A more active Fortean than reports in The Fortean Society Magazine would suggest.
Sidney Leonard Birchby was born around 1918 in England. I know nothing about his family or early life beyond that he had a brother named John. Birchby was an avid science fiction fan and in 1937, when not yet 20, he joined the Science Fiction Association, one of the first SF fan groups in the world. It was a difficult time in British history, with World War I still in recent memory, the empire closing, and the planet-wide depression of the 1930s. And so it is little wonder that Birchby saw in science fiction the path to a better future. He would later say,
"As I re-read those early fanzines, the general air is one of humbug. Of course, it was the age of humbug. Down in London where I was living, I was conducting a steady and worthy correspondence with a number of fans and writing pages of the grossest self-deception and pomposity. I was convinced that fandom, or rather science fiction, was going to sweep the world. To me, the Leeds Conference, which I did not attend, was like thunder in the heavens, and the resolutions of those present were edicts to be treated with profound respect.
Even then, you see, there was an Inner Circle to Fandom; the very first in Britain. It consisted of the handful who had taken the initiative to meet one another. At Leeds they gave each other resounding titles: within months they were the BNFs and lone fans like myself, happier writing to other fans than meeting them, were content to know that British Fandom was starting off in a properly constituted manner, guided by duly elected Secretaries and Chairmen. For me, the Conference was a Parliament whose authority was not to be questioned, but which at the same time I saw only as something remote from my hobby and myself. Leeds was a fan club run by strangers. I did not for some time see it as the start of a national movement.
Such an attitude could hardly exist today, when no fan tells another what he shall or shall not do. But this was the age of Baldwin. Only a month before the King of England himself had been thrown out for not conforming with the Establishment. As a fan, I felt it was quite right and proper that the fanzines that the new SFA sponsored, such as TOMORROW and NOVAE TERRAE, should print their steady diet of pep articles on 'Whither Mankind?' and 'Science Progress'.
It was the New World we were making, and the golden tool was Science. Around us the world was moving into the first steps of the dance of death. Spain was in the middle of her civil war; Italy had just finished the Abyssinian war; Germany had re-occupied the Rhineland. Against this background, British Fandom reflected that middle-class respectability which Britain as a country maintained in the face of rising chaos abroad.
But in 1937, the SFA was determined to go through with its regulating policy. The satirical articles of D.R.Smith in NOVAE TERRAE were carefully buttressed about with stodge about Branch Meetings and Votes of Thanks. There was to be no slipping out of Fandom's foundation garments while the Establishment lasted.”
Sidney Leonard Birchby was born around 1918 in England. I know nothing about his family or early life beyond that he had a brother named John. Birchby was an avid science fiction fan and in 1937, when not yet 20, he joined the Science Fiction Association, one of the first SF fan groups in the world. It was a difficult time in British history, with World War I still in recent memory, the empire closing, and the planet-wide depression of the 1930s. And so it is little wonder that Birchby saw in science fiction the path to a better future. He would later say,
"As I re-read those early fanzines, the general air is one of humbug. Of course, it was the age of humbug. Down in London where I was living, I was conducting a steady and worthy correspondence with a number of fans and writing pages of the grossest self-deception and pomposity. I was convinced that fandom, or rather science fiction, was going to sweep the world. To me, the Leeds Conference, which I did not attend, was like thunder in the heavens, and the resolutions of those present were edicts to be treated with profound respect.
Even then, you see, there was an Inner Circle to Fandom; the very first in Britain. It consisted of the handful who had taken the initiative to meet one another. At Leeds they gave each other resounding titles: within months they were the BNFs and lone fans like myself, happier writing to other fans than meeting them, were content to know that British Fandom was starting off in a properly constituted manner, guided by duly elected Secretaries and Chairmen. For me, the Conference was a Parliament whose authority was not to be questioned, but which at the same time I saw only as something remote from my hobby and myself. Leeds was a fan club run by strangers. I did not for some time see it as the start of a national movement.
