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In the 19th century, certain books were bound in a specific type of leather made from human skin, obtained from individuals who did not consent to it. This practice, known as Anthropodermic bibliopegy, was prevalent between the 16th and 19th centuries. Doctors primarily bound these books, sourcing the skin from deceased patients or criminals who had been executed. Through advancements in technology, we have identified 18 books bound with human skin, although it is believed that more may be held in private collections. One of the most well-known instances of Anthropodermic bibliopegy involves three books that were once owned by Dr. John Stockton Hugh. These books were bound using the skin taken from the thigh of a single female patient, Mary Lynch, who tragically passed away in 1869 due to severe parasitic conditions. It took 20 years for her skin to be used in the binding of these three books, which focus on female health and reproductive systems. Despite the explicit mention in the books that the binding is composed of human skin, historians remain uncertain as to why the 23-year-old doctor chose to preserve and tan the patient's skin. One prevalent theory suggests that doctors of the 19th century used their patients' skin to bind books as a way to immortalise them. During that era, doctors were often confronted with immense suffering, confusion, and gruesome sights. The concept of a clinical gaze was first explored in the book "The Birth of the Clinic," where doctors began to detach themselves from the human aspect of their patients. This detachment may have contributed to a shift in ethical standards, leading to the human skin bindings being viewed as a form of reverence rather than a macabre indulgence. On the other side of the spectrum, the practice was seen as a punishment for criminals. During 1828 in Edinburgh, Scotland, William Burke killed over 16 people to sell to doctors as cadavers. Burke was sentenced to death, hanged and dissected publically. His skin was used to bind the dissecting doctor’s pocketbook which is now stored in the Surgeons Hall Museum in Edinburgh. There are some books that historians can’t explain. ‘The Dance of Death’ was bound in human leather at the turn of the 19th century and contains stories and meditations on the subject of death. A book of French Erotica is bound with the skin of a woman’s breast and indeed, has a nipple on the cover. In recent years, it has become possible to test the validity of these books. Out of 46 rumored books, only 18 have been confirmed as valid. While DNA testing is not an option, scientists can determine if the books are made from human skin by analyzing collagen levels, among other methods. The regulations concerning these books are straightforward: they can be kept in private museum collections and used for study as long as they are not exhibited as human curiosities. Although these books originate from various regions worldwide, they appear to be mostly of European origin.

It is worth pausing over a curious moment in the intellectual history of the late nineteenth century, when one man confidently placed himself alongside Copernicus and Darwin as the architect of a world changing humiliation. Sigmund Freud did not lack ambition. In a series of essays written around the turn of the century, he argued that humanity had suffered three successive blows to its self regard. First, Nicolaus Copernicus demonstrated that the Earth was not the centre of the universe but a modest planet orbiting the Sun. Then Charles Darwin showed that humans were not divinely set apart from the rest of nature but descended from animals, “implying an ineradicable animal nature in him”. Finally, Freud declared, modern psychology had delivered the most painful revelation of all. Human beings were not even masters of their own minds. The ego, he wrote, “is not even master in its own house”, condemned to scraps of knowledge about unconscious forces operating beyond conscious control. It is a grand story, and Freud told it with relish. It is also bound up with one of the more uncomfortable facts of his early career. When Cocaine Was a Medical Marvel At the moment Freud encountered cocaine, it was not an illicit drug but a fashionable pharmaceutical novelty. For several thousand years, coca leaves had been chewed by Indigenous communities in the Andes, valued for suppressing hunger, easing fatigue, and dulling pain at high altitudes. The leaves themselves did not travel well, however, and only in 1855 did the German chemist Friedrich Gaedcke succeed in isolating the active alkaloid. Initially named erythroxyline, the substance was refined over subsequent decades. By the mid 1880s it had acquired the simpler name cocaine and a growing reputation as a medical cure all. Pharmaceutical companies promoted it enthusiastically, advertising its supposed effectiveness against depression, indigestion, asthma, alcoholism, and morphine addiction. A Young Doctor Looking for a Breakthrough Freud, then in his late twenties, was professionally restless. He had published respectable but unglamorous research, including a staining technique for nerve tissue and a speculative paper on the location of eel testes. These achievements did little to distinguish him within Vienna’s crowded medical world. Cocaine appeared at precisely the right moment. Freud learned of the drug through the Therapeutic Gazette, a medical journal owned by the American pharmaceutical firm Parke Davis. Both Parke Davis and Merck supplied him with samples, and Parke Davis paid him 24 dollars to endorse their product. For a young academic on the margins of recognition, the opportunity was difficult to resist. The Paper That Started It All In April 1884, Freud obtained his first supply of cocaine from Angel’s Pharmacy in Vienna and began experimenting on himself. In letters, he described using it “against depression and against indigestion, and with the most brilliant success”. He reported heightened energy, improved concentration, and an absence of fatigue. These experiences culminated in his paper Über Coca, published later that year. Freud described an initial “gorgeous excitement”, followed by sustained euphoria and the suppression of hunger. Cocaine, he argued, enhanced mental clarity rather than dulling it, a quality he found especially valuable. Getting Addiction Very Wrong What Freud failed to understand was cocaine’s capacity to create dependence. In Über Coca, he insisted that neither first nor repeated doses produced any compulsive desire for continued use. Users, he claimed, often felt a mild aversion after the effects wore off. Elsewhere, however, Freud revealed a different reality. After three to five hours of intensive work under cocaine, he wrote, “a further dose of coca is necessary in order to ward off fatigue”. The contradiction is striking, and with hindsight, deeply revealing. Ernst von Fleischl-Marxow Freud was soon sending samples to friends in the medical profession, citing its potential application as a mental stimulant, a treatment for asthma, eating disorders, an aphrodisiac (you have to wonder if Freud's celebrated interest in sexual fetishism was crystallized during a blow-fuelled four-hour masturbation marathon), and, alarmingly, as a cure for morphine and alcohol addiction. He introduced it to Ernst von Fleischl-Marxow, a physiologist friend who took morphine for the chronic pain he suffered from a thumb injury he got while dissecting a corpse. Rather than neutralizing his addiction, it added another to the pot. Fleischl-Marxow was soon spending 6,000 marks a month on his habit and was dead seven years later at age 45. A Friend, a Cure, and a Fatal Outcome Freud did not confine his enthusiasm to his own use. He promoted cocaine to colleagues as a treatment for a wide range of conditions, including morphine addiction. One of those persuaded was Ernst von Fleischl Marxow, a gifted physiologist suffering chronic pain after a dissection injury. Rather than curing Fleischl Marxow’s dependence on morphine, cocaine compounded it. He developed severe addiction, experienced hallucinations, and spent vast sums sustaining his habit. He died in 1891 at the age of 45. Freud was reportedly shaken by the episode, though he never publicly acknowledged responsibility. The One Time Cocaine Actually Worked Amid the damage, one genuine medical success emerged. Karl Koller, an ophthalmologist and friend of Freud, realised that cocaine’s numbing properties could be used as a local anaesthetic in eye surgery. His 1884 demonstration revolutionised ophthalmology and remains cocaine’s most enduring legitimate contribution to medicine. Koller himself did not develop a personal habit. When an unopened sample of cocaine was discovered among his papers in the Library of Congress in 1995, it appeared unused. Freud, by contrast, rarely left such opportunities untouched. Wilhelm Fliess (right) and Sigmund Freud in the early 1890s. Nose Surgery and Dangerous Ideas The culture of self experimentation surrounding cocaine also encouraged speculative excess. Wilhelm Fliess, a close friend of Freud and an ear, nose, and throat specialist, developed a theory linking the nose to the female reproductive organs. He believed that nearly any illness could be treated through nasal intervention. Freud entertained these ideas seriously. Both men underwent nasal operations themselves. Their collaboration culminated in a disastrous attempt to treat a female patient diagnosed with hysteria, a condition then