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This photo series shows a model in a studio re-enacting the five stages of inebriation. The shoot, which coincided with the Drunkard Punishment Bill of 1886 in NSW, was possibly commissioned by a local temperance group for education purposes. The photographer Charles Pickering took the photographs between 1863 and 1868, when society clearly felt it had a problem with alcoholism. It appears, things have not changed that much since the mid-19th century. Stage 1: You’ve had a couple but you're feeling great. Everyone is lovely and interested in what you have to say. Stage 2: This is when you become a charmer and the whole world loves you. Stage 3: You decide to let people know a few 'home truths' Stage 4 : A 5 minute nap will help. And then you can get up and drink some more Stage 5: You don't know how, but somehow you end up in your home, fully clothed with the lights on. But at least you're alive

Below, Bo Diddley offers wisdom gleaned from a lifetime of navigating the complexities of the music industry and beyond, sharing his personal insights and tips for survival in an ever-changing world. Whether it's drugs, guns or women, Uncle Bo has got you covered! Alcohol and Drugs: Only drink Grand Marnier, and that’s to keep the throat from drying up in a place where there’s a lot of smoke. As for drugs: a big NO! Food : Eat anytime, anything you can get your hands on. I mean it! Health : Whenever you get to feeling weird, take Bayer aspirin. I can’t stand taking all that other bullshit. Money : Always take a lawyer with you, and then bring another lawyer to watch him. Defence : I can’t go around slapping people with my hands or else I’d go broke. So I take karate, and kick when I fight. Of course, I got plenty of guns – one real big one. But guns are for people trying to take your home, not some guy who makes you mad. I used to be a sheriff down in New Mexico for two and a half years, so I know not to pull it right away. Cows : If they wanna play, and you don’t wanna make pets out of ‘em, and you can’t eat ‘em – then get rid of ‘em! Women : If you wanna meet a nice young lady, then you try to smell your best. A girl don’t like nobody walking up in her face smelling like a goat. Then, you don’t say crap like “Hey, don’t I know you?” The first thing you ask her is: “Are you alone?” If she tells you that she’s with her boyfriend, then you see if the cat’s as big as you. If you don’t have no money, just smell right. And for God’s sake don’t be pulling on her and slapping on her. You don’t hit the girls! If you do this, you can’t miss. Hearing : Just don’t put your ears in the speakers.

Surviving crew, from left to right, first row: Ernest Archer, Frederick Fleet, Walter Perkis, George Symons and Frederick Clench. Second row: Arthur Bright, George Hogg, John Moore, Frank Osman and Henry Etches. The White Star Line's Titanic holds a brief yet significant place in history. Anticipation surrounded its launch and maiden voyage, with the world captivated by its grandeur and unprecedented luxury. For those unfamiliar with the tale, here's a concise overview: The R.M.S. Titanic, constructed by Messrs. Harland & Wolf alongside her sister ship, the Olympic, represented a remarkable leap in size. Specialized joiner and boiler shops were dedicated to their construction, with space usually reserved for three building slips now allocated to these colossal vessels. The Titanic's keel was laid on March 31, 1909, and she graced the waters on May 31, 1911. Following successful trials before Board of Trade officials in Belfast on March 31, 1912, she set sail from Southampton on April 10, with 2,208 passengers and crew bound for New York. After brief stops in Cherbourg and Queenstown, the Titanic embarked on her ill-fated journey, intending to reach New York by the following Wednesday. However, tragedy struck on Sunday at 11:45 PM when she collided with an iceberg. Within two and a half hours, the ship succumbed to the depths, resulting in the loss of 815 passengers and 688 crew members, while 705 were rescued by the Carpathia. In the aftermath, hundreds of passengers and crew were left to perish in the