Such an attitude could hardly exist today, when no fan tells another what he shall or shall not do. But this was the age of Baldwin. Only a month before the King of England himself had been thrown out for not conforming with the Establishment. As a fan, I felt it was quite right and proper that the fanzines that the new SFA sponsored, such as TOMORROW and NOVAE TERRAE, should print their steady diet of pep articles on 'Whither Mankind?' and 'Science Progress'.
It was the New World we were making, and the golden tool was Science. Around us the world was moving into the first steps of the dance of death. Spain was in the middle of her civil war; Italy had just finished the Abyssinian war; Germany had re-occupied the Rhineland. Against this background, British Fandom reflected that middle-class respectability which Britain as a country maintained in the face of rising chaos abroad.
But in 1937, the SFA was determined to go through with its regulating policy. The satirical articles of D.R.Smith in NOVAE TERRAE were carefully buttressed about with stodge about Branch Meetings and Votes of Thanks. There was to be no slipping out of Fandom's foundation garments while the Establishment lasted.”
The lineaments of British fandom for the next twenty years were laid down at this time, even as it expanded to include the British Interplanetary Society and would be disrupted severely by the war. Among those involved with this early group were Walter Gillings, William Temple, Eric Frank Russell, and Arthur C. Clarke—at the time, Birchby was considered as important a fan as Clarke, although of course Clarke would go on to much grander celebrity. The optimism of which Birchby spoke was necessarily defined against the possibility of extinction. At a 1938 meeting,
“Mr. Sid Birchby opened his talk on "The Next War". He so horrified us with the possibilities of nasty death to come that when he at length concluded on a note of hopeful despair, he netted not one appreciative hand-clap. We all sat round feeling rather miserable until after one or two desultory questions, Mr. Gillings, now thawed out by the creeping glow of nourishing stout, was called upon to read the afternoon's classic story, Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space". Mr. Gillings moved to a more convenient spot away from the beer and commensed reading. His audience sat enthralled, then interested, then passive, then replete, then a little fidgety. After 1 1/2 hours heroic reading without a stop Mr. Gillings drew his story to a finish. Grunts and deep sighs sounded from about the table, of ecstasy or relief.”
World War II destroyed the geography of this group: meeting places—the Druid’s Hall, the Flat, and the Red Bull—were blown up by bombs. The few gatherings which convened were held at the Anthroposophical Society Hall. Birchby recalled it
"was and still is near the Regent's Park end of Baker Street. It ran a very good cafe and lounge mainly for the troops, of which I was one. The food was really good and plentiful, grown on what we would now call whole-food principles. Frank Arnold's flat was close to Baker Street and my army base when in London was at Marylebone Road, so I arranged for ad-hoc fan-meetings at Steiner Hall. When I left London, they ceased." Birchby’s home was destroyed, too. Birchby wrote at the time:
It was only a little one. Just about the smallest H.E. that is made, no doubt. But of its efficacy one could not doubt.
It arrived at a most inopportune time, at 12 a.m. on a Monday morning before I had completed my ARP for stf.
The plan was grand. Everything in one room and in that room, everything into drawers and trunks with the most valued possessions in the safest containers.
Unfortunately , I had only got as far as having everything in one room, and the bomb had to choose that room to fall in. Result: some valuables survived but much more basically useful stuff perished-- instead of lots of relative rubbish that remained intact.
How I can write a philosophic discussion on the destruction of my collection is beyond me. I feel more like howling. To think of all my SFA meeting notes and my fan mags and half the choicest collectors items - not to mention irreplaceable books and magazines is to start weeping, and gnashing my teeth.
But why linger over what has gone? Much of it is junk that I always wanted to be rid of anyhow. I'm more interested in the building up of a new collection and a start has already been made.
Its scope is much wider than that of the old one; which was mainly fantasy & speculation (Lo!, Problem of Lemuria, Day After Tomorrow, etc.)
If present trends continue, the new one will be literary, left, and technical; with an emphasis on science fantasy, and what; for want of a better word, we may term “world-knowledge.”
Fan historian Harry Warner recounts that Birchby spent three days scouring the neighborhood for the remnants of his Weird Tales collection. A powerful sense of the fans priorities comes from the fact that the possibility of Birchby’s mother dying in the attack was an aside. (I don’t know if she was killed or not; one source mentions it.)
