In the mid-1970s, David Bowie’s life was spiralling. His previous years, marked by wild success and notoriety, had driven him to the brink of a personal and artistic collapse. The glamour of fame had mutated into isolation and paranoia, fueled by rampant cocaine addiction and the excesses of his rock-star lifestyle in Los Angeles. By 1976, the need to escape this destructive environment became overwhelming, and Bowie made a life-changing decision. He fled to Berlin, a city divided both physically by the Berlin Wall and emotionally by the Cold War, but one that, for Bowie, held the promise of artistic renewal and personal sobriety. His arrival there marked the start of one of the most important and productive periods of his career. Bowie had been enamoured of Berlin since his youth, having been introduced to German expressionist art and Fritz Lang’s monumental 1927 film Metropolis  during his time at Bromley Technical High School in south-east London. He developed what he later referred to as “an obsession for the angst-ridden, emotional work of expressionists, both artists and filmmakers, and their spiritual home: Berlin.” As Bowie learned more about the artistic ethos of German expressionism, these influences found their way into his early work, especially during his time with Lindsay Kemp’s mime company in the late 1960s. These artistic connections, coupled with his desire to break from the constraints of his LA lifestyle, drew him to West Berlin in the 1970s. But Bowie’s fascination with Germany wasn’t limited to the visual arts. He was also captivated by the new wave of electronic music emerging from the country, particularly the work of Tangerine Dream and its founder, Edgar Froese. Bowie was especially inspired by Froese’s 1975 solo album Ypsilon in Malaysian Pale , which profoundly shaped his own work on Station to Station  (1976). “The randomness of the compositions fascinated me,” Bowie recalled, adding that this style would come to heavily influence his Berlin period. Thus, in 1976, seeking both personal redemption and artistic experimentation, Bowie left the sun-soaked excesses of Los Angeles and followed Edgar to Berlin. Berlin, to Bowie, was the ideal environment for reinvention. “I liked the idea of the Berlin Wall because, at that time, I felt that it was always necessary to be in a place where there was tension,” he later said. “And you couldn’t find a place with more tension than… West Berlin [with its] factional elements, both musically and artistically. There was also a very strong socialist left-wing element there which gave it this kind of anarchistic vibe. I can see why, throughout the 20th century, it was the city [that] writers continually returned to, because both the negative and positive aspects of whatever’s going to happen in Europe always emanate at some point, right back to the 1920s, from Berlin.” Bowie quickly found that Berlin’s fractured, gritty atmosphere was the perfect antidote to the artificial, hedonistic haze of LA. “I was very lucky to be there at that time, mainly because it was undergoing artistically its greatest renaissance since the Weimar days of the 1920s,” he remembered. “When I was there the whole new German expressionist period had started, and all of the German electronic bands were starting to come down to Berlin to work.” As a city that had been physically and politically divided since the construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961, West Berlin was isolated in a sea of communist East Germany. After World War II, most industries and big businesses fled the city, leaving behind empty warehouses and factories. In their place, students, artists, and counterculture figures moved in, transforming Berlin into a crucible of radical thought and artistic experimentation. “It became like a workshop,” Bowie said. “And it was just a wonderful place to be for that.” One of the artists Bowie invited to join him in Berlin was his close friend Iggy Pop. Bowie and Iggy Pop had first met in the early 1970s when Iggy’s brash, punk-inspired style of music caught Bowie’s attention. Their friendship deepened as Bowie produced two of Iggy’s albums, The Idiot  and Lust for Life . Like Bowie, Iggy was grappling with substance abuse and personal demons, and he accepted Bowie’s invitation to come to Berlin. Iggy later reflected on the unique character of the city: “In Berlin you had a city that was built to hold millions of people, and in the western half there were very few people – around half a million – and most of those were draft-dodging, grumpy German students, resistant to any western influences.” He added, “And then you had the very personable prewar leftovers: bankers, cab drivers, restaurateurs, innkeepers. And, most importantly, there was very cheap space. There was no economy. The whole premise was being propped up artificially by political pressures of the time, and that’s what made it interesting. And Bowie’s wise investment was that he’d gotten to a point that he could afford to go there.” By the time Bowie arrived in Berlin, he was ready to cast off the trappings of his previous life. Alongside Iggy, he rented a modest apartment above a car repair shop in the Schöneberg district. Bowie was nearly bankrupt due to his ongoing divorce and legal disputes with his former management, but Berlin’s low cost of living suited him. Tony Visconti, who had worked with Bowie on The Man Who Sold the World  (1970), was enlisted as producer for Bowie’s next album, Low , and later “Heroes” , both of which reflected the artist’s desire to experiment. “Berlin suited his financial situation at the time,” Visconti noted. “He was almost bankrupt… but the financial costs gave him artistic freedom.” Looking to explore new sonic territory, Bowie teamed up with Brian Eno, an avant-garde musician known for pushing creative boundaries. Eno, like Bowie, found Berlin the perfect symbol for their work. “Berlin at that time was this peculiar juncture between two cultures,” Eno said. “We were quite consciously trying to fuse high art and low art.” The fusion of funk rhythms, ambient landscapes, and avant-garde sounds led to some of Bowie’s most groundbreaking work. With Low , and especially “Heroes” , Bowie reshaped rock music by integrating the experimental, mechanical sounds of Berlin’s electronic bands with his signature glam and art rock sensibilities. The recording of “Heroes”  took place at Hansa Studios, located just 500 yards from the Berlin Wall, in a building that had once served as a Nazi ballroom. The presence of the Wall and the watchful East German guards in their towers added a palpable tension to the sessions. Tony Visconti recalled the view from the control room: “We recorded the album in the shadow of the wall… Directly in front of us was a guard tower with East German guards – you could actually see the red stars on their fuzzy hats.” This sense of physical and psychological division bled into Bowie’s music. “There was a darkness to the music I wrote in Berlin,” Bowie reflected, “but it also had a great celebratory nature to it.” Tracks like the haunting instrumentals ‘Moss Garden’ and ‘Neuköln’ (named after a district in Berlin) captured the eerie quietness of the city’s empty spaces, while the title track ‘“Heroes”’ became an anthem of defiance and hope, inspired in part by Visconti’s fleeting kiss with a backing singer near the Wall. The song’s emotional power and its connection to Berlin’s divided landscape have made it one of Bowie’s most enduring and iconic pieces. Bowie’s exploration of new sonic worlds, supported by Eno’s experimental ethos, fundamentally changed how he approached music. “I started using the album as an instrument,” Bowie explained. “If a note or sound effect would go wrong, I’d keep it, and get another four instruments to play the same wrong note. Then it sounds like an arrangement, and an integral part of the composition.” Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy— Low  (1977), “Heroes”  (1977), and Lodger  (1979)—marked a period of intense creativity and reinvention. As Brian Eno noted, “The state of mind existed before the choice of city… but Berlin encouraged strong statements.” This period not only rescued Bowie from the personal chaos of his earlier years but also revitalised his career, influencing a generation of musicians to come. When “Heroes”  was released in October 1977, it was met with critical acclaim. Though some listeners were taken aback by the dark, experimental instrumentals, the album has since been recognised as one of Bowie’s greatest achievements. Its influence extended beyond Bowie’s immediate circle, inspiring artists such as U2, Depeche Mode, and Nick Cave, all of whom would go on to record at Hansa Studios in the years following Bowie’s stay in Berlin. For Bowie, Berlin was more than just a backdrop for his creative rebirth. It was the city’s fractured, turbulent spirit, its collision of old and new, that mirrored Bowie’s own journey. As he revisited the city musically in his 2013 single Where Are We Now? , reflecting on how much Berlin had changed since his 1970s sojourn, it was clear that the city had left an indelible mark on him, as Bowie later reflected: “Berlin was a singular place, and it was there that I think I became the person I really wanted to be.”