frigid waters amidst debris from the sinking ship. The Titanic's disintegration during its descent to the seabed propelled buoyant fragments – timber beams, doors, furniture, paneling, and cork from the bulkheads – to the surface. Frederick Fleet, 24, the lookout who first spotted the iceberg. He went on to serve in both World Wars. In 1965, he experienced depression and later hanged himself. The iceberg that sank the Titanic. Titanic's survivors were rescued around 4:00 AM on April 15 by the RMS Carpathia, which braved the night at high speed and significant risk, maneuvering through icebergs along the way. The sight of Carpathia's lights around 3:30 AM brought immense relief to the survivors, though it took several additional hours to ensure everyone was safely brought aboard. Ultimately, 705 survivors found refuge on the Carpathia. Upon Carpathia's arrival at Pier 54 in New York on the evening of April 18, after a challenging voyage through pack ice, fog, thunderstorms, and rough seas, a crowd of approximately 40,000 people awaited, informed of the tragedy through a continuous stream of radio messages. Only upon Carpathia's docking, three days following Titanic's sinking, did the full extent of the disaster become public knowledge. The public response to the tragedy was characterised by shock and outrage, directed at various issues and individuals: the scarcity of lifeboats, Bruce Ismay's self-preservation, and Titanic's decision to proceed at full speed into the ice field. Survivors, including Beesley, resolved to use their experiences to advocate for improved maritime safety laws. While en route to New York aboard Carpathia, they penned a public letter to The Times, urging reforms to safeguard future ocean travel. In communities closely tied to Titanic, grief ran deep. Southampton, home to 699 crew members and many passengers, suffered the heaviest losses. Outside the White Star offices in Southampton, crowds of grieving women, wives, sisters, and mothers of the crew, gathered for updates on their loved ones. Tragically, most of them were among the 549 residents of Southampton who perished. In Belfast, churches overflowed with mourners, while shipyard workers openly wept in the streets. Titanic had symbolised Belfast's industrial prowess, and alongside grief, there emerged a pervasive sense of guilt among those who had contributed to her construction, feeling an unjustified shared responsibility for the loss. Titanic survivors in a lifeboat. Survivors aboard the Carpathia. A sketch of the sinking drawn by John B. Thayer while he was on a capsized lifeboat, and filled in by P.L. Skidmore aboard the Carpathia. Survivors huddle for warmth on the deck of the Carparthia. People wait for news outside the offices of the White Star Line in New York. The Titanic’s lifeboats are returned to the berth of the White Star Line in New York. Crowds stand in the rain awaiting the arrival of the Carpathia in New York. A crowd in Devonport gathers to hear a survivor tell his story. J. Hanson, seated right, district secretary of the National Sailors and Firemen’s Union, awards shipwreck pay to survivors. Relatives wait on a railway platform as survivors of the Titanic arrive at Southampton. Relatives wait for survivors at Southampton. Relatives await survivors in Southampton. Survivors are greeted by relatives upon their return to Southampton. A surviving crew member kisses his wife upon arriving at Plymouth. Surviving stewards line up outside a first-class waiting room before being called in for questioning by a board of inquiry. A survivor gives a woman an autograph. A survivor giving an autograph. The four Pascoe brothers, crew who survived the sinking, return to Southampton. Unidentified survivors, later identified as Michel, 4 and Edmond Navratil, 2. To board the ship, their father assumed the name Louis Hoffman and used their nicknames, Lolo and Mamon. Edmond and Michel Navratil are reunited with their mother. A nurse holds newborn Lucien P. Smith, Jr. His mother Eloise was pregnant with him while returning from her honeymoon aboard the Titanic. Lucien’s father died in the disaster. Eloise later married a fellow survivor, Robert P. Daniel.