At the time, Birchby was serving his country, although he returned home during leave. He started as a corporal and found camaraderie with other science fiction fans. In April 1942, Eric Frank Russell and Roland Forster sponsored a gathering at No. ! Signals School in Cranwell, called the Cranvention. Birchby arrived at the school two days later; science fiction dinners were then held twice weekly and a lending library of sorts was established. As well, they put out their own ‘zine, the Cranfan. Their maxim was “Join the army for mud and blud. For fantasy join the RAF.” Birchby would raise through the ranks to at least sear gent status and, for a time, be stationed in Nairobi. I have not seen his service records, but correspondence suggests that he may have continued in the military after the end of the war and into the late 1940s. He married while in the service.
The immediate post-war years were lean for Birchby and his wife. He attended Manchester University, where he earned a technical degree. Later correspondence suggests that at at some point he went to work for the city of Manchester’s surveying department—a job from which he would retire in 1963. By then his situation had eased some. Birchby seems to have given up his early avocation, of cave exploring—a hobby of more than one Fortean—trading it for wine-making, particularly dandelion wine (an homage to Ray Bradbury?) For a time he taught wine making at night school, the being paid for something he otherwise would have had to pay for. He and his wife Jay also regularly holidayed, particularly in Portugal, and also Italy, although they worked to economize the trips. Birchby seems to have been facile with languages, making translations from the Latin and reading books in French.
Birchby came to Forteanism through Eric Frank Russell, although as a science fiction fan he likely encountered the name—and Fort’s obsessions—early on, even if he did not pursue them. That was what had happened to Russell, anyway, having read the serialization of Lo! in Astounding, and then forgetting about Fort until a trip to the United States, when his Forteanism was reinvigorated by Edmond Hamilton. By the early 1940s, not only was Russell a member of Thayer’s Fortean Society, he was lecturing science fiction groups about Fort and proselytizing for a new favored author. Birchby, Russell’s friend and fan, became a Fortean enthusiast, too.
There is a possible tension in Birchby’s beliefs of the early 1940s, but the materials to resolve them remain obscure. On the one hand, he thought that science—and science fiction—were the seeds of a new utopia. On the other hand, he embraced Fort, and Fort was extremely skeptical of science’s abilities to discover the truth. Others had a similar mixture—John W. Campbell, for example—and found consilience in the idea that science would yet explain Fortean phenomena, thus expanding its domain and the nature of truth. Perhaps Birchby felt similarly. He did “plug” Fort in an editorial written for a club magazine he edited in 1961—but the only mention of that endorsement is in a letter he wrote to Russell, and the it does not include the name of the magazine. So far, it has proven untrackable, and so (a possible) insight into his Forteanism remains unknown.
The same letter includes another possible clue as to the nature of Birchby’s Forteanism. He declaims to Russell, “I have by damn got a sense of wonder yet.” Science fiction, much of mid-twentieth-century science, and Fort could all inspire this sense of wonder—that the world was mysterious, maybe more mysterious than we know, and that grappling with the mysterious, trying to understand it, control it—even if ultimate control was impossible—was a transcendent act, both humane and a reaching for the divine. This sense of wonder could lead people in different directions, some toward the wonder of science itself, the miracles of DNA and cellular action or the majesty of physics, astronomy, and rocketry. Others might push more towards the occult, the understanding of secret—or hidden—machinery of the universe, as in Theosophical theories. Many times, the two blended, and so science fiction, science, and Fortean anomalies could be both sacred and mundane.
The two times Birchby appeared in Doubt give only a small indication of his inclination. His final contribution was in Doubt 27 (Winter 1949). He was one of many correspondents to send in a clipping about a rain of fish in Markham, Louisiana. His first came a couple of years before, in Doubt 11 (Winter 1944). Thayer already seemed to know Birchby at this time, calling him “our worshipful brother in unfaith,” and perhaps there must have been some prior correspondence, because he said he would look into an English event for Thayer. Birchby’s contribution was not a clipping but a question—and one that suggested he was intrigued by the occult. Back in 1924, when the Earth and Mars had been extremely close to one another, radio signals had been ceased five minutes of every hour for a day, in hopes of getting a communication from the other planet. There had been some interesting radio transmissions, but nothing that made any sense. Word of the possible communiqué reached New Zealand, where it was given a particularly occult cast by one woman, and her story had then reached the Science Fiction Association. Birchby was ignorant about the events surrounding the 1924 experiment, but was intrigued by the woman’s claims that the communication had a secret meaning and asked someone to look up the details of the original 1924 reports in the New York Press.