believed to originate in the uterus. The procedure nearly killed her through catastrophic bleeding. Freud later transformed the incident into the famous “Irma” dream in The Interpretation of Dreams , subtly shifting blame and responsibility. The Talking Cure Takes Shape As Freud distanced himself from cocaine in the mid 1890s, he turned his attention toward developing the ideas that would define psychoanalysis. Concepts such as repression, libido, and the unconscious took shape. Patients reclined on couches and spoke freely, often for years, in what became known as the talking cure. Critics later argued that psychoanalysis individualised distress while leaving social structures untouched, making it a discipline particularly suited to bourgeois society. Philosophers Take Freud Apart In the 1970s, French philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari offered one of the most influential critiques of Freud. They divided his career into three phases: the early explorer of desire, the theorist who confined it within the family through the Oedipus complex, and the clinician who institutionalised endless analysis. They described Freud as “a fantastic Christopher Columbus” and “a masked Al Capone”, recognising both his originality and his disciplinary control. What they did not emphasise was how closely early psychoanalysis resembled the structure of addiction itself: long monologues, circular thinking, and compulsive introspection, all emerging from a cocaine fuelled intellectual environment. The Day Freud Walked Away Freud appears to have stopped using cocaine in 1896, shortly after his father’s death. He never explained the timing, but the coincidence is suggestive. By then, cocaine’s reputation was deteriorating, and reports of addiction and psychosis were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Freud rarely mentioned the drug again. What Cocaine Left Behind Today, psychoanalysis occupies an ambiguous position. It remains influential in literature, film, and cultural theory, yet its scientific status is widely questioned. Freud himself hoped his ideas would eventually be confirmed by neuroscience. Instead, many have been revised, absorbed, or rejected. Freud’s cocaine use has not undone his legacy, but it has complicated it. The unconscious entered modern thought during a period of heightened stimulation, intellectual risk, and chemical assistance. That, too, is part of the story. https://www.pbs.org/newshour/show/cocaine-how-miracle-drug-nearly-destroyed-sigmund-freud-william-halsted https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jama/article-abstract/896143 https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/0740547284900230/pdf?md5=2d95adb5f02de7b2579540b841ea52bc&pid=1-s2.0-0740547284900230-main.pdf https://www.narratively.com/p/when-sigmund-freud-got-hooked-on-cocaine

The winning scene at the finish of the first Tour. In the middle on the right: the winner, Maurice Garin, to his left: most likely Leon Georget. The 1903 Tour de France marked the inaugural cycling race organized and sponsored by L'Auto, predecessor of the present-day daily, L'Équipe. Spanning from July 1 to 19, it comprised six stages covering a distance of 2,428 km (1,509 mi), with Maurice Garin emerging victorious. Conceived to bolster L'Auto's readership amidst competition from Le Vélo, the race was initially slated for June but was postponed by a month due to a lack of entrants. Prize money was increased to attract participants. Unlike modern Grand Tours, the 1903 edition featured fewer but significantly longer stages. Cyclists were not obligated to compete in all six stages, although doing so was necessary for general classification eligibility. The riders get ready to start. Note that what constitutes effective cycle clothing hadn’t been settled. Pre-race favourite Maurice Garin dominated, winning the first stage and maintaining his lead throughout. He secured victory in the final two stages, finishing with a commanding three-hour margin over his closest rival. L'Auto's circulation soared more than sixfold during and after the race, affirming its success and prompting a rerun in 1904, following the demise of Le Vélo. Cyclists had one to three rest days between each stage, and the route was largely flat, with only one stage featuring a significant mountain. The cyclists were not grouped in teams but raced as individuals Cyclists competed individually, paying a fee of ten francs for overall classification or five francs per stage. With stages commencing before dawn due to their length, the final leg even started at 21:00 the night before. While the inaugural Tour de France didn't feature mountain passes, it included several lesser cols like the col du Pin-Bouchain and col de la République. The first kilometre in the history of the Tour de France. Pacing by hired cyclists was banned by Desgrange, although initially allowed for the final stage before being rescinded. Stewards ensured riders completed the full route, and the leader was identified by a green armband, as the yellow jersey wasn't yet introduced. Prizes were awarded to the top eight cyclists per stage and the top fourteen in the general classification, with additional compensation for all finishers based on daily performance and overall speed. The finish in Bordeaux, which saw the first-ever foreign winner of a stage, the Swiss Charles Laeser. Unlike modern stage races, cyclists who abandoned during a stage could restart the next stage, though they'd be ineligible for the general classification. Hippolyte Aucouturier, who withdrew in the first stage, returned and won the second and third stages. Charles Laeser, victorious in the fourth stage, hadn't finished the third stage. Out of the sixty starters, primarily professionals or semi-professionals, 49 were French, with the remainder comprising 4 Belgians, 4 Swiss, 2 Germans, and one Italian . Twenty-one were sponsored by bicycle manufacturers, while 39 entered independently. Additionally, 24 cyclists participated in specific stages, with varying entries across stages. Maurice Garin, in his trademark white coat and flat cap racing in the 1903 Tour. Maurice Garin and Hippolyte Aucouturier were the top contenders for victory in the pre-race predictions. Garin asserted his dominance from the outset, clinching the first stage—a grueling 471 km journey from Paris to Lyon. Starting at 15:16, cyclists initially maintained a brisk pace of 35 km/h. However, the challenges emerged early, with the first abandonments occurring after just 50 km. By 23:00, Garin and Emile Pagie led the race, reaching the Nevers control point with expectations to conclude by 8:00 the next morning. Maurice Garin is greeted by enthusiastic fans. Overnight, Aucouturier, Garin's primary rival, suffered stomach cramps, forcing him to retire from the stage. Meanwhile, Jean Fischer violated regulations by employing a car as a pacer. Despite setbacks, Pagie persisted after falling but was unable to maintain pace with Garin, who ultimately crossed the Lyon finish line one minute ahead around 9:00 in the morning. Leon Georget signs in under the watchful eye of an official. To minimize cheating riders signed in a stops along each stage. Despite Aucouturier's withdrawal from the first stage, rendering him ineligible for the general classification, he was permitted to continue in subsequent stages. In the second stage, he claimed victory in the sprint. However, in the third stage, separate start times were implemented, with Aucouturier among those vying for the general classification. Although he finished 27 minutes after the leading group, his adjusted time secured him the stage win. Willie Hume. Meanwhile, Garin maintained his lead, benefitting from Pagie's crash in the second stage, which eliminated him from contention. However, Aucouturier's bid for a third consecutive stage win was thwarted in the fourth stage when he was caught using a car's slipstream, resulting in his disqualification. Swiss cyclist Charles Laeser, who had abandoned in the third stage, seized victory, becoming the first non-French winner. The winner Maurice Garin. As Garin continued to dominate, Émile Georget faced setbacks in the fifth stage, enduring two flat tires and even falling asleep during a roadside rest, failing to finish the stage. Garin extended his lead by winning this stage, despite controversy arising from his tactics to secure victory. The final stage, the longest at 471 km, concluded in Ville-d'Avray instead of the Parc des Princes velodrome due to local regulations. Garin clinched his third stage win, sealing overall victory with an impressive lead of 2 hours 59 minutes 31 seconds—the largest margin in Tour de France history. The riders, upon reaching Ville-d'Avray, proceeded to the Parc des Princes, where they completed several laps of honour, concluding the race amidst a large crowd gathered to witness the event. The 1903 Tour de France winner Maurice Garin. The Tour de France's impact on L'Auto was profound, with a special edition of 130,000 copies produced post-race, and regular circulation surging from 25,000 to 65,000. The overwhelming success ensured the race's return in 1904, solidifying the cyclists' status as national icons. Maurice Garin, the reigning champion, aimed for a repeat victory in 1904 but faced disqualification. Despite this setback, Garin's winnings from the 1903 race, totalling 6,075 francs enabled him to invest in a petrol station, where he worked for the remainder of his life. Maurice Garin pictured after his victory in the first stage.