The names Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb have become synonymous with the chilling and macabre narrative of youthful transgression in early 20th-century America. Their story, a gruesome chapter in the annals of criminal history, continues to fascinate and horrify in equal measure. Backgrounds: Prodigies Bound for Infamy Nathan Freudenthal Leopold Jr. was born on November 19, 1904, in Chicago , Illinois, to a wealthy German-Jewish family. A child prodigy with an IQ reportedly over 200, Leopold was a polymath who spoke nine languages and had an insatiable curiosity for ornithology. He graduated from the University of Chicago at the age of 18 and was planning to attend Harvard Law School. Richard Albert Loeb, born on June 11, 1905, also hailed from a privileged background. The son of a wealthy lawyer and vice president of Sears, Roebuck & Company, Loeb was an intelligent and charismatic youth. Although not as intellectually gifted as Leopold, he was exceptionally bright, graduating from the University of Michigan at 17. Loeb had a passion for crime fiction and was deeply fascinated by the criminal underworld. The Crime: An Exercise in Nihilism The paths of Leopold and Loeb crossed at the University of Chicago, where they formed a close and complex relationship, characterised by psychological manipulation and a mutual obsession with crime. Influenced by the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, particularly the concept of the Übermensch (superman), they believed themselves to be superior beings, exempt from the moral constraints that governed ordinary people. Leopold and Loeb, aged 19 and 18 respectively, conceived a plan to commit the perfect crime by kidnapping and murdering a younger adolescent. Over a period of seven months, they meticulously plotted every detail, from the method of abduction to the disposal of the body. To disguise the true nature and motive of their crime, they decided to demand a ransom. They devised a complex plan for its collection, involving a series of elaborate instructions to be communicated sequentially by phone. The final set of instructions, detailing the actual money drop, was typed using a typewriter they had stolen from a fraternity house. Leopold (left) Loeb (right) August 1924 To carry out the murder, they purchased a chisel intended to render their victim unconscious. Additionally, they bought a length of rope to ensure that both were equally implicated in the crime. Their plan was to wrap the rope around the victim's neck and each pull on one end, thereby strangling him to death. After an extensive search for a suitable victim, primarily on the grounds of the Harvard School for Boys in the Kenwood area where Leopold had been educated, the pair settled on Robert "Bobby" Franks, the 14-year-old son of wealthy Chicago watch manufacturer Jacob Franks. Bobby Franks was a neighbour who lived across the street from Loeb and had played tennis at the Loeb residence on several occasions. On the afternoon of May 21, 1924, Leopold and Loeb set their plan into motion. Using a car rented by Leopold under the alias Morton D. Ballard, they offered Franks a ride as he walked home from school. Although Franks initially declined, as his home was only two blocks away, Loeb convinced him to enter the car by engaging him in a conversation about a tennis racket he had been using. The exact sequence of events that followed remains contested, but the prevailing account suggests that Leopold drove the car while Loeb sat in the back seat with the chisel. Loeb struck Franks, who was seated in the front passenger seat, several times in the head with the chisel. He then dragged Franks into the back seat and gagged him, resulting in the boy's death. Bobby Franks With the body concealed on the floor of the back seat, Leopold and Loeb drove to their predetermined dumping site near Wolf Lake in Hammond, Indiana, 25 miles south of Chicago. After nightfall, they removed and discarded Franks' clothes and concealed the body in a culvert along the Pennsylvania Railroad tracks north of the lake. B y the time the two men returned to Chicago, news of Franks' disappearance had already spread. Leopold called Franks' mother, identifying himself as "George Johnson," and informed her that Franks had been kidnapped, promising that instructions for delivering the ransom would follow. After mailing the typed ransom note, burning their blood-stained clothing, and cleaning the blood stains from the rented vehicle's upholstery, they spent the remainder of the evening playing cards. The following morning, after the Franks family received the ransom note , Leopold called again and dictated the first set of instructions for the ransom payment. However, the intricate plan quickly unraveled when a nervous family member forgot the address of the store where he was supposed to receive the next set of directions. The plan was abandoned entirely when news came that Franks' body had been found. In an effort to cover their tracks, Leopold and Loeb destroyed the typewriter and burned a car robe (lap blanket) they had used to move the body. They then resumed their lives as usual. The ransom note The Chicago police launched an intensive investigation, offering rewards for information. Meanwhile, both