There was never a response in Doubt to Birchby’s request, but the very fact that he was willing to ask for more information suggests that, even if he thought that science was bringing on a new day—hopefully one of happier times than had been true of England during his life—he still thought that science as constituted was too narrow. His Forteanism doesn’t seem to have been the extreme skepticism of Thayer and (to a lesser extent Russell), but a search for a new, wider science that could incorporate and explain Fortean anomalies and maybe reveal occult truths. (That he collected works of speculation and included Lo! among them further increases the sense that Birchby was looking to expand science, even as it was creating a new utopia.)
Birchby was Fortean member number 16554, and he continued with the Society even after his contributions no longer appeared—and even though he could not pay the dues. He told Russell in April 1949, “The F.S. is one of hose things that I’d like to subscribe to but can’t afford in my present straightened circumstances. But I’ll try to save up, if you’d tell me how much the subscription is in English currency, some time?” (The difficulty converting currency was a constant headache for the Society.) Thayer agreed to let him remain a member anyway—he often carried those who plead poverty for years. In 1951, he purchased a copy of Dianetics from the Society—another indication that he was interested in the intersection of the occult and the scientific—but Thayer did want him to pay for that.
As happened repeatedly with other Forteans of the 1940s, Birchby’s interest lagged in the 1950s—no doubt overwhelmed by trying to make a living. But he was back at science fiction again soon, contributing to ‘zines. For example, he became involved with the Romiley Fan Veterans & Scottish Dancing Society, based just outside Manchester, and contributed to its publication “Now and Then.” Supposedly, he was present at the founding of the British Science Fiction Association—just as he had been around at the birth of the SFA. But he still felt he was an outsider and, worse still, that science fiction had become “puny.” He told Russell, “I am more than somewhat disillusioned these days with fandom, which appears to me in my jaundiced mood as far too inbred. With about two exceptions, nobody pays attention to someone, such as me, who is outside the clique. These days, one has to be a party-loving hitch-hiker without any great interest in SF. In fact, SF is almost a dirty word.” Free time that could have gone to keeping up with current science fiction went, instead, to wine-making, or thinking about old masters such as William H. Hodgson and Algernon Blackwood.
He did, though, still appreciate Russell’s writings, and evinced a similar political philosophy. Two of his favorite Russell yarns were “Legwork” and “Metamorphiste” because, he said, “They demonstrate that individuals may still be able to cock a snook effectively against over-sized menaces, either tough aliens or tough societies. And this today is something I want reassurance upon. Like most people, I daresay I have the constant feeling that forces I can’t control are pushing me around. I guess I know how the sit-down demonstrators must feel. At least they are registering protest. While I still believe that there will not be a nuclear war, life don’t get easier, do it? In my opinion, humanity came of age in 1945 at Hiroshima, and the second world war was the final one. But a casual observer would scarcely think so, would he? The cold wars of maturity can be as nerve-wracking as the hot wars of youth. If I were to venture a prediction, I’d say that neither side will win any clear-cut victory in the East-West struggle. a generation from now the fight will still be on, and the two sides will be at least in name Democratic and Communist, just as they are now. But already the issues are becoming blurred by the emergence of neutral nations as a third force in world affairs. Already some of these neutrals are showing considerable skill in playing off East againstWest with all the craft of a needy house-wife cadging free samples off rival salesman. Wait till we learn to talk to the dolphins. Wait till we get a really impartial opinion of ourselves. The next thing we know they’ll be wanting independence, too.”