The beauty of isolated tracks lies in their ability to transform our understanding of familiar music. They offer a chance to dissect the craftsmanship behind the songs that have become part of cultural history. One such track is Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On," a song that exemplifies the band's early mastery of dynamic contrasts, blending soft acoustic passages with thunderous electric crescendos. The meticulous layering of musical elements makes it a compelling case study in rock composition. The Recording Process: A Snapshot of 1969 "Ramble On" was written by guitarist Jimmy Page and vocalist Robert Plant during a particularly prolific period for the band. The track was recorded in New York during the spring of 1969 while Led Zeppelin was on its second North American tour. This approach to recording—darting into studios between live performances—characterised the creation of Led Zeppelin II . The album itself became a testament to the band’s ability to channel the raw energy of their live shows into meticulously crafted studio tracks. Jimmy Page's acoustic guitar: Bassist John Paul Jones later reflected on this frenetic pace in the liner notes to the Led Zeppelin boxed set: "We were touring a lot. Jimmy's riffs were coming fast and furious. A lot of them came from onstage, especially during the long improvised section of 'Dazed and Confused.' We'd remember the good stuff and dart into a studio along the way." This piecemeal recording method lent the album a sense of spontaneity, while still allowing the band to experiment with sound and structure. The Dynamic Heart of "Ramble On" "Ramble On" stands out as an early example of Led Zeppelin's hallmark use of dynamic range within a single song. The track oscillates between acoustic verses, marked by Plant’s introspective vocals, and electric choruses that showcase Page's layered guitar work. This contrast is mirrored by John Paul Jones’s bassline, which provides a crisp framework, anchoring the song’s structure even as it moves between soft and loud. John Bonham's percussion work during the quieter sections has been a source of fascination for fans and drummers alike. The gentle, rhythmic tapping—almost percussive whispers—adds an intriguing texture to the track. The origins of this sound have been hotly debated. Some have suggested Bonham used unconventional tools such as the sole of his shoe or a plastic bin lid. However, as detailed in John Bonham: A Thunder of Drums  by Chris Welch and Geoff Nicholls, the truth is simpler yet no less inventive: Bonham used his bare hands to tap out 16th notes on an empty guitar case. John Paul Jones's bass guitar: A Tolkien Influence The lyrics of "Ramble On" offer a glimpse into Robert Plant’s fascination with the mythic worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien. Lines such as: "'Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor/I met a girl so fair.But Gollum and the evil one crept up/And slipped away with her." place the listener firmly within the narrative of The Lord of the Rings . Plant’s love for Tolkien’s works would later manifest in other Led Zeppelin songs, including "Misty Mountain Hop" and "Stairway to Heaven." This blending of high fantasy with blues-influenced rock added a literary depth to the band’s lyrics, setting them apart from many of their contemporaries. John Bonham's drums: The Legacy of Isolated Tracks Listening to the isolated tracks of "Ramble On" allows fans to appreciate the individual contributions of each band member. Whether it’s Page’s intricate guitar layers, Jones’s steady bassline, Bonham’s innovative percussion, or Plant’s soaring vocals, each element reveals a unique aspect of the band’s creative process. "Ramble On" is more than just a song—it’s a snapshot of Led Zeppelin in their early prime, balancing the raw energy of their live performances with the precision and experimentation of studio work. It encapsulates their ability to push musical boundaries while remaining deeply rooted in their influences, from blues to fantasy literature. As we revisit this classic track, the isolated elements remind us of the enduring brilliance of Led Zeppelin and their timeless contributions to the world of rock music Robert Plant's main vocals: Jimmy Page's electric rhythm guitar: Jimmy Page's electric lead guitar: Robert Plant's backup vocals: #ledzeppelin #isolatedvocals #rambleon #isolateddrums #isolatedguitar #isolatedrhythmguitar #isolatedbass

The occupation of Alcatraz Island by Native American activists from 1969 to 1971 marked a significant turning point in the modern Indigenous rights movement in the United States. What began as a symbolic act of defiance against centuries of broken treaties and cultural erasure developed into a prolonged and powerful protest that captured national attention and had a lasting impact on federal policy towards Native Americans. The occupation was the culmination of years of grievances and frustration over the U.S. government’s treatment of Indigenous peoples, and it ignited a wave of activism that reverberated across the country. The Early Symbolism: 1964’s Brief Occupation The seeds of the Alcatraz occupation were planted on 8 March 1964, when a small group of Sioux made landfall on the island, which had been abandoned as a federal prison the previous year. Invoking the 1851 Treaty of Fort Laramie, which promised that any surplus federal property would be returned to Native ownership, the activists sought to reclaim Alcatraz as Indigenous land. Though their occupation was brief — lasting only a few hours before federal marshals removed them — it was a symbolic act that resonated with Native Americans across the country. This event was a precursor to the larger movement that would follow, highlighting the growing discontent over federal policies of relocation and termination, which sought to encourage Native Americans to leave reservations for urban areas and to strip tribes of their sovereignty. The Lead-Up to the 1969 Occupation Throughout the 1960s, the plight of Native Americans was becoming more widely recognised, particularly as a result of the federal government’s relocation and termination policies. Native peoples were being encouraged to move to cities, where they faced poverty, discrimination, and alienation from their cultural heritage. Meanwhile, tribal sovereignty and recognition were being undermined by government actions. This discontent fostered a growing sense of unity and activism among Indigenous communities across the United States, particularly in urban areas like San Francisco, where various tribes had relocated. In San Francisco, proposals were being floated about what to do with the disused Alcatraz Island. Local Native American groups began to see the island as an opportunity — a chance to reclaim a piece of land and transform it into a cultural centre for Indigenous peoples. The idea gained traction, and on 9 November 1969, dozens of Native Americans from numerous tribes gathered at Pier 39 in San Francisco and issued a proclamation, claiming Alcatraz by right of discovery. In a symbolic gesture mirroring the offer made by European colonists to Native peoples, they offered to buy the island for $24 in beads and cloth. A symbolic sailboat cruise around the island followed, during which several passengers leapt overboard and attempted to swim to the island. While only one succeeded in reaching the shore, the others were swept away by the tide and had to be rescued. That night, 14 determined activists persuaded local fishermen to take them to the island, where they spent the night. These actions were trial runs for the true occupation, which began later that month. The Full-Scale Occupation Begins: November 1969 In the early hours of 20 November 1969, nearly 80 Native Americans landed on Alcatraz Island, beginning what would become an iconic and transformative 19-month occupation. The occupiers represented over 20 tribes from across North America and called themselves the “Indians of All Tribes,” symbolising their solidarity in the face of shared grievances. Among the prominent leaders was Richard Oakes, a charismatic Mohawk from New York who had gathered support from Native communities around the Bay Area and from Indigenous students at UCLA. Once on the island, the occupiers quickly set about organising themselves. They established an elected council and began making decisions through consensus. Jobs were assigned to manage the day-to-day operations of the occupation, and the group released a list of demands to the federal government, calling for the return of the island and the creation of a Native American cultural and educational centre. The occupiers invited the government to negotiate, but the initial response was dismissive, with officials demanding that the activists leave. Government Tactics and Media Attention The federal government initially responded by imposing a Coast Guard blockade to prevent supplies from reaching the island, though this tactic was later abandoned in favour of a strategy of non-interference. Officials hoped that by waiting long enough, the occupation would collapse under its own weight. Yet, the opposite occurred: the occupation garnered widespread media attention, shining a spotlight on the long-standing grievances of Native Americans and generating popular support across the country. The media coverage helped to amplify the occupiers’ message of broken treaties, cultural erasure, and governmental neglect. Solidarity protests and occupations sprang up across the United States, as Native Americans and their allies rallied behind the cause. Celebrities like Marlon Brando and Jane Fonda lent their support, and the rock band Creedence Clearwater Revival even donated a boat to assist the occupiers. A pirate radio station, Radio Free Alcatraz, was established by Santee Sioux activist John Trudell, broadcasting the occupiers’ message to a growing audience. Challenges and Decline of the Occupation The occupation reached its peak on 27 November 1969, when some 400 Native Americans gathered on the island to celebrate Thanksgiving, marking the event as a day of solidarity and reclamation. However, challenges soon began to emerge. Leadership struggles arose following the departure of Richard Oakes, particularly after the tragic death of his 12-year-old stepdaughter Yvonne in January 1970, which prompted him to leave the island. Factions developed as new occupiers arrived, with some groups more focused on their own agendas than on the original purpose of the occupation. Non-Indigenous individuals, including hippies and drug users, began showing up, complicating the dynamics of the community. Efforts were made to bar non-Natives from staying overnight, but the occupation began to lose its original focus. In secret negotiations, the federal government offered an alternative site at Fort Mason in San Francisco for the creation of a Native American cultural centre, but the occupiers rejected the proposal. In response, the government increased pressure on the activists. Electricity, water, and telephone services were cut off, and tensions on the island grew. On 1 June 1971, a fire broke out, destroying several buildings. Both the government and the occupiers blamed each other for the incident, which marked a turning point in the occupation’s decline. The End of the Occupation and Its Legacy On 11 June 1971, nearly 18 months after the occupation began, federal marshals, with the approval of President Richard Nixon, landed on the island and evicted the remaining 15 occupiers. Though the occupation ended in what appeared to be a defeat, its impact was far-reaching and lasting. The protest had drawn attention to the struggles of Native Americans in a way that few other events had, and it helped to shift public opinion in favour of Indigenous rights. One of the most significant outcomes of the occupation was the abandonment of the federal government’s policies of relocation and termination. The Nixon administration adopted a new policy of self-determination for Native American tribes, which resulted in a series of reforms that improved conditions for Native peoples. Tribal lands that had been taken were returned, including the sacred Blue Lake area in New Mexico and Mount Adams in Washington State. The occupation also inspired a new generation of Native American activists, many of whom went on to participate in other landmark protests, such as the 1972 takeover of the Bureau of Indian Affairs headquarters and the 1973 occupation of Wounded Knee. The spirit of resistance and solidarity fostered on Alcatraz Island lived on, helping to reshape federal policies and reaffirm the rights of Indigenous peoples.

During their 1982 tour, Van Halen made a unique request in their tour riders: a bowl of M&M's, but with all the brown ones taken out, to be provided in the dressing room at each venue. This demand was widely viewed as an extravagant whim, with many believing that the band was pushing boundaries and testing the limits of what they could request from concert organisers. But the seemingly ludicrous request was actually a shrewd business move. (I was reminded of it while reading Ian Parker's excellent profile of New York Times food critic Pete Wells in the New Yorker ; he mentions the Van Halen M&M episode in passing.) The band's concert rider indeed had a clause saying there could be no brown M&Ms in the backstage area, or the promoter would forfeit the entire show at full price. As lead singer David Lee Roth explained in a 2012 interview , the bowl of M&Ms was an indicator of whether the concert promoter had actually read the band's complicated contract. Diamond Dave explains more in his biography - "Van Halen was the first band to take huge productions into tertiary, third-level markets. We’d pull up with nine eighteen-wheeler trucks, full of gear, where the standard was three trucks, max. And there were many, many technical errors — whether it was the girders couldn’t support the weight, or the flooring would sink in, or the doors weren’t big enough to move the gear through. The contract rider read like a version of the Chinese Yellow Pages because there was so much equipment, and so many human beings to make it function. So just as a little test, in the technical aspect of the rider, it would say “Article 148: There will be fifteen amperage voltage sockets at twenty-foot spaces, evenly, providing nineteen amperes …” This kind of thing. And article number 126, in the middle of nowhere, was: “There will be no brown M&M’s in the backstage area, upon pain of forfeiture of the show, with full compensation.” So, when I would walk backstage, if I saw a brown M&M in that bowl … well, line-check the entire production. Guaranteed you’re going to arrive at a technical error. They didn’t read the contract. Guaranteed you’d run into a problem. Sometimes it would threaten to just destroy the whole show. Something like, literally, life-threatening." The lesson on the significance of contracts, by Van Halen, concludes here.

