Utterly interesting

There is a small moment from the final week of Frank Sinatra’s life that has often been repeated because of its gentle humanity. In early May 1998, Sinatra asked his daughter Tina how long it would be until the new millennium. As the biography Sinatra: The Life  recounts, she told him it was about eighteen months away, and he replied, “Oh, I can do that. Nothin’ to it.” It was a simple exchange, the sort families have every day. Within days, he had died. A Slow Decline Rather Than A Sudden Event Sinatra’s health had been gradually deteriorating for several years. PBS later noted that he was living with a combination of breathing problems, high blood pressure, pneumonia, bladder cancer, and dementia during the 1990s. After a heart attack in January 1997, he withdrew from public life almost completely. The man who had once performed to sold out venues across the world now spent most days at home, cared for by medical staff and those closest to him. Despite this, those around him sometimes tried to keep the atmosphere optimistic. Only a month before his death, his wife Barbara told the Las Vegas Sun , “The rumours are just crazy. You can’t believe it. He’s doing very well… He’s strong and walking around. We’re enjoying friends.” Her comments reflected a desire to protect his privacy rather than to mislead, though insiders later acknowledged that his health was fragile. The Evening Of 14 May 1998 On the night of 14 May, Sinatra suffered another heart attack at his Los Angeles home. An ambulance transported him to Cedars Sinai Medical Center. Later reports often noted that the journey was unusually quick because many people were indoors watching the finale of the television series Seinfeld , leaving the roads quieter than usual. Barbara contacted his manager, Tony Oppedisano, who arrived at the hospital while medical staff were attending to the singer. Oppedisano later told the Mirror , as quoted by Far Out Magazine , “His two doctors and a number of technicians were surrounding him when I walked in. I sat by him and held his hand, trying to keep him calm.” Barbara joined them and encouraged him to keep fighting. According to Oppedisano, Sinatra managed to respond, though speaking was difficult due to his breathing issues. His final words were reported as, “I’m losing.” Oppedisano described the moment as one of acceptance rather than fear, saying, “He wasn’t panicked. He was just resigned to the fact that he had given it his best but he wasn’t going to come through.” Sinatra was pronounced dead at 10.50 p.m. A Family Notified Too Late Family members were informed shortly afterwards. Tina later said she received the call at about 11.10 p.m. The speed of events, and the fact that they had not been contacted earlier in the evening, caused significant upset. Newspaper reports initially stated that his children had been at his bedside. In time, they publicly corrected this. Sinatra’s daughters Nancy and Tina both expressed that they had not been given the chance to reach the hospital before he died. Nancy later said, “We did not know until after he was dead and we were five minutes from the hospital.” This moment deepened existing disagreements between Sinatra’s children and their stepmother Barbara, creating a distance that has largely remained. A Funeral Rooted In Familiar Rituals Despite the tensions, the family organised a funeral that reflected Sinatra’s long life and the small habits and preferences that had accompanied him through it. His children placed several of his favoured items in his casket. These included Tootsie Rolls, Camel cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Tina added ten dimes to his pocket, a habit he had kept since the 1963 kidnapping of his son Frank Jr., when difficulty finding coins for telephone calls had made an already distressing ordeal more complicated. From that point on, Sinatra kept spare change with him wherever he went. The funeral included eulogies from Frank Sinatra Jr., Kirk Douglas, Gregory Peck, and Robert Wagner. At the end of the service, one of Sinatra’s signature recordings, “Put Your Dreams Away”, was played. His Resting Place Sinatra was buried at Desert Memorial Park in Cathedral City, California. His original gravestone carried the inscriptions “The Best Is Yet To Come” and “Beloved Husband and Father”. These words were chosen to reflect themes he valued throughout his life: optimism, continuity, and family identity. In 2020, Palm Springs Life  reported that the grave was vandalised, with part of the word “Husband” damaged. The family opted to replace the stone entirely, choosing a simpler inscription: “Sleep Warm, Poppa.” This gentler phrase, drawn from family use, gives the grave a quieter and more personal tone. Sinatra's original gravestone before it was vandalised The Broader Context Of His Final Years Sinatra’s final decade was marked by a gradual retreat from public activity. Friends recalled quieter evenings, conversations about old colleagues, and a growing dependence on familiar routines. While his memory became inconsistent, there were still moments where his well known wit appeared, often surprising those around him. His home life, particularly in Palm Springs, became the centre of his days. Visitors described a household that balanced medical needs with attempts to maintain normality. The singer who had spent decades on stages, film sets, and large social occasions now found solace in smaller interactions and private comforts. His Last Words In Perspective Although Sinatra’s final words have often been quoted, those who knew him were careful to point out that they should not be interpreted dramatically. They reflected a man aware of the seriousness of his condition and realistic about the outcome. Acceptance, rather than fear, appears to have characterised his final moments. The story of Sinatra’s death is therefore not one of spectacle, but of an ageing man reaching the end of a long and exceptionally full life, surrounded by those closest to him. The family disagreements that followed were rooted not in theatrics, but in a sense of having arrived too late for a moment that mattered deeply to them. Sinatra's grave as it looks today. Today, visitors to his grave often leave small tokens. Coins, pebbles, and notes appear beside the headstone, gestures that echo the quiet habits and symbols that meant so much to him during his lifetime. Bono, the lead singer of U2, said of the singer after his death: “Frank Sinatra was the 20th century, he was modern, he was complex, he had swing, and he had attitude. He was the boss, but he was always Frank Sinatra. We won’t see his like again.” Sources • Sinatra: The Life  by Anthony Summers and Robbyn Swan, www.harpercollins.com • PBS biography of Frank Sinatra, www.pbs.org • Las Vegas Sun , Barbara Sinatra interview, www.lasvegassun.com • Far Out Magazine , coverage of Tony Oppedisano’s recollections, faroutmagazine.co.uk • Mirror , reporting on Oppedisano interview, www.mirror.co.uk • Palm Springs Life , reporting on the vandalism of Sinatra’s headstone, www.palmspringslife.com • Desert Memorial Park burial records, Cathedral City, CA

It's sometimes said that some of the most important inventions slip quietly into the world without ceremony. In the case of Mary Kenner, this quietness was not simply a matter of her character but a reflection of the systemic barriers that tried, and failed, to contain her. Her sanitary belt changed menstrual care, yet her name rarely appears in the standard histories of inventors. Mary Kenner once said that inventing was something that came naturally to her, “like breathing”. The story of her life is threaded with this idea, she noticed problems in the world, and out of habit and instinct she tried to fix them. The result was a lifetime of ingenious solutions, including a small but vital innovation in menstrual care during a period of profound cultural silence around women’s bodies. A Childhood Built on Ingenuity Mary Beatrice Davidson Kenner was born in 1912 in Monroe, North Carolina, into a family where inventing was as normal as cooking dinner or sweeping the floor. Creativity was not just encouraged, it was inherited. Her grandfather built a tricolour light signal for trains. Her father created a compact travelling clothing press that could be folded into a suitcase. Her sister designed her own boardgames. In such an environment, the idea of solving everyday problems through invention entered Mary’s life early. One of her earliest memories of inventing came at the age of six. Her mother left for work before sunrise and the hinge of the hallway door would squeak loudly each morning. Young Mary quietly devised a small mechanism to soften the noise so her mother would not disturb the household. For a child, it was a minor triumph. For the future inventor, it was a sign of what was to come. In 1924 the Davidson family moved to Washington DC, and Mary’s inventiveness found a new outlet. She wandered the halls of the United States Patent and Trademark Office in her spare time, fascinated by the catalogues of inventions. She would check her ideas against existing patents, often discovering that no one had thought of the things she was imagining. These early visits were not just educational; they were formative. She was learning that ideas had value, and that her mind was brimming with them. Menstruation in the Early Twentieth Century To understand why Kenner’s sanitary belt mattered, it helps to picture the world she was born into. In the early twentieth century, menstruation was rarely discussed openly and was laden with cultural silence. In the 1920s, many American households still made their own menstrual cloths by hand. These were washed, reused, and discreetly hidden away. Disposable commercial pads existed, but they were bulky, uncomfortable, and widely considered a last resort. Kotex pads were among the first mass produced products, but they were far from ideal. In a market study commissioned by Johnson & Johnson, the pioneering industrial psychologist Lilian Gilbreth recorded how many women described Kotex as “too large, too long, too thick and too stiff”. Comfort was a distant concern in an industry still in its infancy. Mary Kenner, still a teenager, had already begun sketching ideas for improvement. The Arrival Of The Sanitary Belt Kenner envisioned a belt that would hold a menstrual towel securely and comfortably in place. Her aim was simple: solve the problems other products ignored, particularly the slipping, chafing, and awkwardness that plagued early pads. She tinkered with prototypes throughout the 1920s and 1930s, but filing a patent was an expensive business. It was not until 1956, after saving for years, that she secured the funds to begin the process. Her patent described a belt that held a pad in a “highly efficient manner” and was “easy to use”. It featured adjustable straps designed so each wearer could position it in the way that suited their body. The design reduced irritation and improved reliability. Three years later, she submitted an updated patent for a version that included a moisture proof pocket, offering enhanced protection against leaks. It was a practical improvement that many people today would recognise as a precursor to the leak resistant technology used in modern menstrual products. Kenner's patent Racism in the Invention Industry Kenner’s sanitary belt soon attracted interest. The Sonn Nap Pack Company contacted her about manufacturing and selling it. For a brief moment, Kenner believed her life was about to change. She later recalled, “I saw houses, cars and everything about to come my way.” But when representatives from the company met her in person and discovered she was black, they withdrew the offer immediately. This was not an isolated experience. Several other companies were reluctant to engage with her once they realised her race. Her patent eventually expired, allowing manufacturers to profit from her idea without paying her a single cent. The irony was bitter, but familiar. It was a pattern that echoed across the lives of countless black women whose contributions were undervalued, appropriated, or erased. By the 1970s, the rise of disposable pads with adhesive strips pushed the belt into obsolescence. Although Kenner’s own belt was never mass produced, her design influenced later versions that entered the market once her patent expired, shaping the early development of menstrual products even if she never received credit or financial reward. A Life of Problem Solving What makes Mary Kenner remarkable is that she did not stop. Racism may have blocked her financial gains, but it did not dim her sense of purpose. She continued to invent. Two of her later patents focused on hygiene and accessibility. One was for a mounted back washer for showers and bathtubs, designed to help users reach awkward areas without strain. Another was for a bathroom tissue holder that caught the loose end of a toilet roll, making it easier to use, particularly for blind and partially sighted people or those with arthritis. Her inventiveness extended to her family. Kenner’s sister Mildred had multiple sclerosis, and Mary designed a simple but life changing attachment for her walker. It included a small tray and pocket so Mildred could carry her personal belongings independently. “She always tried to make life easier for others,” a family friend later recalled. Across her lifetime, Mary Kenner filed five patents with the United States government. No African American woman in history has filed more. Overlooked, But Not Forgotten Kenner never became wealthy, and she never received major awards. She lived her life largely outside the spotlight, working as a florist while continuing to design inventions at home. Like many black women in twentieth century America who shaped everyday life behind the scenes, her work was undervalued in her era. Yet her impact remains tangible. Her sanitary belt influenced the evolution of menstrual products, and her other designs quietly improved daily tasks for people who needed them. Her legacy lies in this simple truth: she saw dignity in the mundane, and she believed that small, thoughtful inventions could improve the world. Today, as conversations about menstrual health justice, equity in patent history, and recognition of black women’s contributions grow louder, Mary Kenner’s inventions stand as reminders of the people history almost forgot. Sources Smithsonian Magazine, “The Real Story Behind the Sanitary Belt” https://www.smithsonianmag.com Google Patents, Mary Kenner Patent Documentation https://patents.google.com National Museum of African American History and Culture https://nmaahc.si.edu Inventive Women in US History, archival biographies https://www.womenshistory.org Kotex advertising archives, 1920s menstrual product history https://www.kotex.com