@burpzine is an Instagram series created by pastry chef Erik Vernieuwe in his spare time. Prepare to feast your eyes on a delightful spectacle: a series featuring sausages adorned in the likeness of celebrities, iconic artworks, and beloved cartoon characters. Indulge yourself below!

Frank Hurley’s legacy as a pioneering photographer and adventurer is filled with tales of extreme environments, survival, and an enduring passion for capturing the world’s most remote landscapes. Born James Francis Hurley in October 1885 in Glebe, Sydney, Australia, Hurley’s journey from a rebellious teenager to a legendary photographer is remarkable. His father, Edward, was a Lancashire-born typesetter and trade unionist, while his mother, Margaret, came from a family of vintners in Alsace Lorraine. Together, they nurtured Hurley’s early interest in exploration and adventure. At just 13, Hurley ran away from home to work as a steel fitter’s apprentice. Though he initially studied engineering, his true passion emerged when he saved enough to purchase a Kodak box camera, painstakingly paying it off in weekly instalments. His first assignments involved shooting images for postcards, a modest start that ignited his love for photography. Reflecting on this turning point, Hurley later said, “I knew I had found my real work.” Hurley’s talent and ambition quickly set him apart, and he began experimenting with photographic techniques that would later define his career. Frank Hurley’s Early Antarctic Adventures with Douglas Mawson In 1910, Hurley’s burgeoning career took a dramatic turn when he met Australian explorer Douglas Mawson, who invited him to document his 1911–1914 Antarctic expedition. Mawson’s journey through the desolate, ice-bound wilderness was perilous; two men perished, and Mawson barely survived a gruelling solo march back to base after missing the ship home. Hurley’s documentary of the expedition, Home of the Blizzard , featured some of the earliest moving footage of the Antarctic and turned him into a celebrated figure. The film’s success helped secure funding to rescue Mawson, marking Hurley’s first encounter with the life-threatening conditions of the polar regions and earning him a reputation for his resilience. The Endurance  Arctic Expedition: Frank Hurley Joins Shackleton In 1914, Sir Ernest Shackleton, the seasoned polar explorer, invited Hurley to join the Endurance  expedition, one of the most famous survival stories in the history of exploration. Shackleton’s goal was to make a daring 1,800-mile coast-to-coast trek across the largely uncharted Antarctic continent. The pair met in Buenos Aires, and their connection was immediate. “Shackleton was an explorer of the type who carried the Union Jack over uncharted seas and planted it in the heart of unknown lands for sheer adventure’s sake,” Hurley would later write. However, the expedition’s course changed drastically when Endurance  became trapped in the ice of the Weddell Sea in 1915. After months of pressure from the shifting ice, the ship was eventually crushed, leaving Hurley and 27 others stranded. As the men drifted on an ice floe at the mercy of the elements, Hurley’s skills went beyond photography; he proved himself an invaluable team member. Using his engineering background, Hurley crafted a makeshift blubber stove from an oil drum to help them survive in the frozen wilderness. He also showed a pragmatic side, hunting and eventually eating the sledge dogs when food supplies became critically low. “Hunger brings us all to the level of other species,” Hurley’s Photography Techniques: Capturing the Spirit of Antarctica Hurley’s images from the Endurance  expedition are among the most iconic in Antarctic exploration. Using glass plates and large-format cameras, Hurley captured haunting images of the frozen landscape, the beleaguered ship, and his crewmates braving the icy conditions. His tools included about seven cameras and two cine cameras, alongside an array of lenses and both black-and-white and experimental colour films. Hurley was known for his daring techniques, often incorporating flash photography and experimenting with colour filters to bring out the stark contrasts in the icy Antarctic light. He also controversially created photo montages, layering images to evoke the grandeur and isolation of the Antarctic, breaking convention in a way that some critics described as “pictorial artistry.” The weight of Hurley’s glass plates became a contentious issue as the crew prepared for a gruelling journey over the ice. Shackleton deemed them too cumbersome to carry, and Hurley faced a painful decision. In a sombre moment on the ice, Hurley sifted through his 600 glass plates, carefully selecting only 150 of his best images and shattering the rest, ensuring he wouldn’t second-guess his choices. These images became iconic, offering some of the most vivid glimpses into the frozen landscape of Antarctica and the lives of those who braved its extremes. Frank Hurley’s Struggle to Save His Photographic Plates Perhaps Hurley’s most harrowing act of devotion to his craft came when the Endurance  was finally abandoned. With the ship sinking under the crushing ice, Hurley stripped off his clothes and plunged naked into the freezing waters to retrieve his photographic plates. His effort preserved a small portion of the visual history he had captured, ensuring that his documentation of the Antarctic would not disappear with the doomed vessel. When Shackleton and a select few embarked on a hazardous journey to seek help, Hurley and the rest of the crew were left stranded on Elephant Island for over four months, enduring the bitter cold and scarce rations. Shackleton eventually returned with rescue in August 1916. Hurley’s photographs survived the ordeal, becoming a powerful testament to the endurance and courage of Shackleton’s men. Hurley’s Later Adventures and Wartime Photography After his return from the harrowing Antarctic expeditions, Frank Hurley’s career took a significant turn as he applied his photographic skills to a new arena: the Western Front during World War I. In 1917, Hurley was sent to document the Australian troops fighting in one of the bloodiest conflicts of the war, capturing the brutal and unforgiving conditions of Passchendaele in Belgium. The front lines presented a new kind of challenge, vastly different from the frozen landscapes of the Antarctic. Yet Hurley brought the same dedication, resilience, and artistic vision to capturing the horrors and human elements of warfare that he had shown in polar exploration. Hurley’s approach to wartime photography was groundbreaking and controversial. Conditions on the Western Front were unforgiving, with incessant mud, shell-blasted landscapes, and the constant threat of enemy fire. Hurley quickly realised that traditional photographic methods couldn’t fully convey the scale of the destruction and intensity of trench warfare. To address this, he developed his distinctive style of composite photography, combining multiple negatives to create sweeping panoramic images of the battlefield. This technique allowed Hurley to portray the chaos and devastation of war in a way that went beyond simple documentation, bringing a visual depth and dynamism to his images that was rare for the time. His composite images, however, faced resistance from military officials and purists who argued that they compromised the authenticity of war photography. Yet Hurley defended his approach, famously stating that “to include the mass of uninteresting material which surrounds an interesting incident would not do justice to the event.” Hurley’s images from the Western Front show stark contrasts between the camaraderie of soldiers and the pervasive desolation surrounding them. He captured intimate moments shared between men, quiet scenes of soldiers resting or sharing a laugh, juxtaposed with haunting images of destroyed landscapes, blasted trees, and endless mud. Hurley’s work during this period included photographs of soldiers trudging through shell holes filled with water, ruined towns and villages, and the aftermath of battles. His eye for composition and his determination to portray both the heroism and the suffering of soldiers set his work apart and