In July 1865, a respected British Army surgeon died quietly in London after a long and decorated career. Dr James Barry had served across the British Empire, rising to one of the highest medical ranks in the military. He had improved hospital conditions, fought for better sanitation in colonial cities, and performed surgical operations that were remarkable for their time. Yet the story of Dr Barry did not end with the funeral. Shortly after Barry’s death, a housemaid named Sophia Bishop made a discovery that stunned those present. When preparing the body for burial, she realised that the celebrated army surgeon had been born female. The revelation spread quickly through London and then across the British Empire. Newspapers hinted at the extraordinary secret, though many officials tried to suppress the details. The respected Inspector General of Hospitals had lived an entire adult life under a male identity. Today historians know that James Barry had been born Margaret Ann Bulkley in Ireland around 1795. For more than forty years Barry lived, worked, and travelled as a man while serving as a surgeon in the British Army. Barry’s life has since become one of the most discussed and debated stories in the history of medicine. It raises questions about gender, opportunity, identity, and the barriers faced by women in professional life during the nineteenth century. A Childhood in Ireland Margaret Ann Bulkley was born in County Cork, Ireland, around 1795. The family had once enjoyed a comfortable position but fell into financial difficulty after the death of Margaret’s father. Margaret’s mother, Mary Ann Bulkley, moved the family to London in hopes of improving their circumstances. It was there that Margaret came into contact with a small circle of influential reformers who would change the course of her life. Among them was General Francisco de Miranda, the Venezuelan revolutionary who had spent years travelling across Europe seeking support for independence movements in South America. Miranda believed strongly in education and social reform. Another important figure was David Steuart Erskine, the 11th Earl of Buchan, a supporter of progressive ideas and intellectual freedom. Historians believe that members of this circle encouraged Margaret to pursue a career in medicine. However, there was an obvious obstacle. In the early nineteenth century, women were not permitted to attend medical school in Britain. The solution they devised was bold and extraordinary. Margaret Bulkley would assume a male identity and enrol as a medical student under the name James Barry, borrowing the name of a deceased relative who had been a painter and member of the Royal Academy. From that moment onward, Margaret Bulkley would effectively disappear from public record. The Making of James Barry In 1809, the young Barry enrolled at the University of Edinburgh Medical School, one of the most prestigious medical institutions in Europe. Students at the university soon noticed that Barry seemed unusual. The new student was very small in stature, with smooth skin and a high voice. Barry also appeared younger than most classmates. Some students speculated that Barry might actually be a boy who had entered university unusually early. One rumour circulating among the students claimed Barry was no older than twelve. Despite the gossip, Barry proved to be an excellent student. Medical records show that the young surgeon displayed strong intellectual ability and considerable dedication to study. During this period Barry adopted a carefully constructed appearance. The future surgeon typically wore: • A long overcoat • Boots with raised heels or inserts • Loose clothing that concealed body shape Barry also avoided situations that might expose the body to scrutiny and became fiercely defensive when questioned about personal matters. In 1812, Barry graduated with a medical degree. Joining the British Army After completing medical training, Barry faced a decision about how to practise medicine. Some accounts suggest Barry had considered travelling to Venezuela, where General Miranda’s revolutionary government might have allowed women to practise medicine more openly. But Miranda was imprisoned by Spanish authorities in 1812, and that option disappeared. Instead, Barry joined the British Army as an assistant surgeon, beginning a career that would span more than four decades. Military service provided several advantages. The army frequently posted surgeons to remote colonial territories where personal backgrounds were less closely examined. It also allowed Barry to pursue professional advancement in a structured system. Over the following decades Barry served in numerous locations throughout the British Empire, including: • South Africa • Jamaica • Saint Helena • Mauritius • Malta • Corfu • Canada By the mid nineteenth century Barry had become one of the most experienced military surgeons in the British medical service. A Reputation for Temper James Barry quickly developed a reputation for a difficult personality. Many colleagues described the surgeon as brilliant but extremely short tempered. Barry frequently argued with military officials about hospital conditions and was known to challenge authority when medical standards were ignored. One officer later wrote: “Dr Barry possessed a temper that could frighten the entire ward, yet he never compromised where the welfare of patients was concerned.” The surgeon reportedly shouted at hospital administrators, berated staff who neglected patients, and even challenged a fellow officer to a duel after an argument. Barry also clashed with Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War period. Nightingale later described the encounter bluntly, writing that Barry was: “The most hardened creature I ever met.” Despite the sharp temperament, Barry’s determination often produced meaningful reforms. Medical Reforms in Cape Town One of Barry’s most significant postings was in Cape Town, South Africa, where the surgeon spent nearly a decade. During this period Barry became deeply involved in improving public health conditions in the colony. Barry pushed for a number of reforms that were unusual for the time, including: • Improved water supplies for the city • Better sanitation systems • Improved ventilation in hospitals • Better diets for prisoners • Medical treatment for enslaved people Barry believed strongly that poor hygiene and contaminated water contributed to disease outbreaks. These ideas anticipated later developments in public health that would become widely accepted decades later. Colonial officials sometimes complained that Barry interfered too frequently in civil administration. Yet the reforms often produced real improvements in health conditions. The Famous Caesarean Section Barry’s reputation as a surgeon grew significantly after an operation performed in 1826. A woman in Cape Town required an emergency Caesarean section during childbirth. At the time such operations were extremely dangerous, and survival for both mother and child was rare. Barry performed the procedure on a kitchen table. Remarkably, both mother and baby survived. The child was later named James Barry Munnik in honour of the surgeon. The case became widely known and helped establish Barry’s reputation as an exceptionally skilled physician. A Life of Constant Vigilance Throughout Barry’s career, maintaining the male identity required constant caution. The surgeon took elaborate steps to avoid physical examinations and always dressed privately. Even during illness Barry reportedly refused medical inspection. Barry also travelled with a small white poodle named Psyche, which became a familiar sight in military hospitals. The dog accompanied Barry on postings around the world and often slept beside the surgeon’s bed. Such details made Barry a memorable figure within the army. Advancement Through the Ranks Despite frequent disputes with colleagues, Barry’s professional achievements were widely recognised. Over time Barry rose steadily through the medical ranks of the British Army. In 1857, Barry reached the position of Inspector General of Hospitals, one of the highest medical appointments in the military. This role placed Barry in charge of overseeing hospital administration across large regions of the empire. The appointment reflected the respect Barry had earned through decades of service. Rumours and Scandals During Barry’s years in Cape Town another controversy emerged. The surgeon developed a close friendship with Lord Charles Somerset, the British governor of the colony. Barry eventually moved into the governor’s residence. Rumours began circulating that the relationship between Barry and Somerset was improper. At the time such allegations could have serious consequences for both men. The British government launched an investigation. The inquiry ultimately found no evidence of wrongdoing, and both Barry and Somerset were cleared. Nevertheless the episode illustrates how Barry’s personal life occasionally attracted suspicion. The Final Years In later life Barry continued to travel with the army and oversee medical administration. By the early 1860s Barry had reached the age of seventy, an unusually long life for someone who had spent decades working in colonial medical environments. The surgeon eventually retired to London. Before dying, Barry made a curious request. The retired doctor asked that the body not be washed or examined after death, and that burial should occur in the same clothes worn at the time of death. The request may have been intended to preserve the secret that Barry had guarded for decades. The Sealed Records The British Army attempted to control the spread of information about Barry’s identity. Many official records relating to the surgeon were sealed for decades. When historians eventually examined the documents in the twentieth century, the story of James Barry gained renewed attention. Biographers began reconstructing the extraordinary life of Margaret Bulkley, the Irish woman who had lived as a male surgeon across the British Empire. A Debate That Continues Today Barry’s story has become an important topic in discussions about both medical history and gender history. Some historians interpret Barry primarily as a woman who adopted a male identity in order to pursue a profession closed to women. Others argue that Barry may have genuinely lived as a man and should be understood as a historical example of a transgender life. The language used today did not exist in the early nineteenth century, making definitive conclusions difficult. What is certain is that Barry spent more than forty years living and working as a man while serving as one of the British Army’s most accomplished surgeons. Sophia Jex-Blake The World That Barry Lived In To understand the significance of Barry’s life, it is important to remember the restrictions facing women in the nineteenth century. When Barry graduated from Edinburgh in 1812, women were excluded from almost all professional education. It was not until 1869, four years after Barry’s death, that Sophia Jex Blake began campaigning for women to study medicine at the University of Edinburgh. Even then the struggle was intense. In 1870, Jex Blake and several other women attempting to attend an anatomy exam were confronted by a hostile crowd of hundreds outside Surgeons’ Hall. Jex Blake later wrote: “The crowd was sufficient to stop all the traffic for an hour.” Edinburgh University did not award its first medical degree to a woman until 1894. By that time James Barry had already spent decades practising medicine across the empire. A Legacy in Medicine Despite the unusual circumstances surrounding Barry’s identity, the surgeon’s medical achievements remain significant. Barry contributed to: • early developments in public health reform • improved hospital sanitation • more humane treatment of prisoners and patients • successful surgical innovation These accomplishments helped improve medical care in several parts of the British Empire. Today Barry is remembered not only as a figure of historical curiosity but also as an accomplished physician who worked tirelessly for patient welfare. Conclusion The life of Dr James Barry challenges simple historical categories. Born Margaret Bulkley in Ireland, Barry transformed into one of the most accomplished military surgeons of the nineteenth century. For more than forty years Barry served across the British Empire, improving hospitals, performing groundbreaking surgery, and advocating for better public health. Only after death did the world discover the remarkable secret that had shaped the surgeon’s life. Whether Barry’s story is interpreted as a reflection of gender identity, social barriers, or personal determination, it remains one of the most fascinating biographies in the history of medicine. More than a century and a half later, the life of James Barry continues to invite discussion about identity, opportunity, and the remarkable lengths people sometimes go to in order to follow their calling.