When most people think of the name “Hitler,” it immediately conjures images of one of the darkest periods in human history. Adolf Hitler, the dictator of Nazi Germany, is universally recognized as the orchestrator of World War II and the Holocaust. However, few know about a peculiar and almost forgotten figure in history: William Patrick Hitler, Adolf’s estranged nephew, whose life unfolded in a bizarre and often ironic fashion. William Patrick Hitler was born on March 12, 1911, in Liverpool, England, to Adolf Hitler’s half-brother, Alois Hitler Jr., and his Irish wife, Bridget Dowling. From an early age, William was caught between two very different worlds. On one hand, he grew up far from the influence of Nazi Germany, in a relatively peaceful and liberal part of the world. On the other hand, he bore the infamous Hitler surname, a name that would soon become synonymous with terror. The relationship between William and Adolf Hitler was complicated and fraught with tension. Initially, William sought to take advantage of his uncle’s rise to power in Germany. In the early 1930s, he traveled to Germany, hoping to leverage his family connection to secure a comfortable job in the Nazi regime. William worked briefly in various positions, including at a bank and as a car salesman. However, his ambitions were thwarted by Adolf’s growing suspicions about his nephew’s motives. William’s attempts to gain favors were met with increasing disdain from his powerful uncle. Blackmail and Flight to America The relationship between the two reached its lowest point when William began threatening to reveal damaging stories about the Hitler family if his demands for better employment were not met. Allegedly, one of his threats involved exposing the rumor that Adolf Hitler’s paternal grandfather was Jewish, a claim that would have been particularly damaging to the Nazi leader’s racial ideology. Adolf Hitler grew tired of William’s persistent demands and complaints and ultimately instructed him to leave Germany. Fearing for his life, William returned to England in 1939, just as war was about to engulf Europe. As World War II escalated, William found himself in an increasingly precarious position. He was Adolf Hitler’s nephew, a fact that could easily have turned him into a target for British authorities. However, William saw an opportunity to escape his uncle’s shadow and attempt to redeem his own name. In 1939, William embarked on a lecture tour in the United States, where he recounted his experiences living in Nazi Germany and the internal workings of the regime. While some saw him as a mere opportunist, trying to profit off his infamous surname, others sympathized with his plight. After the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, William made the surprising decision to enlist in the U.S. Navy to fight against the very regime that his uncle led. Joining the U.S. military wasn’t an easy process for William. Initially, he was met with skepticism from U.S. authorities who were wary of his background and possible Nazi sympathies. However, after President Franklin D. Roosevelt personally intervened, William was granted permission to serve in the U.S. Navy. He went on to serve honourably during the war, earning a Purple Heart for his actions. William Hitler wrote to President Roosevelt, in which the Liverpudlian begged to be allowed to fight the Hun and send Adolf Hitler to hell.   March 3rd, 1942. His Excellency Franklin D. Roosevelt., President of the United States of America. The White House., Washington. D.C.   Dear Mr. President:   May I take the liberty of encroaching on your valuable time and that of your staff at the White House? Mindful of the critical days the nation is now passing through, I do so only because the prerogative of your high office alone can decide my difficult and singular situation.   Permit me to outline as briefly as possible the circumstances of my position, the solution of which I feel could so easily be achieved should you feel moved to give your kind intercession and decision.   I am the nephew and only descendant of the ill-famed Chancellor and Leader of Germany who today so despotically seeks to enslave the free and Christian peoples of the globe.   Under your masterful leadership men of all creeds and nationalities are waging desperate war to determine, in the last analysis, whether they shall finally serve and live an ethical society under God or become enslaved by a devilish and pagan regime.   Everybody in the world today must answer to himself which cause they will serve. To free people of deep religious feeling there can be but one answer and one choice, that will sustain them always and to the bitter end.   I am one of many, but I can render service to this great cause and I have a life to give that it may, with the help of all, triumph in the end. All my relatives and friends soon will be marching for freedom and decency under the Stars and Stripes. For this reason, Mr. President, I am respectfully submitting this petition to you to enquire as to whether I may be allowed to join them in their struggle against tyranny and oppression?   At present this is denied me because when I fled the Reich in 1939 I was a British subject. I came to America with my Irish mother principally to rejoin my relatives here. At the same time I was offered a contract to write and lecture in the United States, the pressure of which did not allow me the time to apply for admission under the quota. I had therefore, to come as a visitor.   I have attempted to join the British forces, but my success as a lecturer made me probably one of the best attended political speakers, with police frequently having to control the crowds clamouring for admission in Boston, Chicago and other cities. This elicited from British officials the rather negative invitation to carry on.   The British are an insular people and while they are kind and courteous, it is my impression, rightly or wrongly, that they could not in the long run feel overly cordial or sympathetic towards an individual bearing the name I do. The great expense the English legal procedure demands in changing my name, is only a possible solution not within my financial means. At the same time I have not been successful in determining whether the Canadian Army would facilitate my entrance into the armed forces. As things are at the present and lacking any official guidance, I find that to attempt to enlist as a nephew of Hitler is something that requires a strange sort of courage that I am unable to muster, bereft as I am of any classification or official support from any quarter.   As to my integrity, Mr. President, I can only say that it is a matter of record and it compares somewhat to the foresighted spirit with which you, by every ingenuity known to statecraft, wrested from the American Congress those weapons which are today the Nation’s great defence in this crisis. I can also reflect that in a time of great complacency and ignorance I tried to do those things which as a Christian I knew to be right. As a fugitive from the Gestapo I warned France through the press that Hitler would invade her that year. The people of England I warned by the same means that the so-called “solution” of Munich was a myth that would bring terrible consequences. On my arrival in America I at once informed the press that Hitler would loose his Frankenstein on civilization that year. Although nobody paid any attention to what I said, I continued to lecture and write in America. Now the time for writing and talking has passed and I am mindful only of the great debt my mother and I owe to the United States. More than anything else I would like to see active combat as soon as possible and thereby be accepted by my friends and comrades as one of them in this great struggle for liberty.   Your favourable decision on my appeal alone would ensure that continued benevolent spirit on the part of the American people, which today I feel so much a part of. I most respectfully assure you, Mr. President, that as in the past I would do my utmost in the future to be worthy of the great honour I am seeking through your kind aid, in the sure knowledge that my endeavors on behalf of the great principles of Democracy will at least bear favourable comparison to the activities of many individuals who for so long have been unworthy of the fine privilege of calling themselves Americans. May I therefore venture to hope, Mr. President, that in the turmoil of this vast conflict you will not be moved to reject my appeal for reasons which I am in no way responsible?   For me today there could be no greater honour, Mr. President, to have lived and to have been allowed to serve you, the deliverer of the American people from want, and no greater privelege then to have striven and had a small part in establishing the title you once will bear in posterity as the greatest Emancipator of suffering mankind in political history.   I would be most happy to give any additional information that might be required and I take the liberty of enclosing a circular containing details about myself.   Permit me, Mr. President, to express my heartfelt good wishes for your future health and happiness, coupled with the hope that you may soon lead all men who believe in decencey everywhere onward and upward to a glorious victory.   I am, Very respectfully yours, Patrick Hitler A New Life in America After the war, William changed his last name to “Stuart-Houston” in an effort to distance himself from his notorious relative. He settled into a quiet life in Patchogue, New York, on Long Island, where he married a German woman and had four sons. Remarkably, William remained relatively private after the war, rarely speaking about his relationship with Adolf Hitler or his experiences during the conflict. William opened a medical laboratory, which he ran successfully for many years. Despite living a low-profile life, the shadow of his family name loomed large. He avoided most media attention, though he did give a few interviews, most notably in 1941 when he wrote an article titled “Why I Hate My Uncle” for Look  magazine. Look’s article is written by William and reveals what it was like to be Adolf Hitler’s nephew. Here are some excerpts: “Being very close to my father at the time, he (Adolf Hitler) autographed this picture for me. We had cakes and whipped cream, Hitler’s favourite dessert. I was struck by his intensity, his feminine gestures. There was dandruff on his coat.” “When I visited Berlin in 1931, the family was in trouble. Geli Raubal, the daughter of Hitler’s and my father’s sister, had committed suicide. Everyone knew that Hitler and she had long been intimate and that she had been expecting a child – a fact that enraged Hitler. His revolver was found by her body.” Brigid Hitler, the wife of Adolf Hitler’s half-brother Alois, says goodbye to her son William Patrick Hitler outside the Astor Hotel in New York City. “I published some articles on my uncle when I returned to England and was forthwith summoned back to Berlin and taken with my father and aunt to Hitler’s hotel. He was furious. Pacing up and down, wild-eyed and tearful, he made me promise to retract my articles and threatened to kill himself if anything else were written on his private life.” “This is Hitler’s new Berchtesgaden home which I first saw in 1936. I drove there with friends and was shown into the garden. Hitler was entertaining some very beautiful women at tea. When he saw us he strode up, slashing a whip as he walked and taking the tops off the flowers. He took that occasion to warn me to never again mention that I was his nephew. Then he returned to his guests still viciously cracking his whip.” William Patrick Hitler, 28, and his mother, Mrs. Alois Hitler, leave St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, April 2, 1939, after attending Palm Sunday services. Hitler says the German chancellor is his uncle. “I shall never forget the last time he sent for me. He was in a brutal temper when I arrived. Walking back and forth, brandishing his horsehide whip, he shouted insults at my head as if he were delivering a political oration.” So what happened to William Hitler afterwards? In 1940, a year after fleeing Nazi Germany and setting up home in New York, the writer of the following letter attempted to enlist with the U.S. Armed Forces; however, his application was denied for one incredible reason: his uncle was Adolf Hitler. He wasn’t deterred, and two years later, a few months after his uncle had declared war on the U.S., William Patrick Hitler (pictured above) tried again to register for military service by way of the fascinating letter below, sent directly to the U.S. President. It was quickly passed on to the FBI’s director, J. Edgar Hoover, who then investigated Hitler’s nephew and eventually cleared him for service. William Patrick Hitler joined the U.S. Navy in 1944, and was discharged in 1947 after being injured in service. He passed away 40 years later, in New York. William Patrick Hitler, son of Adolf Hitler’s half brother Alois, is sworn into the U.S Navy by Lieutenant Christian Christofferson at a recruiting station in New York City 6 Mar 1944 #Hitler #family #Nazi #WW2

If you had walked along the boulevards of Cannes or the sun soaked promenades of the Cote d Azur in the mid twentieth century, you might have encountered a sight that would make you wonder whether you had stepped into a comic novel. This was Nubar Sarkis Gulbenkian, gliding past in a white suit and a vast sombrero, a monocle perched in one eye, a Havana cigar in his hand, and a fresh orchid pinned to his lapel. At the wheel of his customised gold plated London taxi, he cut the sort of figure you could sketch from memory after a single glance. “I believe in comfort. I enjoy myself. I enjoy life. I enjoy everything I do,” he once declared. It was not a slogan. It was a creed. Born into immense wealth, son of one of the most powerful oil financiers of the age, he spent his life turning money into theatre. He was a bon vivant, a self styled epicure, an MI9 courier during the Second World War, a man who dyed orchids by hand, who terrified stockbrokers, seduced chorus girls, sued the BBC for two pounds, and imported belly dancers from Turkey to perform for half an hour at a party. Few millionaires enjoyed life with the same sense of performance. A young Nubar From Persecution to Privilege: The Suitcase Baby Nubar was born in Kadikoy in 1896, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, just as the Hamidian massacres of Armenians were unfolding. His family fled when he was only weeks old. The family legend claimed that the infant was carried to safety in a suitcase. Whether embroidered or literal, the image suited the dramatic arc of his life. His father, Calouste Sarkis Gulbenkian, was already wealthy and rising rapidly. By the early 1900s he was positioning himself as a key player in the oil markets of the Middle East. The family settled into a cosmopolitan rotation of homes in London, Paris, and the Riviera, surrounded by staff, tutors, and art collectors. Nubar’s education was meticulously engineered. His father insisted he learn French and German fluently. “He was indecently thorough in such matters,” Nubar later wrote. He was sent to Harrow, then to Trinity College, Cambridge, with a period of study at Bonn University. In 1917 he was admitted to the Middle Temple, though he never became a barrister. With his schooling split between elite English institutions and continental classical training, he fashioned himself as an English gentleman, complete with the mannerisms and wardrobe to match. Even as a young man he stood out. One friend at Cambridge, George Ansley, summed him up with the immortal line: “Nubar is so tough that every day he tires out three stockbrokers, three horses and three women.” Calouste Gulbenkian War, Neutral Passports, and the Pat O Leary Line During the Second World War, Nubar’s life took an unexpected detour into espionage. When Germany invaded France