It wasn’t so much that he thought science wasn’t the parent of the new world—but that the world it had birthed was a hideous freak that did not live up to his earlier hopes and dreams. There was so little opportunity in the post-War world, he thought, for the individual to prove himself, to be tested, and to create. The only hope was mankind going into space, another frontier, where liberty would be not just valued but necessity. Science had not lived up to his expectations, but it yet could, if only by freeing humanity from the planet’s bounds: bringing people face to face with wonder, and away from the miserable mundanities of life. Just consider what he was going through, toward the end of the 1960s, his wine-naming class taking up so much time that it sucked the joy out of the entire enterprise, and his wife Jay nearly crippled by a bad back that kept her from working and the couple from going out very often. This was not how life was to be, more of the same grind it had always been.
Birchby also continued to value Fort, and Forteanism, and here is where he discovered, again, life’s wonder, finding succor from its struggles. As early as 1961, he was collecting Fortean reports—finding one from the twelfth century about feral children with green skin that he translated from the Latin himself. By 1969, he had reconnected with HSW Chibbett, an old member of the Science Ficiton Association who had put out his own newsletter back in the 1940s that focused on Fortean and occult subjects. (No copies seem to have survived, which is a shame, as there was supposedly a department called “What I Believe” to which Russell and Birchby, among other contributed; it could prove a valuable historical source.) Chibbett had restarted his newsletter, and Bircby subscribed, then became active. He told Russell, “If it does nothing else, it keeps me from having rust on the brain. Also I have an interest in the esoteric, and apart from Jay [his wife] there is no one else with whom I can discuss it seriously. Speaking for myself, I am not interested in proving survival; this I take for granted. Nor am I gone on UFO’s, which seems to be the other great interest these days among those who used to be called psychic researchers. But there are many other subjects in the NL’s. For instance the last one had a long piece about Cyril Hoskins, who writes under the name Lobsang Rampa, and has never been to Tibet. There is a tremendous upsurge of interest in the occult these days, and most of it is from gullible folk who are looking for a substitute for God, preferably one that doesn’t involve too much mental work. But a few people are in earnest, and are neither gullible nor busy doing the gulling.”
These occultish musings seemed to fill the role that science fiction once did for Birchby, offering, again, the possibility of a better world—better, certainly, than the one science had actually brought, encouraging a deeper sense of wonder. He remarked, “It’s surprising how many former SF fans have moved on to greener pastures in the form of what is loosely called the occult.” Birchby collected material on mysterious hums in England—a chestnut that had been featured in Doubt—dating back to the nineteenth century. He was especially interested in ancient runes, and compiled enough information on them to write a book, though he did not feel up to making the rounds of publishers. Chibbett died in 1978, and Birchby took over his newsletter, at least for a stint during the 1980s. He also followed Fortean happenings in the newer publications, such as Fortean Times.
Sidney Leonard Birchby died 29 January 2001. He was 82, a life-long Fortean.
“Mr. Sid Birchby opened his talk on "The Next War". He so horrified us with the possibilities of nasty death to come that when he at length concluded on a note of hopeful despair, he netted not one appreciative hand-clap. We all sat round feeling rather miserable until after one or two desultory questions, Mr. Gillings, now thawed out by the creeping glow of nourishing stout, was called upon to read the afternoon's classic story, Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space". Mr. Gillings moved to a more convenient spot away from the beer and commensed reading. His audience sat enthralled, then interested, then passive, then replete, then a little fidgety. After 1 1/2 hours heroic reading without a stop Mr. Gillings drew his story to a finish. Grunts and deep sighs sounded from about the table, of ecstasy or relief.”
World War II destroyed the geography of this group: meeting places—the Druid’s Hall, the Flat, and the Red Bull—were blown up by bombs. The few gatherings which convened were held at the Anthroposophical Society Hall. Birchby recalled it
"was and still is near the Regent's Park end of Baker Street. It ran a very good cafe and lounge mainly for the troops, of which I was one. The food was really good and plentiful, grown on what we would now call whole-food principles. Frank Arnold's flat was close to Baker Street and my army base when in London was at Marylebone Road, so I arranged for ad-hoc fan-meetings at Steiner Hall. When I left London, they ceased." Birchby’s home was destroyed, too. Birchby wrote at the time:
It was only a little one. Just about the smallest H.E. that is made, no doubt. But of its efficacy one could not doubt.