elevated his images from simple records to powerful statements on the nature of modern warfare. In the midst of this intense work, Hurley found a semblance of stability in his personal life. During his time at the Western Front, he married Antoinette, marking the beginning of a lifelong partnership. His letters and journals from this period reveal his desire for connection amid the chaos and his commitment to capturing history as he witnessed it. Hurley’s wartime photography didn’t end with World War I. His reputation as a war photographer grew, and he continued to document conflicts throughout his career. During World War II, even in his mid-50s, Hurley joined Australian forces again, this time travelling to North Africa and the Middle East. His images from this period show a matured style and an unflinching approach to the realities of warfare, capturing scenes from battles at El Alamein and other major sites. The 1920s saw Hurley travelling across the globe, capturing images of people, landscapes, and wildlife from exotic locations. He returned to Antarctica with Mawson in 1929, solidifying his status as one of the most experienced polar photographers of his era. Back in Australia, Hurley filmed the construction of the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the early 1930s and was later commissioned to make a film celebrating the 150th anniversary of Australia’s founding. His career encompassed over 50 films, and in 1941, he was awarded the OBE in recognition of his contributions to photography and filmmaking.  A man of indefatigable spirit, he was still on assignment the day before he passed away on 16 January 1962 at age 76. Sources Shackleton's Forgotten Men: The Untold Tragedy of the Endurance Epic  (2001) – Available on Penguin Books: https://www.penguin.com.au/books/shackletons-forgotten-men-9781845951751 Argonauts of the South  (1925) – Available on Archive.org : https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.22739/page/n5/mode/2up The Home of the Blizzard: A True Story of Antarctic Survival  (1915) – Available on Archive.org : https://archive.org/details/homeofblizzardbe00maws Frank Hurley: A Photographer's Life  (2004) – Available on Penguin Books Australia: https://www.penguin.com.au/books/frank-hurley-a-photographers-life-9780857982449 Frank Hurley - National Film and Sound Archive of Australia: https://www.nfsa.gov.au/collection/curated/frank-hurley South: The Story of Shackleton’s 1914-1917 Expedition  (1919) – Available on Archive.org : https://archive.org/details/southstoryofshac00shacuoft Frank Hurley: Wartime Photographer - Australian War Memorial: https://www.awm.gov.au/articles/encyclopedia/frank_hurley Frank Hurley's Antarctica  (2011) – Available on Australian Geographic: https://www.australiangeographic.com.au/product/frank-hurleys-antarctica/

Everyone knows DHL , a lot of us will have used them from time to time. The business was set up in 1969 by three guys called Adrian Dalsey, Larry Hillblom and Robert Lynn and now has upwards of 380,000 employees and turned the three owners into extremely wealthy men. Today we're not looking at the D or the L in DHL but we're taking a look at the H, Larry Hillblom. Born in Kingsburg, California in 1943, Hillblom pursued a career in law in San Francisco. However, he soon discerned a promising business opportunity through one of his clients, leading him to establish a modest courier firm. In December 1969, Matson Navigation Company introduced new container ships to its Hawaiian cargo service. These vessels, significantly faster than their predecessors, reduced the crossing time from the US west coast to Hawaii by several days. Consequently, the shipping documents could not be delivered to Matson's Hawaiian customers via the U.S. Postal Service before the arrival of the goods. Seizing this opportunity, Hillblom proposed to Matson that he could ensure the timely delivery of their documents. He achieved this by purchasing airline tickets for passengers who were permitted to carry 350 pounds of accompanied baggage, and sending the Matson shipping documents with them. As other Hawaiian companies with time-sensitive documents became aware of this service, they began to utilize it as well. This burgeoning service, now named DHL, eventually evolved into a comprehensive air courier enterprise, experiencing substantial growth throughout the 1970s and 1980s. In the 1980s, Hillblom relocated to Saipan in the tax haven of the Northern Mariana Islands, situated in the western Pacific. There, he initiated numerous business ventures and development projects in Hawaii, Vietnam, and the Philippines, spending the majority of his time in and around Southeast Asia. An avid aircraft enthusiast, Hillblom owned several vintage planes. Tragically, on May 21, 1995, his seaplane crashed while en route from Pagan Island to Saipan. Although the bodies of the pilot, Robert Long, and a business partner were recovered, Hillblom's body was never found. This is the part if the story where things take a much darker tone..... Hillblom's will stated that the University of California, San Francisco (UCSF) would receive his estate, and he didn't specify any children in the 1982 will. After his death, Hillblom's estate was the subject of lawsuits from children fathered across the Pacific. Under Saipan law, illegitimate children born after a will has been drawn up are entitled to make a claim on the estate. Many women from several East Asian and Oceanian countries claimed he had fathered children with them. (Women who were under the age of consent at the time also claimed statutory rape.) Kaylani Kinney was the first to come forward, claiming to have given birth to a son named Junior Larry Hillblom. Before his death, Hillblom had resided in Saipan in the Northern Mariana Islands, whose probate law recognises the right of all children to a share of their father's estate, notwithstanding any will to the contrary. But because Hillblom's body was not recovered in the crash, no DNA test could be performed to prove paternity. Mysteriously, his house in Saipan was discovered to have been wiped clean of any traces of his DNA. The sinks had been scrubbed with muriatic acid, and toothbrushes, combs, hairbrushes and clothes were found buried in the backyard, making them useless for DNA testing Investigators discovered he had had a facial mole removed at UCSF Medical Centre, and it was still there; UCSF agreed to relinquish the mole (although its release could deprive UCSF of the estate if it could be used to prove Hillblom had sired children). It was later discovered, however, that the mole was not from Hillblom but oddly enough from someone unknown. Hillblom's mother, brother, and half-brother initially refused to submit their DNA, which could have been used to determine the paternity of the children claiming a share of Hillblom's estate. Consequently, a team of investigators was dispatched to compare the DNA of all the claimants. The investigators hypothesised that if the children, who were from different countries, shared certain DNA markers, the only logical conclusion would be that they had the same father. Ultimately, a judge ordered Hillblom's brother and mother to undergo genetic testing. The results confirmed that four of the eight claimants were indeed Hillblom's children. It was ultimately determined that a Vietnamese child, Lory Nguyen; Jellian Cuartero, 5, and Mercedita Feliciano, 4, of the Philippines; and Junior Larry Hillblom, of Palau were fathered by Hillblom. In the final settlement, each of the four children received a gross payment of US$90 million, reduced to about US$50 million after taxes and fees, while the remaining US$240 million went to the Hillblom Foundation, which followed Hillblom's wishes and donated funds to the University of California, San Francisco for medical research. As a footnote to this story, it's worth thinking about the fact Hillblom 'dies' in a plane crash around the time he would've known about these inevitable legal claims due to his abhorrent behaviour would eventually come to light. His body is never recovered and his mansion is scrubbed clean of all DNA remnants. You know what the 'perfect crime' is? The one that works, because you never find out about it.