in 1940, he was living in what would become Vichy territory. Rather than flee immediately, he chose to help. From July to October 1940 he worked with MI9, the British intelligence branch responsible for assisting Allied soldiers trapped behind enemy lines. Alongside Ian Garrow, he helped lay the groundwork for an escape network that guided soldiers across the Pyrenees into neutral Spain. This became known later as the Pat O Leary Line, named after Albert Marie Guerisse, who took over after Garrow’s arrest. Nubar’s Iranian citizenship was vital. Neutral status let him move between occupied France and Spain with relative ease, carrying messages and intelligence to British officers in Gibraltar. It was a quieter, more shadowy chapter in a life otherwise devoted to exuberance. A Titan’s Son: Wealth, Friction, and the Price of Chicken Being the son of Calouste Gulbenkian was not simple. The elder Gulbenkian was legendary for his parsimony. Nicknamed “Mr Five Per Cent” for his share of Middle Eastern petroleum profits, Calouste amassed one of the world’s most impressive private art collections and built a fortune stretching into the hundreds of millions. Yet despite his wealth, he controlled Nubar’s allowance tightly, treating him almost like a reckless schoolboy rather than an adult. Nubar worked for him without salary. Their arguments usually revolved around money. The most famous dispute began with a lunch. In 1938, Nubar charged $2.22 to petty cash for a meal of chicken in tarragon jelly with asparagus tips. His father reprimanded him for the extravagance. Outraged, Nubar sued him for ten million dollars to claim what he felt was his rightful share of company profits. The matter dragged until it was eventually settled out of court, with Calouste forced to pay eighty six thousand dollars in legal fees. “That was surely the most expensive chicken in history,” Nubar said. By the time Calouste died in 1955, he had left $420 million to the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation in Portugal. Nubar ultimately inherited two and a half million dollars plus additional settlements, far less than he had once expected. But he made up the difference with his own oil investments and financial acumen. “All of it I could possibly desire,” he said. “I Prefer Everything” One of the hallmarks of Nubar’s personality was his refusal to choose between pleasures. He liked fine suits and horses, city life and country life, young women and old brandy, London and Cannes. Asked which he preferred, he stroked his beard and answered simply: “I prefer everything.” This approach governed his life. He wore orchids daily, shipped from around the world. Even in desert regions he insisted on a fresh bloom. He imported belly dancers from Turkey for fifty thousand dollars to perform for half an hour at a London party. His airlines, motorcars, cigars, wines, and tailors were chosen with almost ceremonial precision. He coined the word “pantaraxia”, meaning “keeping people on their toes”, which he jokingly described as his primary hobby. “I believe in comfort,” he liked to say. “I enjoy myself.” The Monocle, the Beard, and the Famous Orchid Gulbenkian became instantly recognisable in London high society. With his Savile Row suits, monocle, heavy beard, and flawless attention to dress codes, he embodied a stylised Edwardian masculinity. He once instructed a younger man: “In England a man cannot be seen around horses without his gloves and hat. One never wears a grey bowler unless he is with horses. It would not do. It would shock people’s feelings.” His signature was the orchid in his lapel. He began wearing them in the 1920s. The only times he omitted one, he claimed, were when in France, on French ships or planes, or at the French Embassy. On those occasions he wore the insignia of the Legion of Honor, out of respect for the country that awarded it to him. He told a tall tale that his deep blue orchids for Harrow Eton matches were hand carried out of the Himalayas “by yak caravan”. When a paper printed this as fact, he set the record straight: the blue was achieved by dipping a white orchid into a mixture of Stephen’s Ink and water. “I have got the mixture virtually right by now,” he said. The Gold Plated Taxi Perhaps his most famous possession was his customised London taxi. He had two Austin FX4 cabs converted, one equipped with a Rolls Royce engine and trimmed in gold plate. “It turns on a sixpence,” he quipped, “whatever that is.” The passenger compartment was remodelled in the style of a Victorian Hackney carriage. Decades later, one taxi sold for £23,000, its eccentric appeal still intact. Alongside his famous gold plated London taxi, Nubar Gulbenkian owned another car that perfectly expressed his theatrical personality: a radically customised Rolls Royce Silver Wraith, often referred to by enthusiasts as his “Honeymoon Express”. Coachbuilt by Hooper & Co in the early 1950s, the car was unmistakable from any angle. Its sweeping chrome spats, exaggerated tail, and the distinctive Perspex roof gave it a silhouette unlike any other Rolls Royce of its generation. It glided more than it drove, and its appearance alone made it a conversation piece at every hotel entrance from London to Cannes. The rear cabin was designed with the intimacy of a first class railway carriage. Plush seats, deep carpets, and a wraparound visibility from the clear roof made it a place to lounge rather than merely travel. Gulbenkian enjoyed being seen in it just as much as he enjoyed riding in it, and the car quickly became a part of his social identity. Photographs from the period show it parked outside grand houses and Riviera hotels, gleaming like a piece of jewellery. This Rolls Royce was not merely transport. It was, like the gold plated taxi, an extension of Gulbenkian’s personality: stylish, eccentric, unmistakable, and proudly indifferent to fashion. When asked once why he enjoyed custom cars so much, he replied in characteristic style that he wanted “something different from all the others”, something that did not bore him. The Silver Wraith achieved exactly that. Today it remains one of the most recognisable one off Rolls Royces in the world. A Gourmet of Legendary Dedication For Nubar, eating was not a bodily requirement but an art form. “Gastronomy is an art as difficult to master as music or painting,” he declared. “And, for me, much more rewarding.” He delighted in planning menus with chefs, discussing each dish in detail. Beethoven moved him less than a finely planned dinner. During one lawsuit against the BBC in 1962, he feared the High Court hearing would be tiresome. He therefore ordered what he considered a simple picnic lunch: barquettes de mousse imperial (ham laced with port), langouste Parisienne (crayfish with truffles), cote d agneau en aspic (lamb cutlets in aspic), strawberries, cheese, and coffee. It was prepared by the staff of the Caprice restaurant and eaten with fingers. He sued the BBC because they failed to give him a promised recording of his appearance on Face to Face, in which he criticised the trustees of his father’s foundation. He won two pounds in damages but never cashed the cheque. Instead he had it framed over his fireplace. Women, Wives, and “Marital Follies” Nubar approached romance with the same energy he applied to everything else. He chased chorus girls in his youth and moved through European society as a self proclaimed ladies’ man. But he also married three times and spoke about his failings with unusual honesty. “I’ve had good wives, as wives go,” he said. “And as wives go, two of them went.” His first wife, Herminia Fejo, married him in 1922. In his memoir he admitted mistreating her. His second marriage, to Dora Freeland in 1928, also ended through his own infidelity. “It was entirely my fault,” he wrote. “Being younger and more virile than I am now, I succumbed to other charms,” referring discreetly to a woman he called Diana. His third marriage came after a fourteen year courtship of Marie Berthe Edmée de Ayala, daughter of a French champagne magnate. Married in 1948, she once said, “Of course he is a very difficult man to live with, but it is worthwhile. Heaven forbid that I should have married a mollusk.” He had no children. He had fun with the symbolism of his marital history. His wife’s Rolls Royce bore the registration NSG 3, signifying she was his third wife. His own car bore NSG 2, signalling he was her second husband. Homes Fit for a Character In London, Gulbenkian lived at Arlington House, near the Ritz, in a flat furnished by the same building’s restaurant staff. His country home at Hoggeston, near Bletchley, was a former rectory spacious enough for 200 guests at cocktail parties. In later years he lived at the Domaine des Colles in Valbonne, near Grasse on the French Riviera. It was here, surrounded by gardens, orchids, and an ever changing stream of guests, that he spent his later life while confined to a wheelchair after heart attacks beginning in 1968. Even in ill health, he remained a fixture of Riviera social life, wearing enormous sombreros and white suits, greeting friends with the same mischievous energy that had carried him through seventy years of indulgence. The Final Years and the Continuing Controversy Nubar Gulbenkian died on 10 January 1972 at the English Hospital in Cannes, aged seventy five. His passing did not end the legal complexity that surrounded his father’s estate. Calouste Gulbenkian’s famously vague will had suggested that anyone employed by or hosting Nubar might be entitled to money. This produced one of the most intricate trust cases of the twentieth century: Re Gulbenkian’s Settlements, which reached the House of Lords in 1970. Even in death, Nubar caused ripples. A Life Lived with Zest For his many flaws, excesses, and eccentricities, Nubar Gulbenkian lived with a clarity that few achieve. “If something is too much of a bore to do thoroughly and with zest,” he liked to say, “then don’t bother to do it at all.” He believed in pleasure, in curiosity, in good food, in elegance, in mischief, and in living theatrically. It made him a man who seemed partly real, partly imagined, a figure from a more colourful age. His father built an empire. But Nubar built a legend. Sources https://www.nytimes.com/1972/01/12/archives/nubar-gulbenkian-75-dies-in-france-financier-with-taste-for-the.html https://gulbenkian.pt/en/the-foundation/calouste-gulbenkian/biography/ https://www.cam.ac.uk/research/features/the-pat-oleary-line-escape-routes-in-world-war-two https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00p5z8d

There is a moment near the end of Adrian Street’s life that captures his story better than any promotional poster or televised bout. A nurse in Cwmbran’s Grange University Hospital asked him where he was from. Street, even in frailty, raised an eyebrow and replied, “Brynmawr. And I did alright getting out of there, didn’t I.” It was a line soaked in a lifetime of rebellion, resilience and self invention. For more than sixty years, this Welsh miner’s son carved one of the most flamboyant paths in professional wrestling, defying every expectation placed upon a boy born into the coal seams of South Wales. Street’s journey, from the dark tunnels of his father’s pit to the neon lights of wrestling rings across the world, remains one of the most unexpected and compelling stories in British sporting history. Standing in glitter, makeup, satin and confidence, he became a cultural phenomenon long before the word existed. Yet his story did not begin with sequins and spotlights. It began in Brynmawr, in a mining family defined by tradition, labour and survival. A Childhood Set Against Coal Dust Adrian Street was born on 5 December 1940 into a family where coal mining was not simply a job but a way of life. His father had worked underground for fifty one years, a staggering length of time that shaped the rhythms, expectations and unspoken rules of the household. For generations the Streets had descended into the pits. The idea that Adrian would choose anything else was nearly unthinkable. He later joked that he “escaped the mines the way others escaped a burning building.” It was not a job that ever appealed to him. He saw the men coming home covered in soot, exhausted to the bone, and sensed that whatever future was carved into the rock below their feet was not the future he wanted. Even as a child he gravitated towards strength and spectacle. He became fascinated with bodybuilding, poring over images of Lou Thesz, Buddy Rogers and Don Leo Jonathan. These men represented a different kind of masculinity, one shaped through showmanship as much as physical power. They were proof that the world stretched far beyond the valleys. At sixteen, in 1957, he made the decision that changed everything. He ran away from Brynmawr, leaving behind school, family expectations and the promise of the pits, heading for London to pursue a career in wrestling. It was a bold, almost outrageous leap for a boy of his background. Yet boldness would become the defining feature of his existence. Becoming Kid Tarzan Jonathan Street trained under Chic Osmond and Mike Demitre, men who gave him discipline and ringcraft. His debut match came on 8 August 1957, wrestling as Kid Tarzan Jonathan, a name lifted from one of his American idols. He won that first bout, defeating Geoff Moran, and began the long climb through Britain’s wrestling circuit. The early years were spent learning how crowds worked, how narratives unfolded in the ring, and how to provoke a reaction. Street was naturally charismatic and athletic, but he also understood something many wrestlers never grasped: identity mattered as much as ability. People remembered characters. It was during one match, when a crowd taunted him, that Street improvised a slightly effeminate gesture in response. The audience erupted. As he later recalled, “I was getting far more reaction than I had ever got just playing this poof. My costumes started getting wilder.” What began as an off the cuff moment soon became a new direction. Little by little he crafted the persona that would make him famous. Pastel colours. Glitter makeup. Bleached hair clipped into tiny pigtails. A coy smile. A strut that blended camp theatrics with raw athletic confidence. In a sport dominated by hard men and straight lines, Street introduced something deliberately provocative. The Birth of Exotic Adrian Street By the late 1960s and early 1970s Adrian Street had become Exotic Adrian Street, one of the most flamboyant and divisive characters in wrestling. In an era when British television wrestling was filled with bruisers, strongmen and brawlers, Street stood out like a sparkler in a coal shed. His matches became theatrical displays. He would kiss opponents to escape pins, apply makeup to dazed rivals and tease crowds who were unsure whether to laugh, boo or stare. He recorded glam rock songs with titles like “Sweet Transvestite with a Broken Nose” and used “Imagine What I Could Do To You” as his entrance music. This was not just wrestling. It was performance art placed in front of people who had never seen anything like it. His gimmick played with gender, sexuality and identity in ways that were far ahead of mainstream culture at the time. The persona was implied to be gay but never officially stated. Street created an ambiguity that toyed with audience expectations. For some it was comedy. For others it was unsettling. For