It arrived at a most inopportune time, at 12 a.m. on a Monday morning before I had completed my ARP for stf.
The plan was grand. Everything in one room and in that room, everything into drawers and trunks with the most valued possessions in the safest containers.
Unfortunately , I had only got as far as having everything in one room, and the bomb had to choose that room to fall in. Result: some valuables survived but much more basically useful stuff perished-- instead of lots of relative rubbish that remained intact.
How I can write a philosophic discussion on the destruction of my collection is beyond me. I feel more like howling. To think of all my SFA meeting notes and my fan mags and half the choicest collectors items - not to mention irreplaceable books and magazines is to start weeping, and gnashing my teeth.
But why linger over what has gone? Much of it is junk that I always wanted to be rid of anyhow. I'm more interested in the building up of a new collection and a start has already been made.
Its scope is much wider than that of the old one; which was mainly fantasy & speculation (Lo!, Problem of Lemuria, Day After Tomorrow, etc.)
If present trends continue, the new one will be literary, left, and technical; with an emphasis on science fantasy, and what; for want of a better word, we may term “world-knowledge.”
Fan historian Harry Warner recounts that Birchby spent three days scouring the neighborhood for the remnants of his Weird Tales collection. A powerful sense of the fans priorities comes from the fact that the possibility of Birchby’s mother dying in the attack was an aside. (I don’t know if she was killed or not; one source mentions it.)
At the time, Birchby was serving his country, although he returned home during leave. He started as a corporal and found camaraderie with other science fiction fans. In April 1942, Eric Frank Russell and Roland Forster sponsored a gathering at No. ! Signals School in Cranwell, called the Cranvention. Birchby arrived at the school two days later; science fiction dinners were then held twice weekly and a lending library of sorts was established. As well, they put out their own ‘zine, the Cranfan. Their maxim was “Join the army for mud and blud. For fantasy join the RAF.” Birchby would raise through the ranks to at least sear gent status and, for a time, be stationed in Nairobi. I have not seen his service records, but correspondence suggests that he may have continued in the military after the end of the war and into the late 1940s. He married while in the service.
The immediate post-war years were lean for Birchby and his wife. He attended Manchester University, where he earned a technical degree. Later correspondence suggests that at at some point he went to work for the city of Manchester’s surveying department—a job from which he would retire in 1963. By then his situation had eased some. Birchby seems to have given up his early avocation, of cave exploring—a hobby of more than one Fortean—trading it for wine-making, particularly dandelion wine (an homage to Ray Bradbury?) For a time he taught wine making at night school, the being paid for something he otherwise would have had to pay for. He and his wife Jay also regularly holidayed, particularly in Portugal, and also Italy, although they worked to economize the trips. Birchby seems to have been facile with languages, making translations from the Latin and reading books in French.
Birchby came to Forteanism through Eric Frank Russell, although as a science fiction fan he likely encountered the name—and Fort’s obsessions—early on, even if he did not pursue them. That was what had happened to Russell, anyway, having read the serialization of Lo! in Astounding, and then forgetting about Fort until a trip to the United States, when his Forteanism was reinvigorated by Edmond Hamilton. By the early 1940s, not only was Russell a member of Thayer’s Fortean Society, he was lecturing science fiction groups about Fort and proselytizing for a new favored author. Birchby, Russell’s friend and fan, became a Fortean enthusiast, too.
There is a possible tension in Birchby’s beliefs of the early 1940s, but the materials to resolve them remain obscure. On the one hand, he thought that science—and science fiction—were the seeds of a new utopia. On the other hand, he embraced Fort, and Fort was extremely skeptical of science’s abilities to discover the truth. Others had a similar mixture—John W. Campbell, for example—and found consilience in the idea that science would yet explain Fortean phenomena, thus expanding its domain and the nature of truth. Perhaps Birchby felt similarly. He did “plug” Fort in an editorial written for a club magazine he edited in 1961—but the only mention of that endorsement is in a letter he wrote to Russell, and the it does not include the name of the magazine. So far, it has proven untrackable, and so (a possible) insight into his Forteanism remains unknown.