In 1981 Paul McCartney flew to Monteserrat, where Beatles producer George Martin had installed a state-of-the-art studio, to begin work on his Tug Of War solo album. One song in this album is Get It, to which recording session he invited Carl Perkins to provide vocals. Carl loved the experience and the following morning he wrote My Old Friend for Paul in appreciation. In fact, he recounted to Paul that usually when he writes he needs a pen and a sheet of paper to record his thoughts on, but this time the words just stuck with him. He then played the song to Paul. And Paul, upon hearing the song, left the room crying. ‘After I finished,’ he recalled, 'Paul was crying, tears were rolling down his cheeks, and Linda said, ‘Carl, thank you so much.’ I said, ‘Linda, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you both cry.’ She said, ‘But he’s crying, and he needed to. He hasn’t been able to really break down since that happened to John.’ And she put her arm around me and said, ‘But how did you know?’ I said, ‘Know what?’ She said, ‘There’s two people in the world that know what John Lennon said to Paul, the last thing he said to him. But now there’s three, and one of them’s you, you know it.’ I said, ‘Girl, you’re freaking me out! I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ She said that the last words that John Lennon said to Paul in the hallway of the Dakota building were, he patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Think about me every now and then, old friend.’ And that, with minor alterations, was the chorus line of Perkins’ song, ‘McCartney really feels that Lennon sent me that song, he really does.' Here’s the YouTube video with Paul and Carl together in 1993. Paul obviously tried to hold his emotions. “If we never meet again this side of life, in a little while, over yonder, where there’s peace and quiet, my old friend, won’t you think about me every now and then?”

Mata Hari was born on August 7, 1876 as Margaretha “Gretha” Geertruida Zelle in the Netherlands. Since her conviction as a double agent during WWI she has become a byword for the femme fatale. Productions like the 1931 film “Mata Hari” starring Greta Garbo, perpetuated the story of the glamorous courtesan and exotic dancer with a dangerous double life as a spy who was suddenly found out by the French, and executed in 1917. However the last few years has seen a revision of these events and of Mata Hari herself. The truth, it turns out, is more complex. Zelle had a comfortable childhood in the Netherlands until her father’s bankruptcy and abandonment when she was 13. This was followed by her mother’s death at 15 and a life with relatives. At 18 she answered a lonely hearts ad in a newspaper and shortly after married Rudolph John MacLeod, an officer in the East Indies Army, 21 years older than herself. The couple had two children and moved to the East Indies. Zelle lived to regret her decision to marry MacLeod, he beat her, kept a courtesan and gave her syphilis, then common among soldiers. In 1898 her children were mysteriously poisoned, the parents claimed by a nanny, her son died but her daughter survived. Sources suggest the children might have been suffering the effects from over-treatment for syphilis. The couple returned to the Netherlands, separated and eventually divorced. However, MacLeod refused to provide any financial support for Zelle to support her daughter, forcing her to move to Paris alone to earn money. Zelle’s anguish at her situation, separated from her daughter is reflected in a newly published collection of Zelle's personal family letters “Don’t Think That I’m Bad: Margaretha Zelle Before Mata Hari (1902-1904)”. By 1905 she was dancing under the name of Mata Hari and had invented a new identity for herself; that of a Javanese princess performing a Hindi priestly dance. Her dancing was more of a striptease but she was all the rage in a Europe then in thrall to all things exotic. After 10 years, Zelle’s act was no longer fashionable though she was still able to support herself as a courtesan, though naively, she slept with both French and German soldiers in a Europe at war. Offered money to collect information by the Germans while in the Netherlands in 1916 she became Agent H21. She then fell in love with a Russian officer, 21-year-old Russian captain, Vladimir de Masloff. When he was blinded and injured at the front and sent to recover in France, Zelle desperate to see him, asked French army Captain Georges Ladoux permission to see him. He gave it to her on condition she work for French intelligence. It seems that when the Germans learned nothing useful from her and knowing she was now in the employment of French intelligence, they turned her in. A lover, Major Arnold Kalle, a German military attaché sent a message in a code he knew had already been cracked by the French, identifying her as agent H21. She was arrested in Paris in February 1917. During her trial Zelle was interrogated by Captain Pierre Bouchardon, a military prosecutor, who held up her way of living as evidence against her. She is supposed to have replied: In 2017, archives of the trial were released by the French government and do not reflect a fair trial. There is some evidence Georges Ladoux set her up and perhaps even falsified evidence against her. It was a desperate time for the French. There were vast war casualties and morale was at appallingly low levels. Arresting a double agent painted the French war effort suddenly in a much better light. The prosecution during Zelle’s trial went so far as to blame her for the deaths of 50,000 French soldiers, though no specific evidence was ever provided as to how she caused these fatalities. There is also little evidence she ever passed on any information of value beyond gossip. Zelle did admit she had accepted money from Germany but claimed she treated it as payment for clothes that went missing on a German train. An exhibit that opened in 2017 on Mata Hari at the Museum of Friesland in her hometown of Leeuwarden in the Netherlands backs up this view. Today most view her, certainly as a spy, just not a very good one, more as a woman naively trying to pay her way during a time of war and providing an easy scapegoat for a nation during desperate times. In fact as early as 1930 the German government exculpated Zelle. In the end Zelle was executed by firing squad on October 15, 1917, near Paris. She seems to have died bravely, she refused a blindfold and stood silently until the gunshots rang out. Some accounts say she blew her executors a kiss yet other accounts say she merely raised her hand in farewell to the nuns who had looked after her in prison. This final discrepancy sums up the very different ways people have chosen to view her, both in life and in death.

It is one of those moments in mid century innovation that makes you pause and think: they really tried that . In May 1949, inventor and entrepreneur Charles L. Langs stepped in front of the press with an idea so bold it felt closer to science fiction than fashion. Forget straps, hooks, boning, or fabric engineering. Langs declared that the next era of women’s beachwear would simply stick to the body. His creation, the Posēs adhesive brassiere, was a pair of separate moulded cups backed with a specially designed glue intended to hold fast through sunbathing, swimming, exercising, and even jumping from a ten foot diving board. Life magazine summed up the novelty of the moment with a line that has since become part of fashion folklore: “For 5,000 years clothes have been draped, tied, buttoned, pinned and buckled on the human form. This year, for the first time in history, they will be glued on.” A Millionaire With an Unusual Vision Langs was not a fashion designer by trade, nor a chemist, nor a figure in the beauty industry. He had made his fortune in an entirely different arena: chromium plating. During the booming years of American automotive excess, Langs’ business plated the distinctive grilles for Cadillac and Ford cars. The success left him with both disposable income and a willingness to experiment with unorthodox ideas. According to mid century press accounts, Langs had an inventive streak and often tinkered with new concepts at home. One of his desks was famously photographed piled high with prototypes of strapless, backless, wireless bras. It was here, surrounded by sketches and moulds, that his proposal for a radically new bra form emerged. Langs partnered with industrial chemist Charles W. Walton, who brought the scientific expertise necessary to turn the idea into something tangible. Together they developed a proprietary adhesive described as strong enough to grip securely yet gentle enough to remove without pulling the skin. The formula was marketed as leaving “no sticky residue”, an assurance that mid century consumers appreciated, even if reality later proved a little less reliable. The Inventor of Poses, Charles L. Langs sitting at his desk full of his inventions – strapless, backless, wireless bras gumming the adhesive strip which holds the cup on. The Promise of Posēs The final result was unveiled in 1949 under the name Posēs, pronounced “pose ease”. The branding leaned into glamour and convenience. These were cups that would allow women to “pose with ease” at the beach, by the pool, or under clothing without straps that slipped or fastenings that dug in. Each bra consisted of two separate cups with frilled circumferences and exaggerated, almost bullet shaped points, echoing the fashionable silhouette of the era. They were light, sculpted, shockingly minimal, and utopian in concept. Women were encouraged to wear them under clothing or even as outerwear for sunbathing, making the most of the even tan lines they supposedly offered. Life magazine described the look with an amused detachment, remarking that the design gave any woman “a startling look, especially when she is seen from the rear.” The frilled rims and prominent conical shape produced an outline that was unmistakably mid century but also somewhat theatrical. The Daring Claims Langs and Walton made bold promises about the power of their adhesive. Their promotional material boasted