many it was unforgettable. Everywhere he went, he provoked a reaction. And in wrestling, reaction is everything. The Infamous Jimmy Savile Match One of the most talked about incidents in Street’s career came in 1971 when he was booked to wrestle television presenter Jimmy Savile. Even at the time, Street disliked Savile, later saying he bragged backstage about sleeping with underage girls. During the match, Street attacked him legitimately and ripped out a chunk of his hair. Years later, after Savile’s crimes were fully exposed, Street reflected, “Had I known then what I know now, I would have given him an even bigger hiding. I ripped his hair out of his head … I drop kicked him so hard he landed on his head. I beat the crap out of him. I kicked him and smashed him and stomped on him. I put a submission on him that nearly broke his back. They shovelled him out of the ring and that ended the contest and he never ever wrestled again.” It is one of many examples of Street refusing to play along when something felt wrong. Miss Linda, Wrestling’s First Female Valet In 1969 he met Linda Gunthorpe Hawker, who would become not only his real life partner but the perfect foil to his persona. As Miss Linda she accompanied him to the ring, scheming, distracting referees and elevating Street’s theatrics. She wrestled in Britain as Blackfoot Sue before taking on the valet role, becoming one of the earliest women to take such a position in wrestling. Their partnership crossed decades, continents and countless promotions. Together they created a visual and narrative double act unlike anything else on the circuit. Street (left) and his valet Miss Linda (right) Building an International Career Street wrestled across the UK and Europe, appeared in Germany, Canada and Mexico, and eventually made the leap to North America. In 1981 he and Miss Linda landed in the American territories, moving through different regions before settling in Ron Fuller’s Continental Championship Wrestling in Alabama in 1985. He arrived as a heel, feuding with names like Austin Idol and Rip Rogers, but eventually turned face in an angle so surprising that fans fell silent watching him save Bob Armstrong from an ambush. Street estimated that he wrestled between 12,000 and 15,000 matches in his lifetime, an astonishing number that reflected his work ethic and adaptability. His final bout was held in Birmingham, Alabama, in June 2014. The Coal Mine Photoshoot A Statement to the World Although Street’s in-ring work earned him a place in wrestling history, one moment away from competition became perhaps his most iconic and culturally significant. After years of travelling the world, Street returned to South Wales for a photoshoot in the same coal mine where his father had spent his life. It was not a nostalgia trip. It was a performance, a confrontation and a declaration. Adrian Street with his father Dressed in full Exotic Adrian Street attire, sequins glittering and makeup immaculate, he posed among miners covered in dust and sweat. The contrast could not have been sharper. These were men who had grown up with him, worked with his father, and knew the expectations of their valley. The sight of a local boy returning in high heels, pigtails and satin was bewildering, even shocking. Photographer Dennis Hutchinson captured the now legendary image. The composition said everything. The miners stand stiff and stoic, some confused, some amused, some disapproving. In front of them, Adrian stands confidently, hands on hips, as if to say, “This is who I chose to be.” It was an act of self invention so complete that it bordered on performance rebellion. Street was rejecting not the men themselves, but the life they represented. It was a tribute, a confrontation and a liberation all at the same time. His father, still working at the mine, was present that day. Seeing his son in full regalia, he reportedly said, “What are you? You are a freak.” Street replied, “That is the whole point.” Ad for the album "Shake, Wrestle 'N' Roll", circa 1987 Designing the Future of Wrestling Gear After retiring from full time in ring action, Street opened the Skull Krushers Wrestling School in Gulf Breeze, Florida. Hurricane Ivan devastated the building, forcing its closure, but Street and Linda remained active in the wrestling world by designing and selling gear. Many wrestlers wore costumes crafted by Street, including Mick Foley’s Dude Love attire during his feud with Stone Cold Steve Austin. Foley later said Street understood better than most how ring gear could shape a character. It was a second career defined by the same creativity that had shaped his persona. Later Years, Love and Returning Home In 2005 Street proposed to Miss Linda at a Cauliflower Alley Club reunion, with his early inspiration Don Leo Jonathan as best man. The couple shared decades of work, travel and reinvention. They survived cancer scares, natural disasters and industry changes, always moving forward as a pair. In 2018 they returned to Wales, citing the Florida weather and the destruction of their academy. Street’s connection to his homeland remained intact despite the rebellious break of his youth. On 24 July 2023, Adrian Street died at age eighty two from sepsis that developed from colitis. For fans, friends and fellow wrestlers, his passing marked the end of an era that he had defined almost single handedly. A Legacy Built on Reinvention Adrian Street’s life was about transformation. He refused to become what society assumed he would be. He constructed himself like a piece of art, layer by layer, costume by costume, match by match. He was proof that identity was not something inherited but something created. He once said, “I am not who they expected me to be. I am who I decided to be.” That remains the essence of his story. His influence can be seen everywhere in modern professional wrestling. Characters who blur gender lines, performers who merge theatricality with athleticism, wrestlers who understand persona as a tool of expression. All of them owe something to the miner’s son who walked into a ring covered in glitter and dared the world to look away. Adrian Street did not just escape the mines. He reinvented the idea of what a man from the Welsh valleys could become. Sources • WrestleCrap. “Exotic Adrian Street Profile.” wrestlecrap.com • BBC Wales. “Adrian Street The Welsh Wrestling Star.” bbc.co.uk • Pro Wrestling Stories. “The Flamboyant Life of Exotic Adrian Street.” prowrestlingstories.com • Wales Online. “The Amazing Story of Exotic Adrian Street.” walesonline.co.uk • The Guardian. “Adrian Street Obituary.” theguardian.com • Interview with Adrian Street by Jim Cornette. youtube.com • Cauliflower Alley Club Archives. caulifloweralleyclub.org • Photographer Dennis Hutchinson Archives. hutchinsonphotography.co.uk

There are historical figures who seem larger than life, but Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart is one of the few who genuinely lived a life that appears to rewrite the limits of human endurance. A soldier who fought in three major wars, survived a catalogue of injuries, removed his own damaged fingers, escaped prisoner of war camps in his sixties, and lost an eye and a hand before performing some of the most extraordinary acts of bravery ever recorded, he remains one of the most remarkable characters in British military history. If a novelist had invented him, readers might say the character was unrealistic. Yet every improbable detail of his story is documented, witnessed, and preserved in letters, diaries, and official reports. Even those who served alongside him struggled to describe him without resorting to understatement. One officer simply said that he was the bravest man he had ever met. Another noted that his presence on a battlefield was enough to steady an entire unit. For Carton de Wiart, danger seemed not merely a part of his life, but the very thing that made him feel most alive. His autobiography, Happy Odyssey , contains the unforgettable line: “Frankly, I had enjoyed the war.” This really does sum up the gung-ho attitude Adrian Carton de Wiart had for life in general. Early Years And A Restless Character Adrian Carton de Wiart was born in Brussels on 5 May 1880 into a wealthy Belgian family with aristocratic connections. His father, Leon, had business interests in Egypt, which meant the young Adrian spent part of his childhood abroad before being sent to England for schooling in 1891. Even at school, he showed signs of the determination and restlessness that would define his adult life. Teachers reported that he seemed unable to tolerate routine. There is a story from these years of him slipping away from school grounds simply because he craved a sense of adventure. One housemaster observed that Adrian had a remarkable knack for creating excitement where none existed. Second Lieutenant Adrian Carton de Wiart, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards, c1901 He later studied law at Balliol College, Oxford, but his heart was not in it. When the Second Boer War broke out in 1899, he saw an opportunity too tempting to resist. Leaving Oxford without a degree, he enlisted under a false identity, giving a fake age of twenty five. He was nineteen, not yet a British citizen, and had not received parental permission. None of that mattered to him. The urge to fight had taken hold. His first experience of war came quickly and brutally. He was shot in the stomach and groin during action in South Africa and had to be sent home. But if he felt any fear, it did not show. Friends later recalled that he treated injuries with the same irritation one might reserve for a stubborn cold. They were inconveniences, not deterrents. He would have to wait more than a decade before he could return to battle, but the pattern of his life had been established. Wherever conflict existed, he somehow found a way to be there. Carton de Wiart as a lieutenant with the 4th Dragoon Guards at Muttra in September 1904 Somaliland And The Loss Of An Eye By the time the First World War began, Carton de Wiart was already serving with the Somaliland Camel Corps. In November 1914 he took part in an attack against the forces of Mohammed Abdullah Hassan, often referred to as the Mad Mullah. During an assault on a fortified enemy position he was shot in the face, the bullet destroying his left eye and removing part of his ear. A fellow officer later described the moment, noting that Adrian did not alter his pace except to unleash a stream of furious language. The wound was severe, though he seemed to treat it as a natural consequence of being where the action was. He returned to London to recover, where doctors fitted him with a glass eye. It lasted only a few days. He found it so uncomfortable that he reportedly removed it while riding in a taxi and threw it out of the window. From then on he wore the black eye patch that would become central to his striking appearance. Carton de Wiart recuperated at a nursing home in Park Lane. Staff soon became familiar with him, and over the years he returned so frequently after subsequent injuries that they kept a set of pyjamas permanently ready for him. It became something of an inside joke. Whenever he was wounded, they were prepared. Despite the severity of his injuries, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Order for his actions in Somaliland and wasted no time lobbying to be sent where he believed the real action was located: the Western Front. The Western Front And The Hand He Removed Himself Carton de Wiart returned to France in 1915 to join the British forces fighting near Ypres. Almost immediately, during the Second Battle of Ypres, he faced another catastrophic injury. German artillery fire shattered his left hand. When a doctor hesitated to amputate two of the ruined fingers, he simply tore them off himself. A surgeon later removed the rest of the hand. Once healed, he went before a medical board. Despite missing an eye and a hand, he convinced them he was fit for frontline duty. Those who were present said that his force of will was stronger than any argument they could make against him. This resilience impressed his men. One soldier wrote that the sight of their commander, with his eye patch and empty sleeve, inspired confidence. If he could lead calmly under fire, they felt they could follow. Carton de Wiart in Cairo, 1943. The Somme A Reputation Forged In Fire In 1916 Carton de Wiart took command of the 8th Battalion of the Gloucestershire Regiment and led them into the Battle of the Somme, where his reputation reached legendary status. He was witnessed pulling grenade pins out with his teeth and throwing them using his remaining arm. His ability to perform these actions with precision under fire earned profound respect from his soldiers. One private reportedly said that seeing him in the trenches made them feel the battle could be won, regardless of circumstance. It was at La Boiselle that he performed the act for which he was awarded the Victoria Cross. With commanding officers killed around him and enemy attacks intensifying, he took control of the situation, personally leading counterattacks and holding the position despite overwhelming pressure. His citation for the Victoria Cross emphasised his total disregard for danger. Yet in his autobiography, he did not even mention receiving the medal, later telling a friend that the award belonged to the entire regiment. According to him, every man present had shown equal courage. Lieutenant General Carton de Wiart after the Second World War During another action on the Somme, at Devil’s Wood, he was shot through the back of the head. His batman, A Holmes, recalled how the bullet missed the spinal cord by a margin so slim it was considered miraculous. Some senior officers believed his habit of placing himself directly in the line of fire bordered on recklessness. This may explain why he was never made a divisional commander. Commanding a division required long hours of office work, administrative commitment, and patience for bureaucracy, none of which were his strengths. He preferred terrain, trenches, and immediacy. Yet to the men he led, he was the image of courage. His arrival at the head of a brigade in November 1918 produced one of the most vivid descriptions of him ever recorded. A.S. Bullock wrote: “He arrived on a lively cob with his cap at a rakish angle, and a shade where one eye had been. His arm was missing and his coat carried eleven wound stripes. Cold shivers went down the back of everyone in the brigade.” He proceeded down the line, inspecting the men. Bullock, standing first, recalled that Carton de Wiart noticed his untidy bootlace despite having only one eye. The glare he gave permanently etched itself into his memory. The Inter War Years And A Life In Poland After the First World War, Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart settled in Poland and for many years lived on the estate of the wealthy Radziwiłł family. He was granted use of the large property at Prostyń in the Pripet Marshes, eastern Poland, owned by Prince Karol Mikołaj Radziwiłł, whose family inherited a vast domain in that region. During these inter-war years he embraced country life: hunting, fishing, riding across the estate’s forests and lakes. Locals described him as courteous and straightforward, deeply engaged with the land and the people who worked it. His days at Prostyń offered a rare calm after