The same letter includes another possible clue as to the nature of Birchby’s Forteanism. He declaims to Russell, “I have by damn got a sense of wonder yet.” Science fiction, much of mid-twentieth-century science, and Fort could all inspire this sense of wonder—that the world was mysterious, maybe more mysterious than we know, and that grappling with the mysterious, trying to understand it, control it—even if ultimate control was impossible—was a transcendent act, both humane and a reaching for the divine. This sense of wonder could lead people in different directions, some toward the wonder of science itself, the miracles of DNA and cellular action or the majesty of physics, astronomy, and rocketry. Others might push more towards the occult, the understanding of secret—or hidden—machinery of the universe, as in Theosophical theories. Many times, the two blended, and so science fiction, science, and Fortean anomalies could be both sacred and mundane.
The two times Birchby appeared in Doubt give only a small indication of his inclination. His final contribution was in Doubt 27 (Winter 1949). He was one of many correspondents to send in a clipping about a rain of fish in Markham, Louisiana. His first came a couple of years before, in Doubt 11 (Winter 1944). Thayer already seemed to know Birchby at this time, calling him “our worshipful brother in unfaith,” and perhaps there must have been some prior correspondence, because he said he would look into an English event for Thayer. Birchby’s contribution was not a clipping but a question—and one that suggested he was intrigued by the occult. Back in 1924, when the Earth and Mars had been extremely close to one another, radio signals had been ceased five minutes of every hour for a day, in hopes of getting a communication from the other planet. There had been some interesting radio transmissions, but nothing that made any sense. Word of the possible communiqué reached New Zealand, where it was given a particularly occult cast by one woman, and her story had then reached the Science Fiction Association. Birchby was ignorant about the events surrounding the 1924 experiment, but was intrigued by the woman’s claims that the communication had a secret meaning and asked someone to look up the details of the original 1924 reports in the New York Press.
There was never a response in Doubt to Birchby’s request, but the very fact that he was willing to ask for more information suggests that, even if he thought that science was bringing on a new day—hopefully one of happier times than had been true of England during his life—he still thought that science as constituted was too narrow. His Forteanism doesn’t seem to have been the extreme skepticism of Thayer and (to a lesser extent Russell), but a search for a new, wider science that could incorporate and explain Fortean anomalies and maybe reveal occult truths. (That he collected works of speculation and included Lo! among them further increases the sense that Birchby was looking to expand science, even as it was creating a new utopia.)
Birchby was Fortean member number 16554, and he continued with the Society even after his contributions no longer appeared—and even though he could not pay the dues. He told Russell in April 1949, “The F.S. is one of hose things that I’d like to subscribe to but can’t afford in my present straightened circumstances. But I’ll try to save up, if you’d tell me how much the subscription is in English currency, some time?” (The difficulty converting currency was a constant headache for the Society.) Thayer agreed to let him remain a member anyway—he often carried those who plead poverty for years. In 1951, he purchased a copy of Dianetics from the Society—another indication that he was interested in the intersection of the occult and the scientific—but Thayer did want him to pay for that.
As happened repeatedly with other Forteans of the 1940s, Birchby’s interest lagged in the 1950s—no doubt overwhelmed by trying to make a living. But he was back at science fiction again soon, contributing to ‘zines. For example, he became involved with the Romiley Fan Veterans & Scottish Dancing Society, based just outside Manchester, and contributed to its publication “Now and Then.” Supposedly, he was present at the founding of the British Science Fiction Association—just as he had been around at the birth of the SFA. But he still felt he was an outsider and, worse still, that science fiction had become “puny.” He told Russell, “I am more than somewhat disillusioned these days with fandom, which appears to me in my jaundiced mood as far too inbred. With about two exceptions, nobody pays attention to someone, such as me, who is outside the clique. These days, one has to be a party-loving hitch-hiker without any great interest in SF. In fact, SF is almost a dirty word.” Free time that could have gone to keeping up with current science fiction went, instead, to wine-making, or thinking about old masters such as William H. Hodgson and Algernon Blackwood.