that Posēs cups would stay on even if a woman “jumped into the swimming pool from a 10 foot diving board.” The claim, immortalised in contemporary publications, became one of the most memorable aspects of the launch. Real life, of course, offered a different story. Any woman who has ever worn even a well made strapless swimsuit knows the precarious physics involved, let alone a garment held on only with glue. Many buyers quickly discovered that the promise of diving board security was more marketing fantasy than scientific truth. While the cups might remain in place during still poses or gentle activity, vigorous movement, sweat, humidity, sea water, and real world body shapes all conspired to reduce their reliability. A Complicated Wear Experience Even when the cups functioned as intended, they were not especially convenient. The adhesive, referred to as the “rejuvenator”, had to be reapplied from a small accompanying bottle with each use. The glue would lose effectiveness within hours, especially in heat, and needed regular maintenance to remain functional. Women also reported mixed experiences with removal. While the inventors insisted the cups would lift off easily, some users with sensitive skin complained of irritation, discomfort, or mild rashes. For those allergic to the adhesive mixture, the concept was simply unusable. Then there was the question of body diversity. The standardised moulded cups did not accommodate every shape or size, meaning that the glamour presented in advertising was often difficult to replicate in practice. Troubles Behind the Scenes Managing production and fulfilling demand quickly grew overwhelming. Langs, who had experience running an industrial operation but not a consumer fashion business, soon found the enterprise stretching beyond its comfortable limits. He eventually sold the rights to Textron Inc., a company with greater commercial capacity. But the transition was fraught. Customers complained that Textron’s workmanship was inconsistent, that orders were delayed or never fulfilled, and that product quality varied from batch to batch. Some women received cups that did not match in size or shape. Others found that the adhesive bottles arrived poorly sealed or dried out. In an era before consumer protection law had much force, these issues were handled largely by word of mouth, and that word was not favourable. The glamour of an adhesive bra that seemed to defy physics began to fade. A Trend That Flickered and Vanished Despite its early publicity, Posēs never established a foothold in the market. The combination of practical limitations, allergic reactions, fussy application, and unstable manufacturing meant that enthusiasm waned quickly. By the early 1950s, the product had already slipped into obscurity. Its failure was not the end of innovation in strapless support. The 1950s were a golden age for bra experimentation, from structural engineering to new fabrics. Bullet bras, underwire cups, and elastic fabrics took over the market, offering shape and support without glue. Manufacturers learned that women preferred security, comfort, and durability over novelty. Today, Posēs survives mostly as a delightful footnote in fashion history: a reminder of that brief postwar moment when American optimism suggested even clothing could be reinvented with industrial adhesives and automotive ingenuity. The Lasting Curiosity of the 1949 Adhesive Bra Looking back, it is easy to smile at the audacity of Langs’ invention. In some ways, though, he was ahead of his time. Modern adhesive bras, breast lift tape, and silicon stick on cups owe a conceptual debt to Posēs, even if technological improvements have since solved many of the earlier problems. Langs’ creation sits in the curious space between fashion and futurism: a product born from a time when anything seemed possible and when inventors truly believed that glue alone might liberate women from straps forever. For a moment in 1949, clothing could be glued on, and all it took was a chromium plating millionaire, a chemist with imagination, and a society eager to experiment with new ideas. Sources Life Magazine, 16 May 1949, pages 49 to 51: “The Glued On Brassiere” (Primary source featuring photos of Posēs, interviews with Charles L. Langs, and demonstration images.) https://books.google.com/books?id=zU4EAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA49 Life Magazine Photographic Archive (Henry Groskinsky photos of Posēs, 1949) (Photographs of Langs at his desk with adhesive bra prototypes.) https://artsandculture.google.com/entity/m04t338?hl=en United States Patent Office – Adhesive Garment Support Applications by Charles L. Langs (filed late 1940s) (Shows Langs’ early attempts to patent an adhesive cup support.) https://patents.google.com/patent/US2483833A Textron Inc. corporate history archives (Documenting acquisition of fashion and consumer novelty products in mid century America.) https://www.textron.com/about/company/history Chicago Tribune Archive – Reports on strapless fashion innovations, 1948 to 1950 (Contextual articles referencing early adhesive bra concepts.) https://chicagotribune.newspapers.com/ The Baltimore Sun Archive, 1949: “New ‘Stick On’ Bra Demonstrated at Atlantic City Show” (Wire report syndicated nationally describing Posēs and public response.) https://www.newspapers.com/paper/the-baltimore-sun/373/ Sears Roebuck and Montgomery Ward catalogues, 1949 to 1951 (Showcases competing strapless and adhesive support garments and describes early consumer reactions.) https://digital.library.illinoisstate.edu/digital/collection/ilscatalogs/search “A History of the Brassiere, 1910 to 1960” – University of Vermont Library Special Collections (Provides context on mid century bra experimentation, including adhesive attempts.) https://libraryguides.uvm.edu/brassierehistory Smithsonian National Museum of American History – Archives Center: Fashion, Textile, and Womenswear Innovations, 1945 to 1955 (Background on technological experimentation in postwar women’s garments.) https://americanhistory.si.edu/collections Women’s Wear Daily, June 1949 Edition – Trade commentary on Posēs production challenges (Industry reporting on complaints about Textron manufacturing and delivery issues.) https://wwd.com/ (archive access required) “The Bullet Bra Phenomenon” – Underpinnings Museum (Explains the pointed cup silhouette that Posēs attempted to replicate without internal structure.) https://www.theunderpinningsmuseum.com/exhibition/the-bullet-bra/ Harper’s Bazaar, July 1949: “Summer Looks Without Straps” (Mentions adhesive cups as a curiosity within broader strapless fashion trends.) https://bazaar.vogue.com/archive

The attack on Downing Street At 10.08am on the 7th of February 1991, the centre of British political power was briefly reduced to instinct and survival. Inside Number 10 Downing Street, ministers discussing Britain’s role in the Gulf War suddenly found themselves crouched beneath a Cabinet table as an explosion tore through the garden just yards away. For a few seconds, the boundary between strategic decision making and political violence collapsed. The attack was not symbolic. It was calculated, rehearsed, and aimed with lethal intent. On that winter morning, the Provisional Irish Republican Army launched three homemade mortar bombs at the headquarters of the British government in an attempt to assassinate Prime Minister John Major and his war cabinet. One bomb landed in the back garden of Number 10 itself. The others overshot and landed nearby. Had the trajectory shifted by only a few degrees, Britain could have lost an entire Cabinet in a single strike. Downing Street Mortars and the logic of distance During the Troubles, the Provisional IRA increasingly relied on homemade mortars as part of its armed campaign against British rule in Northern Ireland. These weapons were not improvised in a casual sense. They were the product of years of trial, error, and adaptation, designed to overcome fortified police stations and military bases. One of the most notorious examples was the Newry mortar attack of 28th February 1985, when nine members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary were killed by a single mortar round fired into a police station yard. That attack demonstrated the strategic appeal of mortars. They allowed the IRA to strike from distance, bypass physical barriers, and reduce the risk to attackers. While the IRA carried out numerous bombings and shootings in England throughout the 1970s and 1980s, it had never used mortars on the British mainland. That changed with a discovery in December 1988, when officers from the Metropolitan Police Anti Terrorist Branch raided premises in Battersea, South London. Inside, they found materials used in mortar construction alongside technical calculations relating to firing angles and trajectory. The implication was unsettling. The IRA was thinking beyond Northern Ireland. Downing Street under pressure By the late 1980s, Downing Street had already been reshaped by security concerns. Increased IRA activity in England led to a £800,000 programme of defensive upgrades in 1988, including the installation of permanent security gates at either end of the street and a staffed police guard post. The Prime Minister at the time, Margaret Thatcher, was regarded by the IRA as a priority target following the failed attempt on her life in the Brighton hotel bombing in 1984. Alternative assassination plans were discussed. One proposal involved detonating a remote controlled car bomb as Thatcher’s official vehicle passed nearby. The IRA Army Council rejected the idea. The likely civilian casualties were considered politically damaging and counter productive. Instead, the organisation approved a more contained method. A mortar attack. Planning an unprecedented strike In mid 1990, two experienced IRA members travelled to London under false identities to plan the operation. One was a specialist in mortar trajectory and ballistics. The other, attached to the Belfast Brigade, had hands on experience manufacturing improvised weapons. An Active Service Unit purchased a Ford Transit van and rented a garage. An IRA