years of combat and upheaval. This chapter ended in 1939 when the Soviet advance overran the region, the estate was lost, and Carton de Wiart left Poland permanently. Remains of trenches in Devil's Wood, where Carton de Wiart was shot through the head Return To Service The Second World War When the Second World War began, he was once again called into action. In 1940 he commanded British forces during the Norway campaign and later worked in Northern Ireland in a defensive capacity. But his most dramatic wartime experiences were still ahead. In April 1941, while heading to Yugoslavia to establish a British military mission, his aircraft was shot down over the Mediterranean. He survived the crash, swam ashore, and was captured by Italian forces. He arrived at the prisoner of war camp in his sixties, missing a hand and an eye. Most men in such a situation would have resigned themselves to imprisonment. Carton de Wiart planned his escape immediately. He attempted to flee several times. On one occasion he managed to evade recapture for eight days while trekking through the Italian countryside. That he stood out so clearly yet managed to avoid being detained spoke both to his determination and a degree of luck. His appearance was unmistakable, yet locals sometimes assumed he was simply an eccentric wanderer. Carton de Wiart in the Cairo Conference, behind Soong Mei-ling on the right. From left to right: Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, US President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soong Mei-ling. Back row, Chinese Generals Chang Chen and Ling Wei; American Generals Somervell, Stilwell and Arnold; and senior British officers, Field Marshal Sir John Dill, Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten. The Italian authorities found him unmanageable, though not hostile. Eventually he was released as part of diplomatic arrangements to allow him to serve Britain’s interests elsewhere. Winston Churchill appointed him personal envoy to Generalissimo Chiang Kai shek in China. Churchill admired him greatly, referring to him as a model of honour and military virtue, and wrote the foreword to his autobiography. Adrian Carton de Wiart during World War II, photographed by Cecil Beaton Final Years In Ireland And A Peaceful End After the war, Sir Adrian Carton de Wiart retired to County Cork, where he spent his remaining years fishing and enjoying the quiet he had so rarely known throughout his life. He died in bed on 5 June 1963 at the age of eighty three. It was a gentle end for a man who had survived some of the most violent experiences of the twentieth century. His legacy endures as one of the most extraordinary personal stories in British military history. A man who met war with energy, faced injuries with indifference, and displayed a level of bravery that bordered on disbelief, he remains an icon of unshakeable determination. Military historian Lt Col James Cook, of the Royal Artillery, believes his example continues to resonate today. "Carton de Wiart did have a habit of getting injured but this is simply testament to his belief of leading from the front. He inspired his men with the simple and eternal words, 'follow me'. These words remain the mark of a truly courageous leader, be it on the Western Front a hundred years ago, or today in military operations around the world." De Wiart's collections of medals Carton De Wiart was awarded the Victoria Cross for actions at La Boiselle. The Times newspaper carried the following notice on September 11, 1916: "For the most conspicuous bravery, coolness and determination during severe operations of a prolonged nature. It was owing in a great measure to his dauntless courage and inspiring example that a serious reverse was averted. He displayed the utmost energy and courage in forcing our attack home. After three other battalion commanders had become casualties, he controlled their commands, and ensured that the ground won was maintained at all costs. He frequently exposed himself in the organisation of positions and of supplies, passing unflinchingly through fire barrage of the most intense nature. His gallantry was inspiring to all." Sources https://archive.org/details/happyodysseymemo00cart https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/who-was-adrian-carton-de-wiart https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-gloucestershire-48704841 https://www.nam.ac.uk/explore/sir-adrian-carton-de-wiart https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205295482 https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/term/BIOG204584 https://victoriacrossonline.co.uk/sir-adrian-carton-de-wiart-vc/

Most career criminals make headlines for their violence or brash defiance. Jeffrey Manchester, however, earned his notoriety by being unfailingly polite, oddly considerate, and for living in places most people would never dream of calling home. Nicknamed “Roofman” by baffled detectives, Manchester’s story is a study in improbable break-ins, makeshift hideouts, and a charm that left even his victims scratching their heads. From Schoolboy to Soldier Jeffrey Manchester grew up in Rancho Cordova, California, where he attended high school before swapping textbooks for fatigues. He joined the US Army and served with the elite 82nd Airborne Division, picking up practical skills like rappelling and weapons handling, talents that would later be repurposed in ways his instructors probably never foresaw. At 20, he married young, but the union ended in divorce by 1999 while he was stationed at Concord Naval Weapons Station. By then, Manchester’s boredom with civilian life was fermenting into something far less lawful. The Roofman Emerges By the autumn of 1998, Jeffrey Manchester had grown disenchanted with the ordinary life laid out for him. The military had honed his patience, attention to detail, and confidence in confined spaces — all traits he would soon apply to a highly unorthodox second career. Rather than barge through the front doors like most stick-up men, Manchester preferred the path less taken: through the ceiling tiles. Each job began long before a single roof was drilled. Manchester would spend weeks, sometimes months, observing a chosen fast-food outlet, usually a McDonald’s tucked along a quiet highway or retail strip. He mapped employee routines, clocked delivery trucks, and sketched out alarm placement in his mind. Locals often assumed the quiet man lingering in a car at odd hours was harmless, perhaps a weary traveller with nowhere better to be. Then, under cover of darkness, Manchester scaled the roof. Armed with basic tools, he would carefully cut through tar and plywood, making just enough space to slip inside. His entrance routes varied: sometimes a straight drop into the storage loft, sometimes a duct crawl worthy of a B-movie. Once inside, he never smashed things or made noise; instead, he’d hide in the toilet, calm and patient, waiting for the breakfast shift. When the whir of milkshake machines and the hiss of frying oil signalled normal business, Roofman would emerge, politely but firmly pointing a small firearm. He was never frantic, never shouted. Instead, he spoke gently, asked staff to remain calm, and guided them into the walk-in fridge. On more than one occasion, he suggested they fetch a jacket before stepping inside the sub-zero hold. He’d then empty the tills at his leisure, sometimes even helping himself to a quick bite or a coffee, before escaping the way he came, up, through the ceiling and into the night. Police later marvelled at the sheer scope: by the time he was caught, Manchester had burglarised an estimated forty to sixty restaurants in at least six states. He never left behind significant forensic evidence. Witnesses described him as “unfailingly courteous”, as if a kindly neighbour had suddenly borrowed their cash registers at gunpoint. To the FBI, he became an obsession: a phantom who never stayed long enough to catch. Capture and a Long Prison Stretch Despite the planning and good manners, Manchester’s run could not last forever. By May 2000, his boldness had grown with each smooth getaway. That month, he made an unusually rash decision: robbing two McDonald’s on the same day in North Carolina, carrying only a .22 calibre rifle. At the second location, a quick-thinking employee discreetly triggered a silent alarm. Officers, now well aware of Roofman’s signature moves, fanned out across the area. They found Manchester’s car hidden in a church car park, a trick he often used to park unnoticed near his target. A lone policeman caught sight of a man emerging from the woods, moving purposefully towards the vehicle. A brief foot chase followed; Manchester slipped back into the trees but was soon cornered and handcuffed. During questioning, he tried to muddy the waters, claiming he had been inspired by stories of another McDonald’s roof burglar. But detectives knew better: the polite chatter, the consistent modus operandi, the pattern stretching from California to the Carolinas, it all pointed to Manchester alone. In the end, the courts convicted him for just the two May robberies, but the weight of his wider career hung heavy. He received a punishing 45-year sentence, enough to keep even the most creative thief behind bars for decades. Over the next four years, Manchester was shuttled from prison to prison before landing at Brown Creek Correctional Institution, where he seemed to settle — at least outwardly. Great Escapes and Living in Toyland Inside Brown Creek, Manchester proved once again that patience and a knack for improvisation were his greatest tools. Assigned to the metal shop, he studied the comings and goings of delivery trucks for months on end. He noted shift changes, gate checks and which drivers rarely bothered to look underneath their rigs. He fashioned a simple but ingenious escape aid: a plywood platform, cut to fit snugly along a truck’s undercarriage, then painted pitch-black. He also used scraps of cardboard to disguise himself further. On 15 June 2004, he executed the plan. Tucked beneath a moving lorry, he crept past the guards at the exit gate, holding his breath as they gave the departing vehicle no more than a passing glance. Back on the outside, Manchester hitchhiked to Charlotte, North Carolina. This time, rather than slip through roofs, he turned to what could only be called suburban squatting. He broke into a Toys “R” Us, chose a forgotten corner above the storeroom, and transformed it into a secret flat. For food, he raided the baby aisle, jars of puréed carrots, formula milk, and boxes of animal crackers kept him going. The vacant Circuit City shop where Jeffrey Manchester lived for months is shown in Charlotte, N.C., When night fell, Roofman came alive: riding display bicycles up and down the aisles for exercise, testing remote-control toys, and sometimes rearranging stock to amuse himself. During store hours, he lay silent in his loft, listening to the hum of customers and staff below. As Christmas drew near and the toy store bustled with families, Manchester prudently shifted his nest to the abandoned Circuit City next door. There, he hollowed out a nook under a stairwell, painted it bright, hung movie posters, and watched DVDs to pass the time, among them, fittingly, Catch Me If You Can . Far from just hiding, he was preparing. He fitted baby monitors around Toys “R” Us for surveillance and manipulated rotas to pave the way for his biggest heist yet. All the while, he wove himself into local life: he joined Crossroads Presbyterian Church, began dating Leigh Wainscott, and spun elaborate lies about being a covert government operative needing ‘secure accommodation’. For a few surreal months, Roofman lived both as a fugitive in a crawlspace and as the friendly boyfriend handing out toys to his girlfriend’s children. The Final Caper: Fire, a Pawn Shop and Boxing Day Mischief By late 2004, Jeffrey Manchester had woven a precarious web of half-truths and bold trespasses. Living rent-free inside a shuttered electronics store and masquerading as a government agent to his girlfriend and church friends, he was running on borrowed time. The Toys “R” Us plan grew more elaborate by the week, but his method of preparing for it showed that, despite his polite veneer, Roofman was capable of darker turns. Manchester knew that to pull off his grand finale, he would need a firearm. He also worried that a local dentist’s office, where he’d had some dental work done, might give him away. So, in a move that startled even seasoned detectives later, he reportedly set fire to the practice, reducing any potential records to ash. Not content with arson alone, he robbed a local pawn shop to secure a new weapon, all while still slipping back each night to his secret bunk beneath Circuit City’s staircase. On 26 December 2004, while most families were dozing off Christmas dinner and hunting Boxing Day bargains, Manchester made his move. He slipped back into Toys “R” Us before opening, armed and ready. Using his surveillance knowledge, he isolated employees, locked them down, and helped himself to a substantial haul of cash from the store’s safe and tills. True to form, he spoke gently and tried to reassure his captives, but this time, two staff managed to slip free and dashed outside to alert law enforcement. When officers arrived, Manchester was already gone. However, the net closed quickly. In the frantic search that followed, police scoured the abandoned Circuit City and discovered his hidden lair: mattress, snacks, stashed DVDs, even that fateful copy of Catch Me If You Can , which ironically bore his only identifiable fingerprint. It was the sort of discovery that made hardened detectives laugh in disbelief: a criminal so brazen he lived on the high street, right under the city’s nose. Love, Lies and Betrayal Despite the chaos, Manchester did not bolt from Charlotte. Instead, he tried to resume life as “John Zorn”, the affectionate churchgoer with the secret government job. But the pressure on Leigh Wainscott, the unwitting girlfriend, was immense. She had grown suspicious, and when police laid out the evidence, she agreed to help end the farce. On 5 January 2005, at the police’s request, Wainscott rang Manchester and invited him over. He arrived, unsuspecting and likely hoping to calm her nerves with another tall tale. Instead, he walked into the arms of waiting officers, bringing an end, once again, to his unusual brand of polite lawbreaking. In December that year, a North Carolina court tried Manchester for the fresh offences: burglary, weapons charges, arson, escape and more. He received a further forty years on top of his original sentence, sealing his fate for decades to come. Roofman Today After his recapture, Manchester was first held at Marion Correctional Institution before being transferred to Central Prison in Raleigh , a high-security facility less likely to overlook a man so skilled at slipping through the cracks. Even so, Roofman never fully gave up on outwitting the system: he attempted new escapes in both 2009 and 2017, reminding authorities that the patient, quietly smiling fugitive could never quite be written off. As it stands, Jeffrey Manchester is expected to remain behind bars until December 2036. Whether the Roofman is finally at peace with a life less adventurous is anyone’s guess, but you can be sure the wardens still check the ceilings a little more often than they used to.