Despite the well-deserved praise Jimmy Page receives for his innovative rock-blues shredding technique, including his violin-bowed walls of noise and fast-paced licks, it's easy to overlook his exceptional skill as a rhythm player. The rough mix of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”---which chugs along without the studio version’s signature stock car-engine sound in the refrain---brings Page’s rhythms to the fore. The song's production also demonstrates Page’s skill in the studio. The guitarist masterminded the sound of “Whole Lotta Love” and the recording of AOR groundbreaker Led Zeppelin II, and he tells the story of the song’s creation, along with that unforgettable riff, in an interview with The Wall Street Journal: I came up with the guitar riff for "Whole Lotta Love" in the summer of '68, on my houseboat along the Thames in Pangbourne, England. I suppose my early love for big intros by rockabilly guitarists was an inspiration, but as soon as I developed the riff, I knew it was strong enough to drive the entire song, not just open it. When I played the riff for the band in my living room several weeks later during rehearsals for our first album, the excitement was immediate and collective. We felt the riff was addictive, like a forbidden thing. The band carried the initial mix with them during their U.S. tour in May and June of 1969, adding overdubs in studios located in Los Angeles and New York. Page explains the process of creating the song's reverb-heavy sound with engineer George Chkiantz and mixer Eddie Kramer, tailoring each element for optimal playback on stereo FM radio. “For the song to work as this panoramic audio experience,” he says, “I needed Bonzo [drummer John Bonham] to really stand out, so that every stick stroke sounded clear and you could really feel them. If the drums were recorded just right, we could lay in everything else.” He compares Robert Plant’s searing vocal to his guitar work: Robert's vocal was just as extreme. He kept gaining confidence during the session and gave it everything he had. His vocals, like my solos, were about performance. He was pushing to see what he could get out of his voice. We were performing for each other, almost competitively. The pre-echo and extensive reverb on Plant's vocals during the breakdown of the song were actually unintended occurrences. A different recording of Plant's voice accidentally overlapped on the master tape. Page and Kramer chose to keep it and enhance it with effects to give the impression that it was intentional.More improvisational studio wizardry between the two produced the crazed outro. “Jimmy and I went nuts on the knobs,” recalls Kramer, “We had eight dials controlling the levels on eight individual tracks, so we rehearsed the choreography of what we were going to do to create the far-out sounds.” Similar to the accusations of musical plagiarism in the case of "Stairway to Heaven," the band faced a lawsuit over alleged copyright infringement in relation to "Whole Lotta Love" from Willie.Dixon, who wrote Muddy Water’s “You Need Love. ” Page and Plant both admit the debt, but Page defends his contribution, saying “if you take Robert's vocal out, there's no musical reference.” In any case, they were eventually forced to give Dixon co-credit for the song. In a 1990 interview with Musician , Plant had the following to say about the about the controversy: “Page's riff was Page's riff. It was there before anything else. I just thought, 'well, what am I going to sing?' That was it, a nick. Now happily paid for. At the time, there was a lot of conversation about what to do. It was decided that it was so far away in time and influence that… well, you only get caught when you're successful. That's the game.”

"You can't hold a man down without staying down with him." — Booker T. Washington In 1999, ABC aired a documentary featuring a collection of recordings from the 1930s and 1940s by John Henry Faulk. These recordings captured the stories of former slaves, which had been stored and neglected in the Library of Congress since 1941. John Henry Faulk: "I remember sitting out on a wagon tongue with this old black man - completely illiterate - down here near Navasota a plantation there and I was telling him what a different kind of white man I was. I really … I really a getting, come educated on blacks and their problems, except we called 'em coloured folks. I said, 'You know, you might not realise it but I'm not like the coloured - the white folks you run into down here. I believe in giving you the right to go to school, to good schools. Now, I know you don't want to go with white people - I don't believe in going overboard on this thing - but I believe coloured people ought to be given good schools. And I believe you ought to be given the right to go into whatever you qualify to go into, and I believe you ought to be given the right to vote.' And uh, I remember him looking at me, very sadly and kind of sweetly, and condescendingly and saying, 'You know, you still got the disease, honey. I know you think you're cured, but you're not cured. You talking now you sitting there talking and I know it's nice and I know you a good man. Talking about giving me this, and giving me that right. You talking about giving me something that I was born with just like you was born with it. You can't give me the right to be a human being. I was born with that right. Now you can keep me from having that if you've got all the policemen and all the jobs on your side, you can deprive me of it, but you can't give it to me, cause I was born with it just like you was.' My God it had a profound effect on me. I was furious with him. You try to be kind to these people, you see. 'You give them an inch and they'll take an ell.' But the more I reflected on it, the more profound the effect. I realised this was where it really was. You couldn't give them something that they were born with just like I was born with. Entitled to it the same way I was entitled with it." A section of the documentary can be watched below. President Abraham Lincoln signed the District of Columbia Emancipation Act on April 16, 1862, freeing the district’s 3,100 slaves . The legislation was hint of slavery’s coming death in the United States — only 8 1/2 months later Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation. “Tisn’t he who has stood and looked on, that can tell you what slavery is–’tis he who has endured,” John Little, a fugitive slave who had escaped to Canada said in reflection of the realities of slavery in 1855. From 1936-1938 as part of the Federal Writers’ Project of the Works Progress Administration (WPA), 2,300 first-person accounts of slavery were recorded and 500 black-and-white photographs of former slaves were collected. The first-person stories and photographs were assembled in 1941 into a 17-volume collection that is available online today courtesy of the Manuscript and Prints and Photographs Divisions of the Library of Congress. Here’s a look at some of the photographs from “Born in Slavery: Slave Narratives from the Federal Writers’ Project, 1936-1938” and portraits of former slaves taken by the photographers of the Farm Security Administration. Of course it's absolutely worth remembering modern slavery DOES exist, and it should make you mad as hell. A21 is a great organisation fighting it.

In 1887, a young journalist named Nellie Bly made history with a daring undercover assignment that forever changed the landscape of investigative journalism and mental health reform. Those words, describing New York City’s most notorious mental institution, were written by Bly after she got herself committed to Blackwell’s Island. Her shocking exposé, “Ten Days in a Madhouse,” catapulted her to fame and shed light on the horrendous conditions within the asylum, ultimately leading to significant reforms. Enter Nellie Bly In the late 1880s, New York newspapers were rife with harrowing stories of brutality and abuse in the city’s mental institutions. Into this grim narrative stepped Nellie Bly, a plucky 23-year-old with an unyielding determination to make a difference. Born Elizabeth Cochrane, she adopted the pen name Nellie Bly after a popular Stephen Foster song. At a time when female journalists were mostly relegated to society pages, Bly was determined to break into the male-dominated world of hard news. Bly’s editor at The World, intrigued by her tenacity, challenged her to come up with an audacious stunt to prove her mettle as a “detective reporter.” Bly accepted the challenge with gusto, deciding to infiltrate Blackwell’s Island and report on the conditions firsthand. The Crazy-Eye Makeover To prepare for her assignment, Bly underwent a dramatic transformation. She dressed in tattered second-hand clothes, stopped bathing and brushing her teeth, and practiced looking deranged in front of a mirror. “Faraway expressions look crazy,” she noted. Assuming the alias Nellie Moreno, a Cuban immigrant, she checked herself into a temporary boarding house for women and began acting irrationally. Her erratic behavior soon had other residents fearing for their lives. “It was the greatest night of my life,” Bly later wrote. The police were called, and within days, Bly was moved from court to Bellevue Hospital’s psychiatric ward. Her act was so convincing that the chief doctor diagnosed her as “delusional and undoubtedly insane.” Other newspapers took an interest in the “mysterious waif with the wild, hunted look in her eyes,” further solidifying her cover. Soon, Bly found herself aboard the “filthy ferry” to Blackwell’s Island. The Horrors of Blackwell’s Island Opened in 1839, Blackwell’s Island was initially envisioned as a progressive institution focused on humane rehabilitation. However, funding cuts turned it into a nightmare. Staffed partly by inmates from a nearby penitentiary, the asylum was notorious for its brutal treatment of patients. While previous writers, including Charles Dickens in 1842, had reported on the poor conditions, Bly was the first to go undercover. What she found exceeded her worst fears. Doctors were oblivious, and orderlies were “coarse, massive” brutes who “choked, beat, and harassed” patients. Foreign women who couldn’t speak English were often deemed insane and locked away. Patients endured rancid food, dirty linens, insufficient clothing, and ice-cold baths that resembled torture. Bly vividly described one such bath: “My teeth chattered and my limbs were goose-fleshed and blue with cold. Suddenly I got, one after the other, three buckets of water over my head – ice-cold water, too – into my eyes, my ears, my nose and my mouth. I think I experienced the sensation of a drowning person as they dragged me, gasping, shivering and quaking, from the tub. For once I did look insane.” Worst of all was the endless isolation: “What, excepting torture, would produce insanity quicker than this treatment? . . . Take a perfectly sane and healthy woman, shut her up and make her sit from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. on straight-back benches, do not allow her to talk or move during these hours, give her no reading and let her know nothing of the world or its doings, give her bad food and harsh treatment, and see how long it will take to make her insane. Two months would make her a mental and physical wreck.” Despite dropping her crazy act upon arrival, Bly found that her sane behavior only confirmed the doctors’ diagnosis. “Strange to say, the more sanely I talked and acted, the crazier I was thought to be,” she wrote. Near the end of her stay, Bly’s cover was nearly blown when a fellow reporter who knew her arrived to investigate the mysterious patient. Bly convinced him to keep her secret, and after ten harrowing days, The World sent an attorney to arrange for her release. Going Public and Making History Two days after her release, The World published the first installment of Bly’s exposé, “Behind Asylum Bars.” The psychiatric community was stunned, and the public was outraged. Newspapers across the country lauded Bly’s courageous efforts. Overnight, she became a star journalist. For Bly, the true victory was the impact of her work. “I have one consolation for my work,” she wrote. “On the strength of my story, the committee of appropriation provides $1,000,000 more than was ever before given, for the benefit of the insane.” Although the city had already been considering budget increases for asylums, Bly’s articles undoubtedly hastened the process. A month after her series ran, Bly returned to Blackwell’s with a grand jury panel. Many of the abuses she reported had been corrected: food and sanitary conditions were improved, foreign patients were transferred, and abusive nurses had been removed. Her mission was accomplished. A Legacy of Courage Bly’s career continued to soar with other sensational exploits, including a record-setting 72-day trip around the world in 1889, inspired by Jules Verne’s “Around the World in Eighty Days.” In later years, she founded her own company and designed steel barrels used for milk cans and boilers. Bly passed away in 1922, but her legacy endures. Her life has inspired a Broadway musical, a movie, and a children’s book. Nellie Bly’s bold undercover investigation not only launched her career but also brought about much-needed reforms in mental health care. Her fearless determination to expose the truth continues to inspire journalists and advocates for social justice to this day.