coordinator sourced explosives, piping, detonators, and a pre set incendiary device designed to destroy forensic evidence after launch. Inside the van, engineers cut a hole through the roof and installed a fixed firing platform capable of launching three mortars simultaneously. The unit conducted reconnaissance around Whitehall, assessing distances, lines of sight, traffic patterns, and escape routes. The aim was to strike the rear of Number 10, where the Cabinet Room overlooked the garden. Once preparations were complete, the two specialists returned to Ireland. IRA leadership considered them too valuable to risk losing in the aftermath of a London operation. Then the political landscape shifted. Interior of the Cabinet Office A change of Prime Minister, not of intent In November 1990, Margaret Thatcher resigned unexpectedly. Her successor, John Major, inherited both office and risk. The IRA Army Council decided the plan would go ahead regardless. The symbolic value of striking the office of Prime Minister outweighed the change in occupant. The unit waited until the date of a full Cabinet meeting was publicly known. The presence of senior ministers and military leaders would maximise both impact and lethality. Inside the Cabinet Room On the morning of 7th February 1991, John Major’s war cabinet met at Downing Street to discuss the ongoing Gulf War. Those present included Douglas Hurd, Tom King, Norman Lamont, Peter Lilley, Patrick Mayhew, David Mellor, and John Wakeham. Senior civil servants Robin Butler, Percy Cradock, Gus O’Donnell, and Charles Powell were in attendance, alongside Chief of the Defence Staff David Craig. As the meeting began, an IRA operative drove the Transit van to the junction of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall, approximately 200 yards from Downing Street. 10.08am Several minutes later, as a police officer approached the unattended van, three mortars fired almost simultaneously from a Mark 10 homemade launcher. Moments later, the incendiary device ignited, engulfing the van in flames and destroying potential forensic evidence. Each mortar measured four feet six inches in length, weighed approximately 140 pounds, and carried a 40 pound payload of Semtex. Two shells overshot Downing Street and landed on Mountbatten Green near the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. One detonated. The other failed to explode. Mountbatten Green, where two of the shells landed. In the background is the Foreign Office and to the left is the back of 12 Downing Street. The third shell landed in the back garden of Number 10, exploding roughly 30 yards from the Cabinet Office. Inside the room, ministers instinctively ducked beneath the table. Bomb resistant netting fitted to the windows absorbed much of the blast force. Brickwork was scorched, windows shattered, and a crater several feet deep was torn into the garden. Investigators later concluded that a direct hit on the building would almost certainly have killed everyone in the room. As dust settled, John Major reportedly broke the silence by saying, “I think we had better start again, somewhere else.” After the blast The Cabinet Room was evacuated immediately. Less than ten minutes later, the meeting reconvened in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room. No ministers were injured. Four people suffered minor injuries, including two Metropolitan Police officers struck by flying debris. Whitehall was sealed off within minutes. Hundreds of police officers established cordons from Trafalgar Square to the Houses of Parliament. Civilians were excluded until 6.00pm as forensic teams examined the blast sites and the remains of the launch vehicle. Government staff already inside the secure zone were locked in for hours. Claims, statements, and reactions The IRA claimed responsibility in a statement issued in Dublin: “Let the British government understand that, while nationalist people in the six counties are forced to live under British rule, then the British Cabinet will be forced to meet in bunkers.” John Major addressed the House of Commons later that day: “Our determination to beat terrorism cannot be beaten by terrorism. Democracies cannot be intimidated by terrorism, and we treat it with contempt.” Opposition leader Neil Kinnock described the attack as “vicious and futile”. Commander George Churchill Coleman of the Metropolitan Police Anti Terrorist Branch characterised it as “daring, well planned, but badly executed”. A technician’s verdict Peter Gurney, head of the Explosives Section who defused the unexploded mortar, offered a rare professional assessment: “It was a remarkably good aim if you consider that the bomb was fired 250 yards with no direct line of sight. Technically, it was quite brilliant. If the angle of fire had been moved five or ten degrees, those bombs would actually have impacted on Number Ten.” His words underlined a narrow margin between failure and catastrophe. Cultural echoes and consequences A further IRA statement published in An Phoblacht  framed the attack as a warning to the British political class. Within republican culture, the operation was later commemorated in song. The band The Irish Brigade released Downing Street , set to On the Street Where You Live , with the line: “While you hold Ireland, it’s not safe down the street where you live.” In practical terms, the consequences were immediate. John Major temporarily relocated to Admiralty House while repairs were carried out. Additional guardhouses were installed at both ends of Downing Street, alongside less visible security measures that remain in place today. The attack permanently altered assumptions about distance, protection, and vulnerability at the heart of British government. It demonstrated that even the most secure locations could be reached with patience, engineering skill, and a willingness to wait. For a few seconds in February 1991, the British Cabinet came closer to annihilation than at any point since the Second World War. The fact that it did not happen owed less to design than to degrees and chance.

During the period spanning from the 13th to the 19th centuries, the northern hemisphere experienced a period known as the “Little Ice Age”. This era was characterised by a global drop in temperatures, leading to cold and wet summers, as well as colder, longer, and harsher winters. The Swiss Alps witnessed encroaching glaciers that destroyed farmlands and villages. Navigation in Great Britain and the Netherlands was hindered by frequent freezing of canals and rivers. Greenland remained largely inaccessible due to sea ice for three centuries, resulting in the starvation and disappearance of many Norse colonies due to failing crops. While Europe faced widespread famine and death, people also found ways to make the most of the cold weather. Frozen ponds and rivers served as impromptu ice skating rinks, and outdoor winter sports gained popularity as recreational activities. In London, even the mighty River Thames froze. According to historical data, between the 17th and the early 19th centuries, the River Thames froze for nearly two dozen times. During Britain’s worst recorded frost, in the winter of 1683–84, the Thames was completely frozen for two months, with ice up to a foot thick. For Londoners, the freezing of the river was an event to be celebrated. As soon as the ice was thick enough to bear weight, peddlers would hastily construct tents out of sail cloth and oars to sell everything from souvenirs, to food and drinks, to haircuts. One person even setup a printing press on the ice and published a 124-page book. Activities and entertainment at frost fairs ranged from bull-baiting, horse and coach races, puppet plays, sledging, nine-pin bowling and more. An eyewitness for the 1683–84 frost fair reported revellers roasting a whole ox on top of a roaring fire. Even the Royal family took part in the fairs. The same eyewitness reported King Charles and the Queen partaking the aforementioned roasted ox. The frost fair that occurred in the winter of 1683–84 was the most celebrated, and there are many written accounts of the event. The famous English diarist John Evelyn described the fair in extensive details: Coaches plied from Westminster to the Temple, and from several other staires to and fro, as in the streetes, sliding with skeetes, a bull-baiting, horse and coach races, puppet plays and interludes, cookes, tipling and other lewd places, so that it seemed a bacchanalian triumph or carnival on the water, whilst it was a severe judgement on the land, the trees not onely splitting as if lightning-struck, but men and cattle perishing in divers[e] places, and the very seas so lock’d up with ice, that no vessels could stir out or come in. The frost fairs on River Thames were typically short-lived, lasting only a few days at most. These fairs tended to occur towards the end of winter, just before the ice started to melt. In 1739, a large section of ice collapsed during the fair, engulfing tents and people. Similarly, in January 1789, the ice melted rapidly, causing a ship anchored to a riverside pub to be dragged down, resulting in the collapse of the building and the tragic deaths of five individuals. In the 19th century, temperatures began to rise, leading to milder winters. The Thames ceased to freeze sufficiently for fairs to be organized. The final frost fair occurred in 1814, attracting crowds who witnessed a spectacle as a fully-grown elephant crossed the unfrozen river. The removal of the old London Bridge in 1831 and the subsequent construction of a new one played a role in preventing the Thames from freezing over. The medieval London Bridge and its closely spaced piers used to trap ice during winter, creating blockages that facilitated freezing. With the completion of the new embankment along the Thames, the river could flow more smoothly, marking the end of the era when the Thames would freeze over. Most souvenirs sold at the fairs were just regular trinkets and toys labeled “bought on the Thames” and sold at double or treble the original price. This piece of gingerbread was bought on the Thames. The frost fair of 1684. The Frost Fair of 1683.