Leopold and Loeb took pleasure in discussing the murder with friends and family. Leopold conversed about the case with his professor and a female friend, jokingly suggesting he might confess and give her the reward money. Loeb assisted a few reporter friends in locating the drugstore where he and Leopold had attempted to send Jacob Franks. When asked to describe Bobby, he replied: "If I were to murder anybody, it would be just such a cocky little son of a bitch as Bobby Franks." Police discovered a pair of glasses near Franks' body. Although the prescription and frame were common, the glasses had an unusual hinge, purchased by only three customers in Chicago, one of whom was Leopold. When questioned, Leopold suggested that his glasses might have fallen out of his pocket during a bird-watching trip the previous weekend. Leopold and Loeb were summoned for formal questioning on May 29. They claimed that on the night of the murder, they had picked up two women in Chicago using Leopold's car and later dropped them off near a golf course without learning their last names. However, their alibi was exposed as a fabrication when Leopold's chauffeur informed the police that he had been repairing Leopold's car at the time the men claimed to be using it. The chauffeur's wife corroborated this, stating that the car was parked in the Leopold garage on the afternoon of the murder. The destroyed typewriter was recovered from the Jackson Park Lagoon on June 7. The first to confess was Loeb, asserting that Leopold had masterminded the entire plan and had killed Franks in the back seat while Loeb drove. Leopold's confession followed soon after, contradicting Loeb by claiming he had been the driver and Loeb the killer. Despite this discrepancy, their confessions aligned with much of the evidence in the case. The state's attorney announced both confessions on May 31. Years later, Leopold, long after Loeb's death, recounted how he had pleaded with Loeb to confess to the murder. He quoted Loeb as saying, "Mompsie feels less terrible than she might, thinking you did it, and I'm not going to take that shred of comfort away from her." Most believed Loeb had delivered the fatal blows. However, some circumstantial evidence, including testimony from eyewitness Carl Ulvigh, who claimed to have seen Loeb driving and Leopold in the back seat shortly before the kidnapping, suggested that Leopold might have been the killer. Both Leopold and Loeb admitted they were driven by a thrill-seeking desire and their belief in their own superiority, aspiring to commit the "perfect crime." Neither expressed eagerness for the actual killing, though Leopold admitted he was curious about how it would feel to be a murderer. He was disappointed to find that he felt no different afterward. The Trial: A Nation Transfixed The trial of Leopold and Loeb became a media sensation, drawing attention from across the nation. They were defended by the famous attorney Clarence Darrow, who mounted a defence not based on innocence but on a plea for mercy, highlighting their youth and potential for rehabilitation. There were rumors that Darrow was paid $1 million for his services, but in reality, he received $65,000 (equivalent to $1,200,000 in 2023). Darrow accepted the case because he was a fervent opponent of capital punishment. Defence attorney Clarence Darrow Darrow's fervent and eloquent plea, spanning eight hours, has been lauded as the pinnacle of his career. Within it, he articulated the notion that the methods and penalties enforced by the American justice system were devoid of humanity, while also underscoring the youth and immaturity of the accused. "This terrible crime was inherent in his organism, and it came from some ancestor. Is any blame attached because somebody took Nietzsche's philosophy seriously and fashioned his life upon it? It is hardly fair to hang a 19-year-old boy for the philosophy that was taught him at the university. We read of killing one hundred thousand men in a day [during World War I]. We read about it and we rejoiced in it – if it was the other fellows who were killed. We were fed on flesh and drank blood. Even down to the prattling babe. I need not tell you how many upright, honorable young boys have come into this court charged with murder, some saved and some sent to their death, boys who fought in this war and learned to place a cheap value on human life. You know it and I know it. These boys were brought up in it. It will take fifty years to wipe it out of the human heart, if ever. I know this, that after the Civil War in 1865, crimes of this sort increased, marvellously. No one needs to tell me that crime has no cause. It has as definite a cause as any other disease, and I know that out of the hatred and bitterness of the Civil War crime increased as America had never seen before. I know that Europe is going through the same experience today; I know it has followed every war; and I know it has influenced these boys so that life was not the same to them as it would have been if the world had not made red with blood. Your Honour knows that in this very court crimes of violence have increased growing out of the war. Not necessarily by those who fought but by those that learned that blood was cheap, and human life was