Novelist Aldous Huxley, known for his work "Brave New World," received a cancer diagnosis in 1960, leading to a gradual decline in his health. As he lay on his deathbed in November 1963, Aldous, who had long been intrigued by the effects of psychedelic drugs after first experiencing mescaline in 1953, requested his wife Laura to give him LSD just before passing away. Laura, his wife, agreed to his request. Shortly after Aldous's death, Laura penned a poignant and detailed letter describing his final days, which she sent to his elder brother Julian. Transcript follows. (Source: The fantastically comprehensive The Vaults of Erowid Transcript 6233 Mulholland Highway Los Angeles 28, California December 8, 1963 Dearest Julian and Juliette: There is so much I want to tell you about the last week of Aldous' life and particularly the last day. What happened is important not only for us close and loving but it is almost a conclusion, better, a continuation of his own work, and therefore it has importance for people in general. First of all I must confirm to you with complete subjective certainty that Aldous had not consciously looked at the fact that he might die until the day he died. Subconsciously it was all there, and you will be able to see this for yourselves because beginning from November 15th until November 22nd I have much of Aldous' remarks on tape, For these tapes I know we shall all be immensely grateful. Aldous was never quite willing to give up his writing and dictate or makes notes on a recorder. He used a Dictograph, only to read poetry or passages of literature; he would listen to these in his quite moments in the evening as he was going to sleep. I have had a tape recorder for years, and I tried to use it with him sometimes, but it was too bulky, and particularly now when we were always in the bedroom and the bed had so much hospital equipment around it. (We had spoken about buying a small one, but the market here is flooded with transister tape recorders, and most of them are very bad. I didn't have time to look into it, and this remained just one of those things like many others that we were going to do.) In the beginning of November, when Aldous was in the hospital, my birthday occurred, so Jinny looked carefully into all the machines, and presented me with the best of them - a small thing, easy manageable and practically unnoticeable. After having practiced with it myself a few days, I showed it to Aldous, who was very pleased with it, and from the 15th on we used it a little every day recording his dreams and notes for future writing. The period from the 15th to the 22nd marked, it seems to me, a period of intense mental activity for Aldous. We had diminished little by little the tranquillizers he had been taking four times a day a drug called Sperine which is akin, I understand, to Thorazin. We diminished it practically to nothing only used painkillers like Percodon a little Amitol , and something for nausea. He took also a few injections of 1/2 cc of Dilaudid, which is a derivative of morphine, and which gave him many dreams, some of which you will hear on the tape. The doctor says this is a small intake of morphine. Now to pick up my point again, in these dreams as well as sometimes in his conversation, it seemed obvious and transparent that subconsciously he knew that he was going to die. But not once consciously did he speak of it. This had nothing to do with the idea that some of his friends put forward, that he wanted to spare me. It wasn't this, because Aldous had never been able to play a part, to say a single lie; he was constitutionall unable to lie, and if he wanted to spare me, he could certainly have spoken to Jinny. During the last two months I gave him almost daily an opportunity, an opening for speaking about death, but of course this opening was always one that could have been taken in two ways - either towards life or towards death, and he always took it towards life. We read the entire manual of Dr. Leary extracted from The Book of the Dead. He could have, even jokingly said don't forget to remind me his comment instead was only directed to the way Dr. Leary conducted his LSD sessions, and how he would bring people, who were not dead, back here to this life after the session. It is true he said sometimes phrases like, "If I get out of this," in connection to his new ideas for writing, and wondered when and if he would have the strength to work. His mind was very active and it seems that this Dilaudid had stirred some new layer which had not often been stirred in him. The night before he died, (Thursday night) about eight o'clock, suddenly an idea occurred to him. "Darling," he said, "it just occurs to me that I am imposing on Jinny having somebody as sick as this in the house with the two children, this is really an imposition." Jinny was out of the house at the moment, and so I said, "Good, when she comes back I will tell her this. It will be a nice laugh." "No," he said with unusual insistence, "we should do something about it." "Well," I replied, keeping it light, "all right, get up. Let's go on a trip." "No", he said, "It is serious. We must think about it. All these nurses in the house. What we could do, we could take an apartment for this period. Just for this period." It was very clear what he meant. It was unmistakeably clear. He thought he might be so sick for another three of four weeks, and then he could come back and start his normal life again. This fact of starting his normal life occurred quite often. In the last three or four weeks he was several times appalled by his weakness, when he realized how much he had lost, and how long it would take to be normal again. Now this Thursday night he had remarked about taking an apartment with an unusual energy, but a few minutes later and all that evening I felt that he was going down, he was losing ground quickly. Eating was almost out of the question. He had just taken a few spoonsful of liquid and puree, in fact every time that he took something, this would start the cough. Thursday night I called Dr. Bernstein, and told him the pulse was very high - 140, he had a little bit of fever and whole feeling was one of immanence of death. But both the nurse and the doctor said they didn't think this was the case, but that if I wanted him the doctor would come up to see him that night. Then I returned to Aldous' room and we decided to give him an injection of Dilaudid. It was about nine o'clock, and he went to sleep and I told the doctor to come the next morning. Aldous slept until about two a.m. and then he got another shot, and I saw him again at six-thirty. Again I felt that life was leaving, something was more wrong than usual, although I didn't know exactly what, and a little later I sent you and Matthew and Ellen and my sister a wire. Then about nine a.m. Aldous began to be so agitated, so uncomfortable, so desperate really. He wanted to be moved all the time. Nothing was right. Dr. Bernstein came about that time and decided to give him a shot which he had given him once before, something that you give intravenously, very slowly - it takes five minutes to give the shot, and it is a drug that dilates the bronchial tubes, so that respiration is easier. This drug made him uncomfortable the time before, it must have been three Fridays before, when he had that crisis I wrote you about. But then it helped him. This time it was quite terrible. He couldn't express himself but he was feeling dreadul, nothing was right, no position was right. I tried to ask him what was occurring. He had difficulty in speaking, but he managed to say, "Just trying to tell you makes it worse." He wanted to be moved all the time - "Move me." "Move my legs." "Move my arms." "Move my bed." I had one of those push-button beds, which moved up and down both from the head and the feet, and incessantly, at times, I would have him go up and down, up and down by pushing buttons. We did this again, and somehow it seemed to give him a little relief. but it was very, very little. All of a sudden, it must have been then ten o'clock, he could hardly speak, and he said he wanted a tablet to write on, and for the first time he wrote - "If I die," and gave a direction for his will. I knew what he meant. He had signed his will as I told you about a week before, and in this will there was a transfer of a life insurance policy from me to Matthew. We had spoken of getting these papers of transfer, which the insurance company had just sent, and that actually arrived special delivery just a few minutes before. Writing was very, very difficult for him. Rosalind and Dr. Bernstein were there trying also to understand what he wanted. I said to him, "Do you mean that you want to make sure that the life insurance is transferred from me to Matthew?" He said, "Yes." I said, "The papers for the transfer have just arrived, if you want to sign them you can sign them, but it is not necessary because you already made it legal in your will. He heaved a sigh of relief in not having to sign. I had asked him the day before even, to sign some important papers, and he had said, "Let's wait a little while," this, by the way, was his way now, for him to say that he couldn't do something. If he was asked to eat, he would say, "Let's wait a little while," and when I asked him to do some signing that was rather important on Thursday he said, "Let's wait a little while" He wanted to write you a letter - "and especially about Juliette's book, is lovely," he had said several times. And when I proposed to do it, he would say, "Yes, just in a little while" in such a tired voice, so totally different from his normal way of being. So when I told him that the signing was not necessary and that all was in order, he had a sigh of relief. "If I die." This was the first time that he had said that with reference to NOW. He wrote it. I knew and felt that for the first time he was looking at this. About a half an hour before I had called up Sidney Cohen, a psychiatrist who has been one of the leaders in the use of LSD. I had asked him if he had ever given LSD to a man in this condition. He said he had only done it twice actually, and in one case it had brought up a sort of reconciliation with Death, and in the other case it did not make any difference. I asked him if he would advise me to give it to Aldous in his condition. I told him how I had offered it several times during the last two months, but he always said that he would wait until he was better. Then Dr. Cohen said, "I don't know. I don't think so. What do you think?" I said, "I don't know. Shall I offer it to him?" He said, "I would offer it to him in a very oblique way, just say 'what do you think about taking LSD [sometime again]?'" This vague response had been common to the few workers in this field to whom I had asked, "Do you give LSD in extremes?" ISLAND is the only definite reference that I know of. I must have spoken to