The tragic tale of the Collyer brothers stands as one of the most bewildering and distressing accounts of compulsive hoarding in history. Known for their obsessive collection of an unimaginable array of objects and their lives reclusive in squalor, Homer and Langley Collyer have become synonymous with the dark, isolating nature of extreme hoarding. Their story is a cautionary reflection on how obsession and mental illness can lead to an insurmountable downfall. The Early Years of the Collyer Brothers Homer and Langley Collyer were born into a prosperous and well-respected family in New York City during the late 19th century. Their father, Dr. Herman Collyer, was a distinguished gynaecologist, while their mother, Susie, hailed from an established and affluent family. The brothers grew up in a large brownstone mansion in Harlem, situated at 2078 Fifth Avenue, a location that would later become infamous for its horrifying state. Homer, the elder of the two, was born in 1881, followed by Langley in 1885. Both brothers were highly educated. Homer pursued a degree in law, while Langley showed a keen interest in engineering and later studied music at Columbia University. The family was well-off and enjoyed the privileges of high society during their earlier years. However, their lives took a darker turn following a series of events that would thrust them into isolation and, ultimately, lead to their tragic demise. The Decline into Isolation The downfall of the Collyer brothers began with the dissolution of their family unit. In 1909, their father abandoned the family, choosing to live a life of solitude, eventually passing away in 1923. Following his death, their mother’s health began to decline, and the brothers, particularly Homer, became increasingly reclusive. In 1929, Susie Collyer passed away, leaving the brothers alone in the family home, which they inherited in its entirety. Their withdrawal from society intensified after this point. By the early 1930s, the once respectable home had become an impenetrable fortress. The brothers began hoarding obsessively, bringing an extraordinary array of items into their home, including old newspapers, broken furniture, musical instruments, and a myriad of other seemingly useless objects. Langley, especially, had a bizarre belief that he could restore Homer’s health, after Homer went blind in the early 1930s, by feeding him a diet of oranges and untreated tap water. Langley would spend days gathering these items, even dragging back refuse from the streets of New York to stockpile within their walls. Homer’s blindness and later paralysis only deepened their dependence on each other, with Langley becoming his sole carer. The mansion became their prison, with the windows and doors sealed shut, barricaded by piles of junk. The brothers refused to let anyone into their home, even turning away repairmen and utility workers, and as a result, they lived without heat, electricity, water, or phone service. A Maze of Squalor and Madness By the late 1930s, the Collyer brothers had become the subject of urban legend in New York. Rumours of their strange behaviour, their barricaded home, and the vast quantities of hoarded items spread through the neighbourhood. The brothers’ peculiar lifestyle attracted the attention of both curious onlookers and local authorities. There were occasional attempts to inspect the home, often resulting in Langley’s angry refusals. Despite their secluded existence, they could not escape the interest of law enforcement and city officials. On several occasions, neighbours reported strange odours or vermin coming from the house, prompting health department inspectors to visit. The property had become a nightmarish maze of clutter, and the inside was described as resembling a hoarder’s labyrinth. Piles of boxes, newspapers, and other objects reached ceiling height, creating tunnels and passageways that Langley would crawl through to navigate the house. In Langley’s increasingly paranoid mind, he feared intruders would attempt to break into their home and steal their possessions. To prevent this, he set up a series of traps made from the hoarded items. Some were as crude as piles of rubbish rigged to collapse if disturbed, while others were more elaborate, designed to catch potential thieves. This paranoia only served to further isolate the brothers from the outside world. The Grisly Discovery On the 21st of March, 1947, the police received an anonymous call claiming there was a dead body in the Collyer mansion. Officers arrived at the home but found themselves unable to gain entry. The doors and windows were completely blocked by walls of junk. It took several hours of labour to make an opening through a window on the second floor. Inside, they were met with a horrific sight. After an extensive search, the police finally discovered Homer’s body. He was found slumped in a sitting position, emaciated and covered in filth, having died from starvation and dehydration. Langley was nowhere to be found, and at first, authorities suspected he had fled the scene. However, the search continued for days, with over 100 tons of rubbish being removed from the house. Weeks later, on the 8th of April 1947, Langley’s decomposing body was found just 10 feet away from Homer’s corpse. In a grim twist of fate, Langley had been killed by one of his own booby traps. He had been crushed under a pile of debris while attempting to bring food to his incapacitated brother. Unable to escape or call for help, Homer had starved to death, unaware that Langley lay dead just a few feet away. A Legacy of Tragedy and Infamy The story of the Collyer brothers shocked the nation. The brothers’ obsessive hoarding and isolation, along with their tragic deaths, became the subject of intense media scrutiny. Newspapers across the country carried lurid headlines about the bizarre lives and deaths of “history’s worst hoarders.” In the aftermath of their deaths, it took months to clear the mansion of the immense amount of rubbish that had accumulated over the decades. Among the items found were 14 pianos, a Model T Ford, a collection of firearms, and thousands upon thousands of newspapers. The brothers had even hoarded medical supplies, despite refusing medical help for their ailments. Ultimately, the mansion was deemed uninhabitable and was demolished shortly after the clean-up was completed. The Collyer brothers’ tale remains a tragic testament to the devastating effects of hoarding and untreated mental illness. Today, their story continues to be referenced in discussions of compulsive hoarding, and they have even been immortalised in popular culture, appearing in books, films, and television shows. The name “Collyer brothers” has become shorthand for extreme hoarding, and their legacy remains one of caution and deep sadness. The tragic saga of Homer and Langley Collyer illustrates how lives can spiral into ruin through obsessive behaviour and isolation. What began as a promising future for two intelligent and well-educated men ended in filth and tragedy. Their story serves as a stark reminder of the importance of mental health awareness and the potential dangers of unchecked hoarding. Although the Collyer brothers may have become infamous for their eccentricity and the ghastly condition of their home, beneath the sensational headlines lies the story of two men trapped by their compulsions, forever remembered as history’s worst hoarders. #hoarding #nyc