cheap, and if the State could take it lightly why not the boy? Has the court any right to consider anything but these two boys? The State says that your Honor has a right to consider the welfare of the community, as you have. If the welfare of the community would be benefited by taking these lives, well and good. I think it would work evil that no one could measure. Has your Honor a right to consider the families of these defendants? I have been sorry, and I am sorry for the bereavement of Mr. and Mrs. Franks, for those broken ties that cannot be healed. All I can hope and wish is that some good may come from it all. But as compared with the families of Leopold and Loeb, the Franks are to be envied – and everyone knows it. Here is Leopold's father – and this boy was the pride of his life. He watched him and he cared for him, he worked for him; the boy was brilliant and accomplished. He educated him, and he thought that fame and position awaited him, as it should have awaited. It is a hard thing for a father to see his life's hopes crumble into dust. And Loeb's the same. Here are the faithful uncle and brother, who have watched here day by day, while Dickie's father and his mother are too ill to stand this terrific strain, and shall be waiting for a message which means more to them than it can mean to you or me. Shall these be taken into account in this general bereavement? The easy thing and the popular thing to do is to hang my clients. I know it. Men and women who do not think will applaud. The cruel and thoughtless will approve. It will be easy today; but in Chicago, and reaching out over the length and breadth of the land, more and more fathers and mothers, the humane, the kind and the hopeful, who are gaining an understanding and asking questions not only about these poor boys, but about their own – these will join in no acclaim at the death of my clients. These would ask that the shedding of blood be stopped, and that the normal feelings of man resume their sway. Your Honor stands between the past and the future. You may hang these boys; you may hang them by the neck until they are dead. But in doing it you will turn your face toward the past. In doing it you are making it harder for every other boy who in ignorance and darkness must grope his way through the mazes which only childhood knows. In doing it you will make it harder for unborn children. You may save them and make it easier for every child that sometime may stand where these boys stand. You will make it easier for every human being with an aspiration and a vision and a hope and a fate. I am pleading for the future; I am pleading for a time when hatred and cruelty will not control the hearts of men. When we can learn by reason and judgment and understanding and faith that all life is worth saving, and that mercy is the highest attribute of man. The judge, though swayed by the arguments presented, clarified in his ruling that his decision was primarily grounded in precedent and the youth of the accused. Consequently, on September 10, 1924, he handed down sentences of life imprisonment for the murder and an additional 99 years for the kidnapping to both Leopold and Loeb. Tragically, just over a month later, Loeb's father passed away from heart failure. Leopold (top) and Loeb (bottom), 1924 Life in Prison: A Tale of Contrasts Leopold and Loeb were incarcerated at the Joliet Prison before being transferred to Stateville Penitentiary. Their prison lives took different trajectories. On January 28, 1936, Loeb was assaulted by fellow inmate James Day with a straight razor in a shower room, leading to his death shortly after in the prison hospital. Day alleged that Loeb had attempted to sexually assault him, yet Day remained unscathed while Loeb suffered over fifty wounds, including defensive ones on his arms and hands, with his throat slashed from behind. Although prison officials, including the Warden, suspected foul play, Day was acquitted by a jury in June 1936 following a brief trial. Leopold in Stateville Penitentiary, 1931 Speculation arose regarding a potential sexual motive behind the killing. While some reports suggest that newsman Ed Lahey began his Chicago Daily News story with the lead, "Richard Loeb, despite his erudition, today ended his sentence with a proposition," there is no evidence to support the publication of this lead. Actual copies from that date provide a different account. Leopold, on the other hand, sought redemption through service and self-improvement. He became an exemplary prisoner, organising educational programs, teaching classes, and working in the prison hospital. Published in 1958 as part of his efforts to secure parole, Leopold's autobiography, "Life Plus 99 Years," quickly gained traction. It enjoyed a 14-week stint on the New York Times Best Seller list and garnered predominantly favorable reviews. However, some critics argued that Leopold's narrative was an attempt to whitewash his past and reshape his public image, disregarding the darker aspects of his history. His efforts earned him parole in 1958 after 33 years in prison. Upon his release, Leopold moved to Puerto Rico, where he quietly lived out his remaining years working in social services and engaging in medical research until his death in 1971.