He did, though, still appreciate Russell’s writings, and evinced a similar political philosophy. Two of his favorite Russell yarns were “Legwork” and “Metamorphiste” because, he said, “They demonstrate that individuals may still be able to cock a snook effectively against over-sized menaces, either tough aliens or tough societies. And this today is something I want reassurance upon. Like most people, I daresay I have the constant feeling that forces I can’t control are pushing me around. I guess I know how the sit-down demonstrators must feel. At least they are registering protest. While I still believe that there will not be a nuclear war, life don’t get easier, do it? In my opinion, humanity came of age in 1945 at Hiroshima, and the second world war was the final one. But a casual observer would scarcely think so, would he? The cold wars of maturity can be as nerve-wracking as the hot wars of youth. If I were to venture a prediction, I’d say that neither side will win any clear-cut victory in the East-West struggle. a generation from now the fight will still be on, and the two sides will be at least in name Democratic and Communist, just as they are now. But already the issues are becoming blurred by the emergence of neutral nations as a third force in world affairs. Already some of these neutrals are showing considerable skill in playing off East againstWest with all the craft of a needy house-wife cadging free samples off rival salesman. Wait till we learn to talk to the dolphins. Wait till we get a really impartial opinion of ourselves. The next thing we know they’ll be wanting independence, too.”
It wasn’t so much that he thought science wasn’t the parent of the new world—but that the world it had birthed was a hideous freak that did not live up to his earlier hopes and dreams. There was so little opportunity in the post-War world, he thought, for the individual to prove himself, to be tested, and to create. The only hope was mankind going into space, another frontier, where liberty would be not just valued but necessity. Science had not lived up to his expectations, but it yet could, if only by freeing humanity from the planet’s bounds: bringing people face to face with wonder, and away from the miserable mundanities of life. Just consider what he was going through, toward the end of the 1960s, his wine-naming class taking up so much time that it sucked the joy out of the entire enterprise, and his wife Jay nearly crippled by a bad back that kept her from working and the couple from going out very often. This was not how life was to be, more of the same grind it had always been.
Birchby also continued to value Fort, and Forteanism, and here is where he discovered, again, life’s wonder, finding succor from its struggles. As early as 1961, he was collecting Fortean reports—finding one from the twelfth century about feral children with green skin that he translated from the Latin himself. By 1969, he had reconnected with HSW Chibbett, an old member of the Science Ficiton Association who had put out his own newsletter back in the 1940s that focused on Fortean and occult subjects. (No copies seem to have survived, which is a shame, as there was supposedly a department called “What I Believe” to which Russell and Birchby, among other contributed; it could prove a valuable historical source.) Chibbett had restarted his newsletter, and Bircby subscribed, then became active. He told Russell, “If it does nothing else, it keeps me from having rust on the brain. Also I have an interest in the esoteric, and apart from Jay [his wife] there is no one else with whom I can discuss it seriously. Speaking for myself, I am not interested in proving survival; this I take for granted. Nor am I gone on UFO’s, which seems to be the other great interest these days among those who used to be called psychic researchers. But there are many other subjects in the NL’s. For instance the last one had a long piece about Cyril Hoskins, who writes under the name Lobsang Rampa, and has never been to Tibet. There is a tremendous upsurge of interest in the occult these days, and most of it is from gullible folk who are looking for a substitute for God, preferably one that doesn’t involve too much mental work. But a few people are in earnest, and are neither gullible nor busy doing the gulling.”
These occultish musings seemed to fill the role that science fiction once did for Birchby, offering, again, the possibility of a better world—better, certainly, than the one science had actually brought, encouraging a deeper sense of wonder. He remarked, “It’s surprising how many former SF fans have moved on to greener pastures in the form of what is loosely called the occult.” Birchby collected material on mysterious hums in England—a chestnut that had been featured in Doubt—dating back to the nineteenth century. He was especially interested in ancient runes, and compiled enough information on them to write a book, though he did not feel up to making the rounds of publishers. Chibbett died in 1978, and Birchby took over his newsletter, at least for a stint during the 1980s. He also followed Fortean happenings in the newer publications, such as Fortean Times.
Sidney Leonard Birchby died 29 January 2001. He was 82, a life-long Fortean.