Sidney Cohen about nine-thirty. Aldous' condition had become so physically painful and obscure, and he was so agitated he couldn't say what he wanted, and I couldn't understand. At a certain point he said something which no one here has been able to explain to me, he said, "Who is eating out of my bowl?" And I didn't know what this meant and I yet don't know. And I asked him. He managed a faint whimsical smile and said, "Oh, never mind, it is only a joke." And later on, feeling my need to know a little so I could do something, he said in an agonizing way, "At this point there is so little to share." Then I knew that he knew that he was going. However, this inability to express himself was only muscular - his brain was clear and in fact, I feel, at a pitch of activity. Then I don't know exactly what time it was, he asked for his tablet and wrote, "Try LSD 100 intramuscular." Although as you see from this photostatic copy it is not very clear, I know that this is what he meant. I asked him to confirm it. Suddenly something became very clear to me. I knew that we were together again after this torturous talking of the last two months. I knew then, I knew what was to be done. I went quickly into the cupboard in the other room where Dr. Bernstein was, and the TV which had just announced the shooting of Kennedy. I took the LSD and said, "I am going to give him a shot of LSD, he asked for it." The doctor had a moment of agitation because you know very well the uneasiness about this drug in the medical mind. Then he said, "All right, at this point what is the difference." Whatever he had said, no "authority," not even an army of authorities could have stopped me then. I went into Aldous' room with the vial of LSD and prepared a syringe. The doctor asked me if I wanted him to give him the shot - maybe because he saw that my hands were trembling. His asking me that made me conscious of my hands, and I said, "No I must do this." I quieted myself, and when I gave him the shot my hands were very firm. Then, somehow, a great relief came to us both. I believe it was 11:20 when I gave him his first shot of 100 microgrammes. I sat near his bed and I said, "Darling, maybe in a little while I will take it with you. Would you like me to take it also in a little while?" I said a little while because I had no idea of when I should or could take it, in fact I have not been able to take it to this writing because of the condition around me. And he indicated "yes." We must keep in mind that by now he was speaking very, very little. Then I said, "Would you like Matthew to take it with you also? And he said, "Yes." "What about Ellen?" He said, "Yes." Then I mentioned two or three people who had been working with LSD and he said, "No, no, basta, basta." Then I said, "What about Jinny?" And he said, "Yes," with emphasis. Then we were quiet. I just sat there without speaking for a while. Aldous was not so agitated physically. He seemed - somehow I felt he knew, we both knew what we were doing, and this has always been a great relief to Aldous. I have seen him at times during his illness very upset until he knew what he was going to do, then even if it was an operation or X-ray, he would make a total change. This enormous feeling of relief would come to him, and he wouldn't be worried at all about it, he would say let's do it, and we would go to it and he was like a liberated man. And now I had the same feeling - a decision had been made, he made the decision again very quickly. Suddenly he had accepted the fact of death; he had taken this moksha medicine in which he believed. He was doing what he had written in ISLAND, and I had the feeling that he was interested and relieved and quiet.After half an hour, the expression on his face began to change a little, and I asked him if he felt the effect of LSD, and he indicated no. Yet, I think that a something had taken place already. This was one of Aldous' characteristics. He would always delay acknowledging the effect of any medicine, even when the effect was quite certainly there, unless the effect was very, very stong he would say no. Now, the expression of his face was beginning to look as it did every time that he had the moksha medicine, when this immense expression of complete bliss and love would come over him. This was not the case now, but there was a change in comparison to what his face had been two hours ago. I let another half hour pass, and then I decided to give him another 100 mg. I told him I was going to do it, and he acquiesced. I gave him another shot, and then I began to talk to him. He was very quiet now; he was very quiet and his legs were getting colder; higher and higher I could see purple areas of cynosis. Then I began to talk to him, saying, "Light and free," Some of these thing I told him at night in these last few weeks before he would go to sleep, and now I said it more convincingly, more intensely - "go, go, let go, darling; forward and up. You are going forward and up; you are going towards the light. Willing and consciously you are going, willingly and consciously, and you are doing this beautifully; you are doing this so beautifully - you are going towards the light; you are going towards a greater love; you are going forward and up. It is so easy; it is so beautiful. You are doing it so beautifully, so easily. Light and free. Forward and up. You are going towards Maria's love with my love. You are going towards a greater love than you have ever known. You are going towards the best, the greatest love, and it is easy, it is so easy, and you are doing it so beautifully." I believe I started to talk to him - it must have been about one or two o'clock. It was very difficult for me to keep track of time. The nurse was in the room and Rosalind and Jinny and two doctors - Dr. Knight and Dr. Cutler. They were sort of far away from the bed. I was very, very near his ears, and I hope I spoke clearly and understandingly. Once I asked him, "Do you hear me?" He squeezed my hand. He was hearing me. I was tempted to ask more questions, but in the morning he had begged me not to ask any more question, and the entire feeling was that things were right. I didn't dare to inquire, to disturb, and that was the only question that I asked, "Do you hear me?" Maybe I should have asked more questions, but I didn't.Later on I asked the same question, but the hand didn't move any more. Now from two o'clock until the time he died, which was five-twenty, there was complete peace except for once. That must have been about three-thirty or four, when I saw the beginning of struggle in his lower lip. His lower lip began to move as if it were going to be a struggle for air. Then I gave the direction even more forcefully. "It is easy, and you are doing this beautifully and willingly and consciously, in full awareness, in full awareness, darling, you are going towards the light." I repeated these or similar words for the last three or four hours. Once in a while my own emotion would overcome me, but if it did I immediately would leave the bed for two or three minutes, and would come back only when I could dismiss my emotion. The twitching of the lower lip lasted only a little bit, and it seemed to respond completely to what I was saying. "Easy, easy, and you are doing this willingly and consciously and beautifully - going forward and up, light anf free, forward and up towards the light, into the light, into complete love." The twitching stopped, the breathing became slower and slower, and there was absolutely not the slightest indication of contraction, of struggle. it was just that the breathing became slower - and slower - and slower, and at five-twenty the breathing stopped.I had been warned in the morning that there might be some up-setting convulsions towards the end, or some sort of contraction of the lungs, and noises. People had been trying to prepare me for some horrible physical reaction that would probably occur. None of this happened, actually the ceasing of the breathing was not a drama at all, because it was done so slowly, so gently, like a piece of music just finishing in a sempre piu piano dolcemente. I had the feeling actually that the last hour of breathing was only the conditioned reflex of the body that had been used to doing this for 69 years, millions and millions of times. There was not the feeling that with the last breath, the spirit left. It had just been gently leaving for the last four hours. In the room the last four hours were two doctors, Jinny, the nurse, Rosalind Roger Gopal - you know she is the great friend of Krishnamurti, and the directress of the school in Ojai for which Aldous did so much. They didn't seem to hear what I was saying. I thought I was speaking loud enough, but they said they didn't hear it. Rosalind and Jinny once in a while came near the bed and held Aldous' hand. These five people all said that this was the most serene, the most beautiful death. Both doctors and nurse said they had never seen a person in similar physical condition going off so completely without pain and without struggle.We will never know if all this is only our wishful thinking, or if it is real, but certainly all outward signs and the inner feeling gave indication that it was beautiful and peaceful and easy.And now, after I have been alone these few days, and less bombarded by other people's feelings, the meaning of this last day becomes clearer and clearer to me and more and more important. Aldous was, I think (and certainly I am) appalled at the fact that what he wrote in ISLAND was not taken seriously. It was treated as a work of science fiction, when it was not fiction because each one of the ways of living he described in ISLAND was not a product of his fantasy, but something that had been tried in one place or another and some of them in our own everyday life. If the way Aldous died were known, it might awaken people to the awareness that not only this, but many other facts described in ISLAND are possible here and now. Aldous' asking for moksha medicine while dying is a confirmation of his work, and as such is of importance not only to us, but to the world. It is true we will have some people saying that he was a drug addict all his life and that he ended as one, but it is history that Huxleys stop ignorance before ignorance can stop Huxleys. Even after our correspondence on the subject, I had many doubts about keeping Aldous in the dark regarding his condition. It seemed not just that, after all he had written and spoken about death, he should be let to go into it unaware. And he had such complete confidence in me - he might have taken it for granted that had death been near I certainly would have told him and helped him. So my relief at his sudden awakening at his quick adjusting is immense. Don't you feel this also. Now, is his way of dying to remain our, and only our relief and consolation, or should others also benefit from it? What do you feel?