On the evening of 18 December 1994, Alison Botha, a young woman living in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, faced a harrowing ordeal that would forever alter her life. She endured one of the most brutal attacks imaginable and, against all odds, survived. Her story is not just about what happened that night, but also about how she rebuilt her life, becoming a symbol of resilience and an advocate for hope. The Attack: A Night of Unimaginable Violence Alison Botha was 27 years old at the time of the attack. After a day that had been idyllic, spending the afternoon at the beach with friends in Port Elizabeth, one of the largest cities in South Africa. Afterwards, everyone had gone back to Alison’s apartment to eat pizza and play Balderdash. That night, she had promised to drop one of her friends Kim home afterwards, and now it was around 1am on Sunday morning. On her return home Alison discovered she had lost her very convenient car spot right outside her apartment, and searched for another within walking distance. Then, she found it. There was a space under a big tree; big enough to block the street lights on an already poorly lit road. Alison was looking forward to getting into bed after a cool shower, and so pulled in and reached over to get her clean laundry out of the passenger seat to bring upstairs. That’s when she felt a gust of warm air. The car door had been flung open, and standing before her was a scrawny but tall young man with blonde hair. Immediately, Alison spotted the knife. “Move over or I’ll kill you,” the man said to her in a low , matter-of-fact voice. She did exactly what he said. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and put his foot on the accelerator. After a few moments he assured her, “I don’t want to hurt you I just want to use your car for an hour.” At that point, Alison chose believed him. She considered jumping out of the moving car, but found herself frozen. She begged the man, who called himself Clinton, to take the car and leave her. But he refused. He had something he needed to do. Someone owed him money. He wouldn’t be long.This man, later identified as Frans du Toit, drove her to a secluded area, where they were joined by another man, Theuns Kruger. Frans du Toit and Thenus Kruger What followed was an assault so violent that it defied comprehension. The two men repeatedly raped her, strangled her to the point of unconsciousness, but the strangulation wasn't enough to kill Alison. Frustrated, du Toit and Kruger took their brutality to the next level. They stabbed Alison at least 30 times in the abdomen. Alison later recalled that du Toit specifically wanted to mutilate her reproductive organs. But somehow, the attackers missed those specific parts of her body. When Botha’s leg twitched, du Toit and Kruger decided the job wasn’t quite done yet. They then slit her throat — 16 times. “All I could see was an arm moving above my face,” Alison Botha later recalled . “Left and right and left and right. His movements were making a sound. A wet sound, it was the sound of my flesh being slashed open. He was cutting my throat with the knife. Again and again and again.” Alison would later describe that the stabbings felt abstract, “It felt unreal but it wasn’t,” she said. “I felt no pain, but it was not a dream. This was happening. The man was slashing my throat.” As the men finally stepped back, Alison heard them talking in Afrikaans. “Do you think she’s dead?” one of the attackers asked. “No one can survive that,” the other replied. Believing that they had killed her, du Toit and Kruger drove away. But little did they know that Botha was still breathing. Lying on the ground amongst the dirt and sand Alison knew “I had to at least leave a clue about who did this to me.” She decided to write the names of her attackers in the dirt. Then, beneath that, she wrote, “I love Mum.” But soon, Alison realised she might have a chance to survive. In the distance, she could see headlights, When Alison Botha moved toward the headlights she realised the full extent of her injuries. As she pulled herself up, her head started to fall backward — since she had nearly been decapitated. Meanwhile, she could also feel something slimy protruding from her abdomen — her intestines. She had to use one hand to keep her organs from spilling out and the other hand to literally hold on to her own head. Botha recalled, “As I struggled forward my sight faded in and out and I fell many times but managed to get up again until I finally reached the road.” There, she collapsed along the white line. Even in her disoriented state, she knew that this was the best position to attract the attention of a motorist. Fortunately, Botha didn’t have to wait for long. A young veterinary student named Tiaan Eilerd, who was visiting Port Elizabeth on holiday from Johannesburg, saw Botha lying in the middle of the road and stopped. “God put me on that road that night for a reason,” Eilerd later said. He used his veterinary training to tuck Botha’s exposed thyroid back inside her body. Then, Eilerd called emergency services for help. Tiaan Eilerd with Alison Alison Botha was rushed to the hospital, where doctors were stunned by her horrific wounds. One doctor, Alexander Angelov, later said that he had never seen such severe injuries in his 16 years of practicing medicine. Botha was on the brink of death. But she managed to pull through — and she also remembered everything about her attackers. She was soon able to identify them from police pictures while she was still in the hospital. This led to the speedy arrest of the “Ripper Rapists,” as they were called in the press. The subsequent “Noordhoek Ripper Trial” captured the attention of South Africans everywhere. Both Frans du Toit and Theuns Kruger pled guilty to eight charges, which included kidnapping, rape, and attempted murder. The case was significant not only for the heinous nature of the crime but also for Alison’s role in ensuring justice. Her decision to publicly testify and waive her anonymity sent a strong message, breaking the stigma around discussing sexual violence.They were both found guilty and sentenced to life in prison in August 1995. But after serving 28 years, both were granted parole in July 2023 and placed under supervision. On her Facebook page , Alison Botha wrote that “The day I hoped and prayed would never come. When I was asked ‘How will you feel if they ever get parole?’ – my immediate answer was always – ‘I’m hoping I’ll never find out.'” Rebuilding a Life: From Survivor to Advocate Alison’s recovery was not just physical but emotional and psychological. The scars on her body were a visible reminder of her ordeal, but the deeper battle was regaining control of her life. With the support of friends, family, and a strong will, she began to rebuild. Over time, Alison turned her focus outward, sharing her story to inspire and help others. Her memoir, I Have Life , written with journalist Marianne Thamm, became a bestseller. The book is not just a recounting of her attack but also a testament to her resilience and the strength it takes to reclaim one’s life after trauma. Alison’s story reached a wider audience when it was adapted into a film in 2016. While revisiting her ordeal was undoubtedly difficult, she saw it as an opportunity to amplify her message of survival and hope. Advocacy and Inspirational Speaking In the years following the attack, Alison became a sought-after speaker, travelling internationally to share her story. Her speeches focus on overcoming adversity, the power of the human spirit, and finding purpose after trauma. Audiences are often struck by her calm demeanour and her ability to address such a personal topic with honesty and grace. She also worked to raise awareness about violence against women, contributing to broader conversations about gender-based violence in South Africa, a country where such issues remain tragically prevalent. Later Life: Finding Joy and Purpose Despite the immense challenges Alison faced, she built a fulfilling life. She found joy in motherhood, raising two sons who became her focus and inspiration. While her experiences shaped her worldview, she chose not to let them define her entire life. Alison's Health Struggle Today Now, after building a life of hope and spreading a message of triumph over the worst kind of adversary, the 57-year-old Alison Botha is again fighting for her life.  She suffered a brain aneurysm in October The scars and physical damage caused by the brutal attack on her has remained a challenge as doctors at a state hospital in Cape Town navigate the process of her recovery. Alison does not have a medical aid and there have been many who have called for her to be transferred to a private facility. This is not financially possible, as Alison is the breadwinner and will not be able to do her work as an author and public speaker for the foreseeable future. On October the 29th, Alison gave this update via her Facebook page Hi this is Alison. It’s been a while After a month, I am able to personally update you on my recovery this far. I am still in hospital and starting the long journey of rehabilitation. I have been assessed by the doctors and physio therapists and have been informed that I can soon be transferred to a specialist rehabilitation centre, because of the generosity of so many selfless people. Thank you. I can use my right arm, but unfortunately cannot sit up independently, stand or walk. At least my sight has improved! My only brother Neale has been reduced from 9 to 3 versions of him. I hope you approve of my new haircut, courtesy of Neale and my legal people Hannelie and Tania (I think they should stick to their day jobs). You can all vote on that later. I am still a bit shocked. I am still nervous, and still worried about the journey ahead, but I am a fighter as so many of you have reminded me. I have been through worse, and very determined to make a full recovery. I am thinking about you all and ask you to continue keeping me in your thoughts. Love Alison

There is a moment in European history that still makes readers pause. A simple joke, thrown out by a peasant during the reign of Charles V, has echoed for centuries. As the story goes, Charles, the powerful ruler who controlled a vast stretch of Europe, sat in a hall filled with visitors. His famously pronounced Habsburg jaw gave him difficulty closing his mouth fully. A peasant, emboldened by drink or mischief, supposedly muttered, “Better keep your mouth shut, Your Majesty, before the flies think it is summer again.” It is one of those historical anecdotes that lodges in the imagination. The joke is crude, but its staying power reveals something human beneath the layers of royal ceremony and political dominance. Everyone could see that the Habsburgs looked different. Everyone wondered why. King Philip IV of Spain The answer lay in a centuries long experiment in dynasty building, where royal marriages were not celebrated unions but strategic arrangements. For most of Europe’s monarchies, marriage was a tool for diplomacy. For the Habsburgs, it became something closer to a closed circuit. And as scientists now show, the consequences played out on the bodies of generations of rulers. This is the story of the Habsburg jaw. It is also the story of what happens when a family tries too hard to keep its power contained within its own blood. A Dynasty Built on Marriages Rather Than Wars European royal houses intermarried for centuries. It was not unusual. Even in the twentieth century, Queen Elizabeth II married her third cousin. Monarchies used marital alliances to build networks of influence. But the Habsburgs pushed this tradition to the furthest extreme. When the Spanish branch of the Habsburg family ruled from 1516 to 1700, they organised eleven marriages. Nine of those eleven took place between close relatives. This was not casual or coincidental. It was deliberate policy. The Habsburgs understood that their grip on Spain was powerful but strategically fragile. Their empire stretched across Europe and into the New World, but internally it relied on unity between different territories that did not always coexist naturally. One way to consolidate control was to keep the line as undiluted as possible. Marry within the dynasty. Keep bloodlines tight. Maintain power. It seemed logical at first. In reality it planted the seeds of the dynasty’s downfall. Marie Antoinette' Habsburg jaw wasn't as pronounced as some of the other royals, but she did have a protruding lower lip. From the Alps to the Spanish Throne Although the Spanish Habsburgs officially began ruling Spain in 1516, the family’s origins traced back much earlier to the thirteenth century in present day Switzerland. Their climb up the European ladder was methodical. From small territories in the Alpine region, they positioned themselves through a combination of political marriages and strategic warfare until, by the late Middle Ages, they had embedded themselves in the highest levels of European nobility. A turning point came in 1496 when Philip I of Burgundy married Joanna of Castile. This union brought the family into the Spanish royal line. When their son, Charles, inherited both the Austrian and Spanish branches of the family, he became Charles V, ruler of an empire so vast it was said that the sun never set on it. Charles ruled over lands that included Spain, parts of Italy, territories throughout the Low Countries, and the sprawling Spanish colonies. With such far reaching authority, he became the most powerful monarch of his age. Yet within his own body was a hint of what was to come. He already displayed the pronounced Habsburg jaw. It was more than a quirk of appearance. It was a hereditary sign of what centuries of closed circle marriages could produce. Philip IV of Spain A Dynasty’s Defining Feature The Habsburg Jaw The Habsburg jaw, also known clinically as mandibular prognathism, resulted from one generation after another marrying close relatives. It created a distinctive physical look: an extended lower jaw, a prominent chin, and a forward thrust of the lower lip. In portraits, this feature is unmistakable. One only needs to look at the paintings of Charles V, Philip II, or later Philip IV to see the gradual intensification of this inherited trait. Artists of the period did not aim for unflattering realism, yet the jaw could not be disguised. The Habsburg jaw became almost emblematic of the dynasty. Foreign envoys remarked upon it. Playwrights mocked it. Even centuries later, without knowing a face’s identity, art historians can often identify a Habsburg by the shape of the jaw alone. Mariana of Austria (1634-1696) also had a similar jawline which was prominent in European families  Marie Antoinette, who descended from the Austrian Habsburgs rather than the Spanish branch, was noted for having a “projecting lower lip”. She was celebrated for her beauty and charm, yet the faint imprint of the family trait still appeared. It became part of the visual language of her legacy. Portraits often show a slight pout, which some contemporary observers described without malice but with mild curiosity. Still, no member of the family exhibited the physical consequences of inbreeding as drastically as Charles II of Spain. Charles II The Most Tragic Habsburg When Charles II inherited the Spanish crown in 1665, he was only a child. He was also the end point of two centuries of close kin marriages. His father, Philip IV, had married his own niece. This made Philip simultaneously both father and great uncle to his son. The genetic consequences were severe. Modern researchers have calculated Charles’s inbreeding coefficient at an extraordinarily high level, comparable to that of a child whose parents are siblings. Charles II of Spain Charles II received the lifelong nickname “El Hechizado”, meaning “the hexed one”. Many in Spain believed he was cursed. Some blamed witchcraft. Others believed that the sins of previous rulers had somehow manifested physically. But the reality was scientific. The dynasty had over concentrated its gene pool. The French ambassador tasked with assessing Charles as a potential match for a French princess reported bluntly, “The Catholic King is so ugly as to cause fear and he looks ill.” From a young age, Charles struggled to walk, swallow, speak, and digest food. His jaw was so large and stretched that he could barely chew. He suffered seizures, chronic infections, and severe developmental delay. He did not utter his first words until age four. He was intellectually impaired throughout his life. The final tragedy was political. Charles could not produce an heir. This single fact ensured the collapse of the Spanish Habsburg dynasty. Emperor Ferdinand II (1578-1637), husband of Maria Anna of Bavaria and Eleonore Gonzaga He died in 1700 at the age of 39. An autopsy report, whose authenticity remains debated but whose details were widely circulated, supposedly claimed his body contained “no blood, a heart the size of a peppercorn, and a head full of water”. Whether literal or exaggerated, the message was clear. The dynasty that ruled a global empire could not survive itself. Why Did the Habsburgs Continue Marrying Their Own Kin It is easy in hindsight to wonder why no one intervened. But in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, royal families viewed genetics through a very different lens. Bloodline meant legitimacy. Legitimacy meant stability. Stability meant control. Royal houses feared the dilution of their authority if they married outsiders. Marrying within the family kept their power centralised. There were also religious considerations. Many Catholic families preferred matches with relatives because they ensured that children would remain within the faith. And of course, political alliances were more predictable when everyone involved was already related. In essence, the Habsburgs believed they were preserving their dynasty. In reality they were undermining it generation by generation. The Biological Cost of Power The consequences of inbreeding in royal families were not limited to physical appearance. Intermarriage increased the likelihood of recessive genetic conditions emerging. This was seen in other European dynasties. Queen Victoria unknowingly carried the recessive gene for haemophilia, which she passed into several royal houses. The condition spread through her descendants and affected generations of European royalty, including the Romanovs. Among the Habsburgs, the jaw was the most visible marker, but it was not the only problem. High childhood mortality, fertility issues, mental health conditions, and developmental disabilities occurred at statistically significant rates. The dynasty that once stretched across Europe gradually became undermined by the very marriages meant to preserve its strength. The End of the Spanish Habsburg Line Charles II’s death without an heir in 1700 triggered the War of the Spanish Succession, a massive conflict that reshaped European politics. Although Habsburg influence continued in Austria, the Spanish branch vanished entirely. The greatest degree of maxillary deficiency was found in five members of the family — Maximilian I, his daughter Margaret of Austria, his nephew Charles I of Spain, Charles' great-grandson Philip IV — seen here as a young man, with his prominent lip — and Charles II Historians generally agree that the extreme pattern of inbreeding was a decisive factor in the dynasty’s collapse. Experts often describe Charles II as a case study in the biological consequences of prolonged consanguinity. In trying to keep power within the family, the Habsburgs created conditions that ensured power would slip from their hands. It is one of the clearest examples in history of how political ambition can collide with biological reality. Legacy and Modern Scientific Research Today, the Habsburg jaw remains a subject of scientific curiosity. Researchers studying historical genetics have used portraits, written accounts, medical records, and statistical modelling to understand how traits were passed down. A 2019 genetic analysis published in Annals of Human Biology directly linked the degree of mandibular prognathism to measurable levels of inbreeding. Even now, when we look at portraits from the period, we are not simply observing artistic style. We are witnessing the slow accumulation of genetic pressure. It is a rare example of how history and biology intersect. A dynasty once shaped by power, ambition, diplomacy, and imperial might is remembered partly through the outline of human bone. Conclusion The story of the Habsburg jaw is not a tale of mockery or scandal. It is a reminder that even the most powerful families in Europe were vulnerable to the basic laws of biology. Intermarriage may have strengthened political alliances, but it undermined the very bodies of the kings and queens entrusted with ruling vast territories. In an age when the sun never set on the Habsburg empire, the dynasty wielded extraordinary influence. Yet the empire they built with strategy and ambition ultimately faltered through decisions made in their most intimate rooms. In marrying only each other, they protected their lineage and simultaneously sealed its fate. Sources Henry Kamen, Spain 1469 to 1714 A Society of Conflict  (Routledge, 2005). John Lynch, The Hispanic World  (Thames and Hudson, 1992). Geoffrey Parker, The Grand Strategy of Philip II  (Yale University Press, 1998). C. M. Woolf, “The Habsburg Jaw and Other Deformities” Journal of Medical Biography. G. Alvarez, F. Ceballos, C. Quinteiro, “The Role of Inbreeding in the Extinction of the Spanish Habsburg Dynasty” Annals of Human Biology , 2019. Richard Lodge, The Story of the Habsburgs  (T. Fisher Unwin, 1915). J. H. Elliott, Imperial Spain 1469 to 1716  (Penguin History, 2002).

