77 unintended consequences 156, 157, 174
Research Excellence Framework (REF) 208 United States
responsible government 188 American political science 17, 212–13
rhetoric 28–9 Chiefs of Staff in 81, 83–4
scholarship 225–6 visual ethnography 54

Scottish referendum 218, 221
service delivery 154–5, 211 Westminster tradition 112, 158, 161,
sexism 149, 150. See also gender 193–202, 209
situated agency 6, 18, 20–2, 24, 25, 30, 106–7, The West Wing 222
111, 116, 122, 123, 174, 185, 186, 218, 219 What Works Centres 170
SLBs. See street-level bureaucrats (SLBs) Whitehall programme 5, 9
social constructivism 19 women’s studies 10. See also gender
social contexts 25–6 writing skills 222–4
socialization 189–90. See also traditions
special advisers (SpAds) 135, 162 Yes Minister 62–3, 163, 222
specialization 176–7 yo-yo research 48, 58

R.a.W. Rhodes - Interpretive Political Science - Selected Essays, Volume II (2017, Oxford University Press)

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R.a.W. Rhodes - Interpretive Political Science - Selected Essays, Volume II (2017, Oxford University Press)

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INTERPRETIVE POLITICAL SCIENCE

This collection of essays is in two volumes. Volume I is a retrospective. It

Ingi Iusmen (University of Southampton)

The Craft of Governing: The Contribution of Patrick Weller to Australian

PART II. METHODS

PART III. APPLICATIONS

Appendix: Bibliography on the Interpretive Debate 227

Further on Down the Road,

For some 25 years, my research focused on policy networks and governance

THE I NTERPRETIVE TURN

The shift to interpretive theory coincided with my move to the University of

Research Council’s (ESRC) Whitehall programme. My elation changed liter-

THE MANAGEMENT YEARS

permanent exhibition at Queensland Art Gallery.3 Also, at six in the morning,

THE E THNOGRAPHIC YEARS

Hobart is an attractive port at the foot of Mount Wellington with many

The long-distance ﬂight was my book on Everyday Life in British Govern-

The common aim is to:

Any adventure has its risks. Ethnographic ﬁeldwork is no exception. During

was ethically sensitive, and had difﬁculty in securing funds. In addition, he

All political scientists offer us interpretations. Interpretive approaches differ in

the actors. Nonetheless, there is a family of interpretive approaches to political

meaning in action informs other aspects of an interpretive approach, includ-

Interpretivism itself consists of a diverse cluster of traditions. There are

constructed out of social backgrounds. They want to reject a strong notion of

An interpretive approach often struggles to aggregate accounts of prac-

INTERPRETATION AND COMMON SENSE

An interpretive approach rests, ﬁrst, on a philosophical analysis of meaning in

Critics bewitched by allegedly scientiﬁc languages have rejected an inter-

One common claim about an interpretive approach is that it concerns only

Although an interpretive approach explores practices by unpacking the

Another related misconception is that interpretive approaches aim only to

Yet another misconception equates an interpretive approach with certain

scientists. Suppose that the data provided by models, formal constitutions, or

Poststructuralists sometimes imply that other interpretive approaches are

Perhaps the most prevalent misconception about an interpretive approach is

some space to countering it and outlining my preferred epistemology (see

community would accept as true. This deﬁnition of a fact follows from

Similarly, our standards of reasoning require us to endeavour to make our

Yet another misconception about an interpretive approach is that it cannot

Studying down Kaufman 1961 Maynard-Moodie and Musheno 2003

Interpretive political studies draw on anti-naturalist philosophical thinking

Interpretivists will object to my using the toolkit metaphor as irredeemably

Fieldwork or ‘Being There’

studies can be simply descriptions of speciﬁc subjects but political scientists

Ethnographic textbooks cover a standard list of techniques and procedures

In studying governing elites, there are some obvious difﬁculties in ‘being

The common format for an elite interview is a recorded, one-hour conversa-

a semi-structured questionnaire. And this information can be cross-checked

Fieldwork’s claim to ethnographic authority in representing other cultures was

The classic intensive ﬁeldwork study was challenged by hit-and-run ethnog-

Impressionist tales take the form of a dramatic storyline, with a fragmented

The idiographic character of ethnographic ﬁeldwork is invariably seen as a

different and cannot approximate to a Popperian logic of refutation, nor

A common misconception about interpretive ethnography is that it aims only

CHUGGING AHEAD BY DEVELOPING THE CRAFT

Quantitative and Qualitative

The distinction between ‘qualitative’ and ‘quantitative’ methods is unhelpful

beliefs and practices of European Union elites uses participant observation,

The Deep Hanging Out and Hit-and-Run Ethnography

New Tools (for Political Science)

Ethnographers as bricoleurs employ a ragbag of tools; what works is best.

SO WHAT? THE BENEFITS OF ETHNOGRAPHY