In 1920, Dutch writer, traveller, and linguist Gerard Nolst Trenité, better known by his pseudonym Charivarius , released a textbook titled Drop Your Foreign Accent: engelsche uitspraakoefeningen  (English pronunciation exercises). Nestled in the appendix of this unassuming work was a poem that would go on to outshine the book itself, capturing the imaginations of linguists, educators, and language enthusiasts for over a century. The poem, aptly titled The Chaos , is a brilliant and humorous exploration of the countless irregularities in English spelling and pronunciation. While Drop Your Foreign Accent  has faded into obscurity, The Chaos  remains a cult classic, a playful yet maddeningly challenging demonstration of the idiosyncrasies of the English language. Its history, publication, and rediscovery tell a fascinating story about the complexities of language and the persistence of linguistic curiosity. Gerard Nolst Trenité A Legacy Unearthed: The Rediscovery of The Chaos By the mid-20th century, Drop Your Foreign Accent  had been largely forgotten, and The Chaos  might have shared its fate if not for the dedicated efforts of the Simplified Spelling Society (SSS). In 1994, the SSS published an account in their journal detailing how fragments of the poem were discovered scattered across Europe. Over time, portions were unearthed in countries as far-flung as France, Canada, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, and Turkey. Piecing together the poem’s fifty-eight stanzas became something of a linguistic treasure hunt, a testament to its enduring appeal despite its complexity. The SSS celebrated The Chaos  as “a concordance of cacographic chaos,” a phrase that perfectly encapsulates its dual nature as both a marvel of linguistic ingenuity and a relentless tongue-twister. Since its republication in 1994, the poem has enjoyed a revival among those fascinated by the peculiarities of the English language. It is now widely shared, studied, and performed—often with delight and occasional frustration. The Structure and Style of The Chaos At first glance, The Chaos  appears to be a whimsical list of unrelated words and phrases. Yet, beneath its playful surface lies a meticulously crafted exploration of the intricacies of English pronunciation. The poem contains around 800 examples of irregularities, including homonyms, loanwords, and archaic pronunciations that highlight the language’s evolution over centuries. For instance, the poem juxtaposes words like “cough” and “though,” which share similar spellings but wildly different pronunciations. It also includes words whose pronunciations have shifted over time, such as “studding-sail,” pronounced “stunsail” in nautical contexts—a term whose obscurity is itself a reflection of English’s ever-changing lexicon. This interplay of spelling and pronunciation makes the poem both a linguistic puzzle and a historical document. It invites readers to grapple with the remnants of Middle English, Norman French, and Latin, all of which have left indelible marks on modern English. Each stanza is a miniature minefield of traps for the unwary, challenging even native speakers to navigate its twists and turns without stumbling. Why The Chaos Resonates The enduring appeal of The Chaos  lies in its ability to entertain and educate simultaneously. It highlights the absurdities of English in a way that is both humorous and humbling. For non-native speakers, the poem is a stark reminder of the difficulties inherent in mastering a language so heavily influenced by other tongues. For native speakers, it is an opportunity to laugh at their own linguistic quirks. In the words of the SSS, English is “a rapidly-changing language,” one whose spelling and pronunciation often bear little resemblance to one another. This dissonance is rooted in the language’s history: from the Great Vowel Shift of the 15th and 16th centuries to the influence of various colonial languages, English has never been a language of strict phonetic logic. Instead, it has thrived on its adaptability and eclecticism. The Chaos  captures this chaotic essence in a way that no textbook or grammar guide ever could. It is both a critique of English orthography and a celebration of its idiosyncratic charm. A Challenge for the Brave: Reading The Chaos To truly appreciate The Chaos , one must attempt to read it aloud. This is no small feat. The poem’s intricate wordplay and unpredictable shifts in pronunciation make it a formidable test of one’s linguistic agility. Many have taken up the challenge, often in front of audiences, with results ranging from triumphant to hilariously disastrous. Whether you are a seasoned linguist or a casual language enthusiast, The Chaos  offers an opportunity to engage with English in a unique and challenging way. It is a reminder of the beauty and complexity of language, as well as the joy that comes from grappling with its contradictions. Legacy and Impact Today, The Chaos  continues to be shared in classrooms, linguistic forums, and online communities around the world. It has become a rite of passage for English learners and a source of fascination for linguists. Its clever construction and enduring relevance serve as a testament to Gerard Nolst Trenité’s wit and insight. While the textbook that first housed the poem may have been forgotten, The Chaos  has carved out a lasting place in the cultural and linguistic landscape. It stands as both a playful critique and a loving homage to a language that is, in equal measure, maddening and marvellous. Here is the head battering poem in full -

The Society for Photographing the Relics of Old London, led by Alfred Marks, focused on places that gave off a certain view of the city. Alfred Marks was not just a photographer; he was a visionary. Born in the mid-19th century, Marks witnessed the dramatic changes that industrialisation brought to London. Streetscapes that had stood for centuries were being razed, replaced by modern infrastructure and new architectural styles. Sensing the urgency, Marks set out to preserve the disappearing face of London through the burgeoning art of photography. Many modern urban residents can relate to the sentiment of seeing a cherished building demolished. It's a common experience to walk by a familiar structure, only to discover it's slated for destruction, prompting feelings of nostalgia for the changing cityscape. Capturing a photo of the building before the inevitable rise of a new development has become a customary practice. Similarly, in the 1870s, Marks felt a similar impulse, albeit without the convenience of an iPhone. Instead, he relied on the resources of his time: professional photographers, durable carbon-based ink, and, most significantly, a city teeming with potential subjects, buildings that faced the same uncertain future as the Oxford Arms. The entrance to the Oxford Arms, the first photograph released by the Society for Photographing Relics of Old London. In the following 11 years, Marks, serving as both the founder and secretary of the Society for Photographing Relics of Old London, coordinated the photographic documentation of numerous buildings such as churches, inns, schools, hospitals, and houses. His selections not only narrate the tale of preservation in London but also shed light on our current practices. Fleet St During the Victorian era, there was a rapid acceleration in various aspects, such as the rate of transformation. The Industrial Revolution introduced fresh technologies and modes of transportation, as well as novel philosophies, priorities, and perspectives on time and space. Geographer Kenneth Foote, in a publication on the Society, highlighted how many Londoners experienced these changes during that period “were held in tension between excitement about progress, and alarm over change at the expense of long-lived traditions.” In the early 1980s, while residing in Austin, Texas, Foote began to explore SPROL in his writing. He observed that his neighbors often expressed nostalgia for their city by focusing on specific buildings undergoing changes. “Every time I talked with people who had been there for a long time, they’d say, ‘Austin isn’t what it used to be! Since they closed the Armadillo World Headquarters, it just hasn’t been the same.’” Foote says. “There was a sense of nostalgia for this great past that was getting lost from the cityscape.” The same was true in Victorian London, Foote explains: People may have loved the new transport opportunities such as trains, but some—like Marks—also missed the coaches, and the coaching inns. Temple Bar, one of the “Gates of London,” which was dismantled and moved in 1878. Marks was in a perfect position to feel nostalgic about the Oxford Arms. Being a scholar specialising in antiques and with a father who worked as a coach builder, his strong connection to the Oxford Arms was understandable. Upon learning about the impending demolition of the building, Marks gathered funds from a small group of friends. He enlisted the services of Alfred and John Bool, a renowned photography duo recognised for their landscape work, to capture images of the Arms. Subsequently, Marks began reaching out to like-minded individuals who shared his sentiments and might be interested in purchasing the photographs.“Should any readers … interested in London antiquities desire to join the subscription, I shall be happy to hear from them,” he announced in the London Times. The Oxford arms 1875 According to Foote, the Society initiated one of the earliest projects to utilise photography for documenting endangered buildings. What made it unique was that the photographs were intended to be gathered, similar to fine art pieces. Each photo was produced using the costly carbon printing method to guarantee their long-lasting quality. In 1875, the initial collection of photographs featured six distinct perspectives of the Oxford Arms, showcasing various areas such as the entrance, yard, and galleries. The following year, a second series concentrated on historic houses and inns close to Wynch Street and Drury Lane. By 1878, Marks had increased his output speed, raising the number of photos produced annually from six to 12. Subsequently, he started composing brief descriptions of the buildings, printing them alongside the photographs and distributing them to subscribers. The King’s Head Inn, displayed in one of the Society’s original mats. “The project became much bigger than he originally intended,” says Chitra Ramalingam, the Assistant Curator of Photography at the Yale Center for British Art, which exhibited SPROL’s photographs in 2016. Nevertheless, Marks was in charge of the operations, deciding on the buildings to prioritize and the specific details to emphasize. (Contrary to its name, there is no proof that the Society convened in person or consisted of any actual members apart from Marks.) Marks focused his efforts on preserving buildings that he believed were significant representations of England's national character, according to Ramalingam. His writings extensively mention royalty, prominent figures, literature, legends, and nursery rhymes. For instance, he suggests that poet Ben Jonson might have been involved in the construction of Lincoln’s Inn, as shown in photo 12. The mansion on Leadenhall Street, illustrated in photo 20, was known for its grand staircase, cedar-panelled floors, and luxurious decorations. Marks provided detailed instructions to the Bools, as well as to Henry and Thomas James Dixon, who he brought in to replace them in 1879. This level of guidance meant that every photograph became a joint effort between Marks and the photographer, according to Ramalingam. Some of his preferences resulted in unconventional images. Ramalingam particularly admires Number 17 from the collection, showcasing St. Bartholomew the Great church. This photograph, of the Church of St. Bartholomew, is a good demonstration of the unorthodox aesthetics Marks sometimes inspired “It’s actually of an alley behind the church,” she says. “The photographer has climbed up to what must have been a really awkward perch, and is taking [the photo] looking down. You see this view of intersecting planes—this series of angles that slices through the alley. It looks incredibly modern.” Equally significant, Ramalingam emphasizes what Marks decided not to emphasise. The Society referred to these structures as "relics," and the images depict them accordingly. People are seldom seen, and those who are present were likely deliberately positioned to show size. (The photographs’ long exposures meant that “you wouldn’t be able to get a candid shot of someone, a kid outside a doorway, if you didn’t say, ‘Hey kid, stand still,’” Ramalingam says.) This decision highlights specific parts of history while overlooking others. Take, for instance, the Oxford Arms, which had served as a tenement for approximately seven years before it was scheduled for demolition. At the time when the Society arrived to capture the building in photographs, the residents were already in the process of being relocated. While Marks may have been saying goodbye to a cherished structure, they were also bidding farewell to their home. These “Old Houses at Aldgate,” were destroyed when the Metropolitan Railway was extended. Despite the fact that there was an increasing tradition of documentary photography in the country during that period, which included entire books dedicated to portraying the lives of impoverished Londoners—“that is definitely not what is happening in this series,” says Ramalingam. “[Marks] doesn’t want these buildings photographed as slums.” In his subsequent writing on the Arms, he only briefly touched upon this phase of its history. Rather, he emphasised a specific Earl who frequented the place and highlighted the challenges of manoeuvring a nine-horse coach around the tight street corner. However, upon closer inspection of the photographs, subtle signs of life can be observed: laundry draped over the banisters of the Arms, and vacant plant pots resting on a windowsill. “For a viewer now, those are some of the most interesting details in the picture,” Ramalingam says. “But Marks seems to want you to look right past them.” In 1886, Marks dissolved his Society, 11 years after its establishment. By then, he had published 120 photographs in 12 collections and had achieved some commercial prosperity by selling more than 100 subscriptions. “It is not suggested that the subject has been exhausted,” he wrote at the time, “but it is hoped that the work may be regarded as fairly complete within the lines at first marked out.” Great St. Helens, which Marks called a “most interesting church,” still exists to this day. Although many of his subjects were gone, some had gained more permanent protection. “From the 1870s onward, [preservation] laws became tighter and tighter,” says Foote. In 1894, the reformer Charles Robert Ashbee embarked on the first Survey of London, aiming to achieve a comprehensive architectural account of the city. By the turn of the century, Foote writes, “it was clear that the principles of conservation were well formed.” In 1985, while working on his own article, Foote walked around checking on the buildings in the photo series. “Around half of them were gone,” he says, but several dozen remained—and remain still—including Lincoln’s Inn, St. Bartholomew the Great, and Great St. Helens, pictured above. “Some of the sites were very striking,” he says. “It’s almost as though a person could step into that same scene and take a photograph today.” Just as Marks would have liked it. The Victorian Photographic Society, guided by Alfred Marks, was more than a collective of photographers—it was a beacon of historical preservation. Their work continues to shine a light on the beauty and significance of ‘Old London,’ reminding us of the timeless value of capturing the past.