There is a story that Jack Nicholson, sitting cross legged on the floor of a cramped Oregon hospital room, asked a psychiatric patient whether the electroshock therapy he received hurt. The patient replied simply, “Only at first.” Nicholson later said the moment stayed with him through every scene. The film’s creation was full of moments like that, small human details tucked behind its global success. The making of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest  was not just a film production but a messy, emotional, unusually intimate collaboration between actors, hospital staff, political refugees, frustrated producers, and the shadow of Cold War paranoia. What emerged was a film that came to define 1970s American cinema. Yet its path was anything but straightforward. It involved lost manuscripts, a director under surveillance, disputes with the author, a recasting that strained a father and son, and a Czech filmmaker who saw in Kesey’s story a reflection of life under authoritarianism. This is the story behind the story. The long road from page to screen When One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest  was published in 1962, Kirk Douglas snapped up the film rights almost immediately. Douglas had starred in the Broadway version and believed in the material deeply, imagining himself immortalising Randle McMurphy on the big screen. His company, Joel Productions, announced an adaptation with Douglas as McMurphy, Dale Wasserman writing the screenplay, and George Roy Hill directing. Douglas later joked that trying to get the film made in the 1960s felt as if the studios were conspiring against him. Hollywood executives, still firmly under the influence of the Production Code, saw the material as too strange, too bleak, and too political. The world of mental hospitals was a risky subject, and Douglas was simply unable to convince anyone to finance it. Meanwhile, a young Jack Nicholson quietly attempted to obtain the rights himself, but Douglas had outpaced him. The film rights then became trapped in years of legal tangles. Wasserman sold them back to Douglas in 1970, only to delay the project further with lawsuits that slowed everything down. By then, the counterculture had fully arrived, and the novel’s themes felt more relevant than ever. It was at this point that Michael Douglas stepped in. A second generation steps forward Michael Douglas, then in his twenties and involved in student activism at the University of California, Santa Barbara, understood Cuckoo’s Nest  from a different angle. The idea of one rebellious individual challenging a rigid system resonated strongly with him. He convinced his father to let him produce the film instead of starring in it. He first approached director Richard Rush. Rush loved the book but failed to secure financial backing. The studios still saw no commercial potential. Then in 1973, Douglas met Saul Zaentz, co-owner of Fantasy Records and a man known for taking bold risks. Together, Douglas and Zaentz formed a partnership and committed to making the film independently. It was Zaentz who suggested returning to Ken Kesey for a screenplay. Kesey agreed at first, delivering a version that told the story strictly from Chief Bromden’s point of view, just as the novel had. But creative differences quickly surfaced. Kesey disliked some of the casting ideas, objected to the shift away from the Chief’s internal monologue, and eventually walked away, filing a lawsuit that he later settled. Kesey famously said he never watched the completed film. With Kesey gone, screenwriters Lawrence Hauben and Bo Goldman reworked the script into a more traditionally structured story. The emotional centre remained, but now presented from the outside rather than from within Bromden’s mind. This proved crucial for casting. Because the next step was a question that nearly derailed the entire project. Who should play Randle P. McMurphy? For Kirk Douglas, the answer remained obvious: himself. He had carried the role on Broadway and felt utterly connected to Kesey’s irreverent rebel. But by the early 1970s, Douglas was in his late fifties. Hal Ashby, then attached as director, and later Miloš Forman, felt he was simply too old for the part. Michael Douglas often said that refusing his father the role was one of the hardest decisions of his entire life. The tension lingered for years. A parade of actors were considered. Gene Hackman, Marlon Brando, James Caan, and Burt Reynolds all declined. Forman initially favoured Reynolds. Ashby wanted Nicholson, then thirty seven and rising fast. Michael Douglas hesitated, unsure whether Nicholson could embody McMurphy’s swagger and raw unpredictability. Nicholson’s schedule also caused long delays. What had seemed a setback later proved a benefit, giving casting directors time to build an exceptional ensemble. Danny DeVito reprised his stage role as Martini. Brad Dourif stunned everyone in his audition for Billy Bibbit. Michael Douglas admitted he never stood a chance for the part once Dourif walked into the room. The most unexpected casting discovery was Will Sampson, a nearly unknown Native American painter and rodeo performer who stood nearly six foot seven. A used car dealer told Douglas, “The biggest Indian I’ve ever seen just walked in.” Sampson was flown to meet Nicholson, who reportedly sat on Sampson’s lap during a small plane ride and shouted, “It’s the Chief, man, it’s the Chief.” The greatest casting challenge remained Nurse Ratched. Becoming Nurse Ratched The role passed through a near endless list of possibilities: Jeanne Moreau, Angela Lansbury, Ellen Burstyn, Jane Fonda, Anne Bancroft, and more. Lily Tomlin was even cast at one point. But director Miloš Forman kept returning to one name: Louise Fletcher. Fletcher had left acting for over a decade to raise her children. Hers was not the obvious Hollywood comeback story. She auditioned repeatedly over the course of a year, with Forman unsure whether she could deliver both the calm composure and the deeply chilling undercurrent that Nurse Ratched demanded. On her final audition in late 1974, she read opposite Nicholson. The next day, her agent called to tell her she was expected in Oregon in early January to begin rehearsals. She later recalled earning only about ten thousand dollars for eleven weeks of work, while Nicholson’s salary towered above everyone else’s. Louise Fletcher’s performance became one of the most quietly terrifying in cinema history. She never raised her voice. She rarely changed expression. Yet she conveyed absolute institutional power. Into the real asylum The producers made an unusual choice: to shoot the film in an actual psychiatric hospital. The Oregon State Hospital in Salem agreed, under the enthusiastic supervision of its director, Dr Dean Brooks. Brooks not only allowed filming inside the active hospital but also played the fictional Dr Spivey in the film. Brooks assigned real patients for the actors to shadow. Some cast members slept on the ward. Many only learned later that several of the patients were criminally insane. The early rehearsals in January 1975 felt more like immersion therapy than preparation. The cast observed therapy sessions, shared meals with patients, and watched electroconvulsive treatment up close. Nicholson and Fletcher attended one together, and Fletcher later said the experience shaped her understanding of Ratched’s clinical detachment. Forman wanted the group therapy scenes to feel spontaneous, overlapping, and unpolished. To achieve this, cinematographer Haskell Wexler used three cameras that ran simultaneously, capturing facial reactions and small behavioural details that would be impossible to recreate. Today, this feels normal, but in 1975 it was a radical, expensive choice. Filming was not without turbulence. Conflicts simmered over Wexler’s approach and his involvement with the documentary Underground , about the Weather Underground. He was eventually removed from the production, replaced by Bill Butler. Nicholson, perhaps partly in protest, spoke only to Butler on set for the remainder of filming. Forman later described the atmosphere as “controlled chaos”. A director shaped by political repression What makes Cuckoo’s Nest  feel so authentic is perhaps that Forman understood its themes intimately. Born in Czechoslovakia in 1932, he had lived through Nazi occupation, Stalinism, and the harsh clampdown following the Prague Spring. “The Communist Party was my Nurse Ratched,” he wrote, “telling me what I could and could not do.” Kirk Douglas had originally offered Forman the directing job in the 1960s, but political interference in Czechoslovakia prevented Forman from receiving the novel. The package was intercepted by the StB, the state security service. Douglas believed Forman had simply ignored him. Forman believed Douglas had abandoned him. It took years for the misunderstanding to come to light. By the time Forman escaped to the United States in the early 1970s, the original opportunity had long passed. Yet fate brought him back to the project. When Douglas and Zaentz watched The Firemen’s Ball , they immediately saw the sensibility they needed: a director who understood ensembles, enclosed spaces, and the absurdity of bureaucratic systems. Forman flew to California, read the script page by page with the producers, and secured the job. Filming in Salem and the little scenes that mattered Principal photography began in January 1975 and lasted roughly three months. The script included a fishing trip sequence filmed in Depoe Bay on the Oregon coast, which produced some of the film’s most visually memorable moments. Local fishermen watched the production with amusement, including Nicholson’s attempt to manoeuvre the boat confidently despite not knowing how to sail. Inside the hospital, the challenge was to avoid theatricality. Forman discouraged the actors from watching playback, fearing it would make their performances self conscious. This caused tension at first. Nicholson grew anxious that his work was flat or unfocused. Michael Douglas convinced Forman to show him a few scenes, which restored Nicholson’s confidence. The hospital environment created a blur between performance and reality. Actor Sydney Lassick, who played Charlie Cheswick, became so overwhelmed during filming that Dr Brooks ordered him off the set for a day to stabilise. Many cast members later said that the boundaries between acting and personal emotion felt unusually porous on this production. Louise Fletcher later revealed that life on set sometimes blurred uncomfortably with the role she was playing. Because the other cast members bonded so tightly, she kept herself slightly apart, believing that Nurse Ratched’s cool distance should never fully disappear between takes. Yet the separation began to wear on her. In a 2018 Vanity Fair interview she described one memorable moment when she surprised the cast by slipping out of her stiff white nurse’s uniform to reveal a simple slip and bra underneath. “It was, like, Here I am. I’m a woman. I am a woman,” she said. The gesture was not theatrical so much as a way of reminding both herself and the men around her that the soft-spoken, reserved actor beneath the uniform was not the authoritarian figure she embodied on screen. Even the soundscape shaped the mood. Composer Jack Nitzsche built the score around unusual instruments, including a musical saw and wine glasses. The strange, slightly unsettling tone mirrored the film’s blend of humour, brutality, and quiet rebellion. Budget overruns, scheduling chaos, and a very unlikely victory The intended two million dollar budget soon ballooned to over four million. Zaentz risked his own company, borrowing against Fantasy Records to keep the project alive. Then came the distribution problem. Nearly every studio turned it down. United Artists finally accepted, almost by default. Michael Douglas called it “our last choice”. The release on 19 November 1975 was cautious. No one expected much. Yet audiences embraced it immediately. It ended up becoming one of the highest grossing films of the decade, earning over 163 million dollars worldwide. At the Academy Awards, it achieved something only two other films in history had done: it won the big five. Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, and Best Screenplay. Saul Zaentz later said that the greatest joy of the evening was seeing Louise Fletcher sign to her deaf parents from the podium, telling them she loved them. Reception, legacy, and the afterlife of the film The film received widespread critical acclaim, though not without some hesitation. Roger Ebert initially felt the ending leaned too heavily on symbolism, but later included the film in his Great Movies list. Some critics disliked the departure from Chief Bromden’s perspective. Others felt its critique of institutions was too blunt. Yet audiences reacted with rare emotional intensity. Many interpreted it as a story about American society in the post Vietnam era. Others saw it through the lens of civil rights, disability rights, or the growing distrust of medical authority. In later decades, the film also influenced debates on psychiatric care, including the movement for patient rights and deinstitutionalisation. Its cultural footprint is vast, ranging from television parodies to academic studies on power structures. Perhaps most striking is that a film defined by institutional confinement was created by people who felt trapped in their own ways: Forman by political repression, Kesey by creative disputes, Nicholson by uncertainty about his own performance, Douglas by studio rejection, and Fletcher by years away from acting. They each brought their own tension to the project. And it shows. Sources • American Film Institute Catalog entry on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest https://catalog.afi.com/Film/55659-ONE-FLEWOVER-THE-CUCKOOS-NEST • Miloš Forman interview with The Guardian (2012) where he discusses the film and his political background https://www.theguardian.com/film/2012/may/13/milos-forman-amadeus-hollywood-interview • Detailed production history from The Oregon Encyclopedia https://www.oregonencyclopedia.org/articles/one_flew_over_the_cuckoo_s_nest_film_1975 • Biography.com profile of Ken Kesey including his reaction to the film https://www.biography.com/writer/ken-kesey • The Hollywood Reporter oral history of Cuckoo’s Nest https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-news/one-flew-over-cuckoos-nest-oral-history-jack-nicholson-1235036930 • Oregon State Hospital Museum history page (filming section) https://oshm.ohs.org/filming-of-one-flew-over-the-cuckoos-nest • Brad Dourif interview discussing his audition and experience https://www.avclub.com/brad-dourif-on-lord-of-the-rings-childs-play-and-one-f-1798214005 • Louise Fletcher obituary in The Guardian with detailed production anecdotes https://www.theguardian.com/film/2022/sep/24/louise-fletcher-obituary • “Nicholson’s Method” retrospective article from IndieWire https://www.indiewire.com/features/general/jack-nicholson-method-acting-one-flew-cuckoos-nest-1202157154/ • The New Yorker archive piece on Ken Kesey and the novel’s film adaptation https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1992/06/22/the-electric-kool-aid-acid-test-ken-kesey • Lawrence Hauben profile from Writers Guild Foundation https://www.wgfoundation.org/laurence-hauben • Bo Goldman obituary with detailed script development history from Variety https://variety.com/2023/film/news/bo-goldman-dead-one-flew-over-the-cuckoos-nest-scribe-1235681977/ • Behind the scenes recollections by cinematographer Haskell Wexler https://ascmag.com/articles/on-location-one-flew-over-the-cuckoos-nest • Interview with Saul Zaentz about financing independent films https://www.independent.co.uk/news/obituaries/saul-zaentz-independent-film-producer-behind-amadeus-and-one-flew-over-the-cuckoo-s-nest-9050273.html • The Depoe Bay filming history from Oregon Film Trail https://oregonfilmtrail.com/one-flew-over-the-cuckoos-nest-depoe-bay • Oregon ArtsWatch article on the hospital filming legacy https://www.orartswatch.org/milos-forman-oregon-hospital-and-the-making-of-a-masterpiece • Rare 1975 New York Times  production report (archived) https://www.nytimes.com/1975/01/12/archives/cuckoos-nest-is-filming-in-oregon.html • American Society of Cinematographers page on Bill Butler https://theasc.com/magazine/june-1976