When Monty Python’s Life of Brian  was released in 1979, it was immediately surrounded by controversy. The film, which cleverly satirised organised religion and human behaviour, was hailed by some as a masterpiece of comedy and condemned by others as blasphemy. The controversy largely stemmed from religious groups and individuals who believed the film mocked Jesus Christ and Christian teachings, despite the creators’ insistence that the film was not about Jesus, but rather about human misinterpretation and institutional absurdities. Life of Brian  tells the story of Brian Cohen, a Jewish man born on the same day as Jesus, in a stable just down the street. Through a series of misadventures, Brian is mistakenly identified as the Messiah. The film’s humour is rooted in satire, lampooning everything from religious dogma to the dynamics of political resistance movements in ancient Judea. The Pythons, who were no strangers to pushing boundaries, were keen to emphasise that the film did not ridicule Jesus directly. In fact, the scenes featuring Jesus were played straight, portraying him with dignity during the Sermon on the Mount. However, the proximity of Brian’s story to that of Christ, combined with its irreverent humour, led many to perceive it as an attack on Christianity. Immediate Reactions Upon its release, Life of Brian  faced backlash from religious groups across the globe. In the UK, it was banned by several local councils, particularly in more conservative areas. Some countries, including Ireland and Norway, banned it outright for years. The Bishop of Southwark denounced the film as “a blasphemous libel,” and others within the Church of England echoed similar sentiments. The Roman Catholic Church also expressed disapproval, with Vatican authorities labelling it blasphemous. These reactions led to heightened media scrutiny, with debates over the film’s moral and religious implications dominating headlines. Memorable Protests One of the most memorable public protests occurred in New York City, where demonstrators gathered outside cinemas carrying signs that read, “Stop Blasphemy Now” and “Keep Christ Sacred.” In the UK, vocal protests came from Christian groups such as the Nationwide Festival of Light, which had previously opposed what they saw as the moral decline represented in modern media. In some areas, protesters succeeded in delaying the film’s release. For example, in Aberystwyth, Wales, the ban lasted until 2009, when it was famously lifted by the town’s mayor—former Python member Terry Jones’ own sister. The ban in Norway led to one of the Pythons’ most iconic marketing quips: the film was advertised in Sweden as “so funny, it was banned in Norway.” The protesters claim is reinforced even more when several of the movie’s characters talk about crucifixion being not as bad as it seems. Brian asks his cellmate what will happen to him, and the cellmate says: “Oh, you’ll probably get away with crucifixion”, and when the old man Matthias, who works for the PFJ dismisses crucifixion as “a doddle” and says that being stabbed would be worse. The following report was issued by Terry Jones, the director: “Any religion that makes a form of torture into an icon that they worship seems to me a pretty sick sort of religion quite honestly”. Leaders from religious communities later responded by saying that Jones did not understand the meaning of the crucifix symbol or the significance to Christians as a reminder of the suffering and death Christ went through for their sake. The Monty Python group argued that crucifixion was a standard form of execution in the ancient times and not just for Jesus. The comedy group wrote a letter to all religious groups that accused them of blasphemy and had never seen the movie: Dear __________ Thank you for your letter regarding the film Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Whilst we understand your concern, we would like to correct some misconceptions you may have about the film which may be since you have not had the chance to see it before forming your views. The film is set in Biblical times, but it is not about Jesus. It is a comedy, but we would like to think that it does have serious attitudes and certain things to say about human nature. It does not ridicule Christ, nor does it show Christ in any way that could offend anyone, nor is belief in God or Christ a subject dealt with in the film. We are aware that certain organisations have been circulating misinformation on these points and are sorry that you have been misled. We hope you will go see the film yourself and come to your own conclusions about its virtues and defects. In any case, we hope you find it funny. Best wishes, Monty Python The Pythons were proud of the historical research they did before they wrote the script. Right after the movie was released, John Cleese and Michael Palin had a debate with the BBC2 program Friday Night, Saturday Morning with Malcolm Muggeridge and Mervyn Stockwood, the Bishop of Southwark, who gave arguments against the movie. After the debate with Muggeridge and the Bishop, it was found out that neither of them were at the opening of the movie they missed the first 15 minutes in which it is established that Brian and Jesus were two different characters, and that is was a spoof of Christ himself. Both Cleese and Palin felt that the sides a done a strange switching of sides in the debate, with the two young upstart comedians trying to make serious, well-researched points, while the Bishop and host laid out cheap jabs and point scoring. The whole group of Pythons were extremely disappointed in Muggeridge because they had previously respected him as a pessimist. John Cleese said that the reputation of Muggeridge in his opinion had dropped dramatically in his eyes, while Palin said that “He was just being Muggeridge, preferring a very strong contrary opinion as opposed to none at all”. Muggeridge’s stance on the film was that it was “Such a tenth-rate film that it couldn’t possibly destroy anyone’s genuine faith”. The Pythons collectively deny that they were trying to destroy anyone’s faith. The DVD commentary states that the film is heretical because it roasts the practices of modern organised religion, but it doesn’t blasphemously roast the God that Christians and Jews believe in. Jesus does appear in the movie, played straight and narrow by Kenneth Colley, and is portrayed with respect. The music and lighting show him with a genuine aura around him. Very important to understand is that Jesus is distinct from the character of Brian, which is very clear when an ex-leper pesters Brian for money, while whining that he has lost his source of income in the begging trade since Jesus cured him. James G. Crossley, biblical scholar, argued that the movie made the distinction between Jesus and Brian to contrast between the traditional Christ of both faith and cinema and the historical figure Jesus in critical scholarship and how critical scholars have argued that ideas later were attributed to Jesus by his worshippers. Crossley pointed out that the movie used several controversial scholarly theories about Jesus, but regarding Brian, such as the Messianic Secret, the Jewishness of Jesus, Jesus the revolutionary, and having a single mother. Not all the Pythons agreed on the interpretation of the movie. In 1998, in Aspen, Colorado, there was a brief exchange between the surviving members. In the part where they are discussing the Life of Brian, Terry Jones says, “I think the film is heretical, but it’s not blasphemous”. Eric Idle agreed, adding, “It’s a heresy”. On the other hand, John Cleese disagreed and said, “I don’t think it’s a heresy. It’s making fun of the way that people misunderstand the teaching”. Jones responded, “Of course it’s a heresy, John! It’s attacking the Church! And that has to be heretical”. Cleese replied, “No it’s not attacking the Church, necessarily. It’s about people who cannot agree with each other”. In a different interview, Jones said that the movie “isn’t blasphemous because it touches on dogma and the interpretation of belief, rather than belief itself”. Some of the bans on the movie continued into the 21st century. After winning the online vote in 2008 for the English Riviera International Comedy Film Festival, the Torbay Council finally allowed the movie to be shown. In the Welsh town of Aberystwyth, the ban was finally lifted in 2009 and the first viewing was attended by Terry Jones, Michael Palin and the Mayor Sue Jones-Davies who portrayed Judith Iscariot in the movie when made.