In the 1770s, a peculiar intersection of ancient artefacts and Enlightenment-era exploration brought forward a unique publication that would stir both academic curiosity and moral outrage. Pierre-François Hugues d’Hancarville, an art historian with a penchant for controversy, was central to this revival of ancient Roman erotica. His work on erotic cameos, particularly after the reign of Tiberius, culminated in publications such as Veneres uti observantur in gemmis antiquis , which reflected a fascination with the sensual and often explicit aspects of Roman material culture. At the heart of this exploration was the concept of Roman society as radically different from the Christian moral framework of 18th-century Europe. As James A. Steintrager notes, the material culture that Sade, and by extension d’Hancarville, encountered was “radically other than Christian modernity, including — or most especially — with regard to religion and sexuality.” This contrast made Roman erotica not just a subject of titillation but also a window into an alternate moral universe that Enlightenment thinkers were increasingly keen to explore, albeit often in the guise of classical scholarship. D’Hancarville’s life was one of perpetual motion, both literally and metaphorically. By the time he met the notorious Marquis de Sade in Florence in 1775, d’Hancarville had established himself as a key player in the art world, acting as an intermediary for Sir William Hamilton, the British diplomat whose antiquities collection would later become part of the British Museum. Together, the marquis and the baron were two men on the run, both physically and socially: Sade was fleeing the consequences of his libertine crimes in France, while d’Hancarville was constantly evading creditors and legal repercussions due to his involvement in dubious ventures, including the publication of risqué material. D’Hancarville’s publication history reveals an ongoing fascination with the sexual customs of the ancient world. His Monumens de la vie privée des douze Césars  (1780) and Monumens du culte secret des dames romaines  (1784) pushed the boundaries of scholarly publishing, especially with regards to their content. These works, which d’Hancarville himself would perhaps have considered educational, were notorious for their explicit nature, particularly in relation to the depiction of Roman sexuality. His crowning achievement in this niche was Veneres uti observantur in gemmis antiquis , a two-volume work that presented detailed engravings of Roman cameos depicting erotic figures. These cameos, small gemstones intricately carved with intimate scenes, were not merely historical objects but evidence, in d’Hancarville’s view, of a liberated Roman attitude towards sex, fertility, and desire. The book’s success in both France and England was a reflection of the period’s interest in antiquity and its art, but it also tapped into the more illicit undercurrents of 18th-century society. The publication of such works, particularly with their suggestive engravings, served as both a scholarly and subversive commentary on the sexual mores of the time. It was during this period that the classicist Richard Payne Knight published An Account of the Remains of the Worship of Priapus  (1786), which, with its vivid frontispiece of wax organs, directly referenced and was inspired by d’Hancarville’s studies. Such works were not simply academic exercises but also reflections of an emerging recognition of sexuality as a legitimate area of historical and cultural study. What makes d’Hancarville’s work so compelling today is its blend of scholarly ambition and playful irreverence. The prefaces and notes he provided are filled with arch glosses on the explicit images, often softening the more graphic elements with wry observations. For instance, in the image of seven erect penises circling a snail, d’Hancarville offers an explanation rooted in natural history: gastropods are simultaneous hermaphrodites and thus a fitting symbol of lust. In other instances, he delves into cultural references, such as attributing the left-handed sexual act depicted in one scene to the “complaisance” Livia Drusilla exhibited towards her husband Augustus. However, despite these interpretative gestures, there was no escaping the fact that d’Hancarville was navigating dangerous waters. His erotic publications, particularly Priapi uti observantur in gemmis antiquis , though not widely digitised today, were part of a broader movement in Enlightenment Europe that sought to reconcile the classical world with modern sensibilities. His contemporary, Hargrave Jennings, who composed the ten-volume “Phallic Series”, even questioned whether a man as “serious” as d’Hancarville could express himself in the light tone evident in the notes accompanying such works. D’Hancarville’s legacy in this regard is complex. On the one hand, his publications contributed to a growing scholarly interest in ancient sexuality and fertility rituals. On the other hand, they were unabashedly pornographic by the standards of his time, and it is likely that the market for such works was not limited to academic readers. As he noted in his preface, the images were deliberately small to remain true to the originals but also to limit their indecency — a detail that illustrates both the fine line d’Hancarville was walking and the titillating allure these works held for contemporary readers. In many ways, the erotic cameos from after the reign of Tiberius, as interpreted by d’Hancarville, remain a testament to the enduring tension between antiquity and modernity. They are artefacts of a world where sex, art, and religion were intertwined in ways that still challenge our modern understanding. Through his work, d’Hancarville captured this complexity, offering a window into a past that was both familiar and shockingly alien. His writings, much like the cameos themselves, are small but potent reminders of a time when the boundaries between scholarship and sensuality were not always clear-cut. • British Museum “Engraved Gems and Cameos Collection” https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection • The Metropolitan Museum of Art “Classical Cameos and Intaglios in the Eighteenth Century” https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection • The Getty Research Institute “Erotic Antiquities and the Collecting Practices of the Eighteenth Century” https://www.getty.edu/research/ • Oxford University Press “Roman Erotic Art and its Reception” by John Clarke https://global.oup.com/ • The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes “The Rediscovery of Classical Erotica in the Eighteenth Century” https://www.jstor.org/ • Victoria and Albert Museum “Eighteenth Century Neoclassical Gems and Their Makers” https://www.vam.ac.uk/ • Cambridge University Press “The Reimagining of Roman Myth and Eroticism in Enlightenment Europe” https://www.cambridge.org/ • Archaeological Institute of America “Roman Intaglios, Cameos and Erotic Iconography” https://www.archaeological.org/ • The Courtauld Institute of Art “Collecting Antiquities in the Long Eighteenth Century” https://courtauld.ac.uk/ • University of Chicago Press “Art, Sexuality and the Classical Revival” https://press.uchicago.edu/

Barbara Daly Baekeland’s life seemed like something out of a glamorous movie in the 1940s. She had it all: stunning beauty, a prominent marriage, and a place among New York’s elite. Married to Brooks Baekeland, the grandson of Leo Baekeland (who invented Bakelite, the first fully synthetic plastic) Barbara was a socialite who graced the pages of Vogue  and Harper’s Bazaar . But behind the glamorous façade, Barbara’s life was deeply troubled, marred by mental illness, dysfunctional relationships, and ultimately, tragedy. A Promising Start Barbara was born in 1922 into a life of wealth, though it didn’t come without hardship. When she was just 10, her father, Frank Daly, committed suicide in 1932. He made it look like an accident so his family could claim the insurance money, which would keep them financially stable through the tough times of the Great Depression. This early exposure to loss and deception left a mark on Barbara. Her mother, Nini Daly, had already been through a mental breakdown years before Barbara was born, and it seemed that mental illness ran in the family. This dark history would follow Barbara throughout her life. Despite the turmoil in her family, Barbara was a star in New York society . Known for her striking beauty, she became one of the most admired socialites in the city. She found her way into the fashion world, modelling for top magazines and earning a reputation as one of New York’s most beautiful women. The Marriage to Brooks Baekeland In 1942, Barbara married Brooks Baekeland, a wealthy, handsome, and charming man from one of the most prominent families in America. His grandfather, Leo Baekeland, had made a fortune from Bakelite, revolutionising the plastics industry. Barbara, with her beauty and Brooks with his family’s wealth, seemed like the perfect couple. But their marriage was built on shaky ground from the start. Barbara had tricked Brooks into marrying her by claiming she was pregnant when she wasn’t, and once they were married, the cracks in their relationship started to show. Barbara and Brooks In 1946, they had a son, Antony “Tony” Baekeland. From the beginning, Tony was the centre of Barbara’s world. She doted on him, and the Baekelands portrayed Tony as a brilliant, charming child. But Tony’s relationship with his parents, particularly with his mother, would become more complicated and troubling over time. A Family in Crisis The Baekeland family may have looked glamorous from the outside, but inside, things were far from perfect. Tony struggled with his identity, and when he came out as gay, it clashed with the conservative world his parents wanted him to fit into. Barbara, in particular, was obsessed with trying to “cure” Tony of his homosexuality. Her efforts were extreme, she hired prostitutes to seduce him, hoping to change his sexual orientation. Unsurprisingly, these efforts didn’t work, and the strain between mother and son only grew. Meanwhile, Barbara’s marriage to Brooks was disintegrating. Brooks had an affair with one of Tony’s female friends, which only worsened the already tense family dynamics. By the mid-1960s, the couple divorced, and Brooks moved on, leaving Barbara and Tony to fend for themselves. It wasn’t long before their relationship took an even darker turn. Barbara’s Obsession and the Move to London After the divorce, Barbara and Tony moved to London, where their already fraught relationship spiralled into something toxic and unhealthy. Barbara’s fixation on her son’s sexuality deepened, and her mental health continued to decline. She even went so far as to suggest that she could “cure” Tony by sleeping with him herself, a disturbing and shocking reflection of her emotional instability. This unhealthy dynamic took a severe toll on Tony, who began to unravel under the pressure. The co-dependent relationship between mother and son became increasingly volatile, and Tony’s behaviour became more erratic. The Tragic End By 1972, things had reached a breaking point. Tony, who had already attacked his mother once before, snapped. On November 17, 1972, in their Chelsea penthouse, Tony stabbed Barbara to death with a kitchen knife. The murder, shocking in its brutality, was the culmination of years of emotional manipulation and mental instability. When the police arrived, they found Tony shockingly calm. According to reports, he was in the middle of ordering Chinese food, seemingly detached from the reality of what had just happened. Tony was arrested and eventually sent to Broadmoor, a high-security psychiatric hospital. For many, the Baekeland tragedy was an unbelievable fall from grace, a family that had everything but ultimately succumbed to its internal demons. Aftermath and More Violence Tony spent several years in Broadmoor, and despite the seriousness of his crime, (and due to the intervention of his grandmother) he was released in 1980. He moved to New York to live with his grandmother, but within a week, he attacked her with a knife, just as he had done to his mother. She survived the attack, but Tony was sent to Rikers Island, where he awaited trial for attempted murder. On July 27, 1981, the day of his court appearance, Tony was found dead in his prison cell. He had suffocated himself with a plastic bag. His death marked the end of a tragic and violent chapter in the Baekeland family’s history. His father, Brooks Baekeland, later wrote a bitter epitaph for his son, calling him “an enormous failure of intelligence.” A Legacy of Dysfunction The story of Barbara Daly Baekeland and her son Tony is a haunting reminder of how wealth and privilege cannot protect against deep-seated mental health issues and family dysfunction. Barbara, once a stunning socialite who had the world at her feet, became a figure trapped by her own emotional turmoil. Her obsession with controlling her son’s life—and the tragic consequences that followed—serve as a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked mental illness and toxic family relationships. Sources “A wealthy heiress is murdered by her son” — History.com (11 Nov 2009; updated 27 May 2025). HISTORY CHANNEL ITALIA URL: https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/november-17/a-wealthy-heiress-is-murdered-by-her-son “Death of a socialite: the Barbara Baekeland case” — Crime+Investigation UK. Crime+Investigation UK TV Channel URL: https://www.crimeandinvestigation.co.uk/article/death-of-a-socialite-the-barbara-baekeland-case “Robins: From Poems to Tale of Murder” — Los Angeles Times, 18 Aug 1985. Los Angeles Times URL: https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1985-08-18-vw-1739-story.html “The Fall of the House of Baekeland” — The Washington Post, 14 Sept 1985. The Washington Post URL: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/entertainment/books/1985/09/15/the-fall-of-the-house-of-baekeland/41da760f-dba9-4ac8-bf81-c2469642d657/ “Books: Cesspool” — Time magazine, 18 Apr 2005. TIME URL: https://time.com/archive/6672329/books-cesspool/ “The beautiful and the damned” — The Independent (Ireland), 3 Nov 2007. independent.ie URL: https://www.independent.ie/news/the-beautiful-and-the-damned/26329564.html