On the morning of 5 September 1986, what should have been a routine stopover at Karachi Airport turned into one of the deadliest hijackings in aviation history. Pan Am Flight 73, a Boeing 747 travelling from Bombay (now Mumbai) to New York with scheduled stops in Karachi and Frankfurt, was stormed by armed men posing as airport security. The hijackers were members of the Abu Nidal Organisation, a Palestinian militant group notorious in the 1970s and 80s for international attacks. Their aim was chilling: to seize the plane, bargain for the release of Palestinian prisoners, and, if negotiations failed, inflict maximum casualties. Instead, what unfolded was a 16-hour ordeal of terror, heroism, and tragic loss that left more than 20 passengers dead and hundreds traumatised. The crew of Pan Am Flight 73. Setting the Scene By the mid-1980s, international terrorism often intersected with commercial aviation. Hijackings had become a brutal tactic for militant groups to demand concessions or make political statements. Airlines were targeted because they offered high-profile publicity and leverage against governments. Pan Am Flight 73 was caught in this climate. The aircraft, nicknamed Clipper Empress of the Seas , had already flown in from Bombay and was sitting on the tarmac in Karachi at 4:30 a.m. A fresh set of passengers was boarding when the attackers made their move. The Hijackers’ Disguise The four men arrived in a van that had been modified to look like an airport security vehicle. It even had a siren and flashing lights. Dressed as security guards, armed with AK-47 rifles, pistols, grenades, and explosives strapped to their bodies, they marched straight up to the Boeing 747. Their entry was violent and swift. Shots were fired into the air, panicked ground staff scattered, and two Kuwait Airways employees nearby were killed by stray gunfire. Inside the cabin, flight attendants were forced at gunpoint to shut the doors, trapping hundreds of passengers inside. But one crucial move happened in those first minutes: Senior Purser Neerja Bhanot quietly relayed the hijack code to the cockpit crew. Realising the gravity of the situation, the American pilots and flight engineer escaped through an overhead hatch, leaving the hijackers without anyone to fly the plane. This single act immobilised the aircraft and set the stage for a tense standoff. A Cabin Held Hostage With the cockpit empty, the hijackers were forced to deal directly with negotiators on the ground. They herded passengers from front to back and back to front, cramming people into aisles and galley areas. At around 10 a.m., the lead hijacker, Zayd Hassan Abd al-Latif Safarini, tried to prove his seriousness. He singled out 29-year-old Rajesh Kumar, an Indian-American newly naturalised as a U.S. citizen. Dragged to the doorway, Kumar was executed in full view of passengers and airport staff outside. His body was dumped on the tarmac. It was a horrific warning. The hijackers demanded that the cockpit crew be returned to the aircraft, but with the pilots long gone, officials stalled for time. Flight attendant Neerja Bhanot, who was shot dead. Hidden Passports and Small Acts of Defiance Throughout the day, flight attendants were ordered to collect passports. The hijackers appeared intent on identifying American citizens, but the crew quietly worked against them. Neerja Bhanot and her colleagues Sunshine Vesuwala and Madhvi Bahuguna slipped American passports under seats and even down rubbish chutes. One British passenger, mountaineer Michael Thexton, was called forward at one point. He later recalled that the hijacker quizzed him about his background, asked if he was married, and surprisingly spared him. Years later, Thexton learned that the man had shown him mercy because of his story about losing his brother and not wanting his mother to lose another child. These moments revealed both the randomness of survival and the courage of those who quietly resisted. The Night Turns Deadly As night fell, the situation grew more desperate. At around 9 p.m., the plane lost power and was plunged into darkness. The hijackers panicked, fearing a raid was imminent. In their frenzy, they opened fire indiscriminately inside the cabin and hurled grenades. The confined space of the 747 turned every bullet into deadly shrapnel as it ricocheted off walls and ceilings. Passengers screamed, ducked, and tried to shield one another. In the chaos, some flight attendants managed to open emergency exits. Passengers leapt 20 feet to the tarmac, while one armed slide at the R4 door became a vital escape route. Neerja Bhanot, true to her role as purser, helped as many people as possible escape before she was fatally shot while shielding children from gunfire. By the time Pakistani commandos stormed the aircraft, much of the carnage had already taken place. The injured victims being evacuated to a U.S. military hospital in Germany. The Human Cost More than 20 people were killed, and around 150 were injured. The victims came from a range of nationalities including India, the United States, Pakistan, and Mexico. India suffered particularly heavily, with citizens making up over a quarter of those on board and a significant portion of the dead. Neerja Bhanot’s sacrifice became a defining story of the hijacking. Just 22 years old, she was posthumously awarded multiple honours, including India’s highest peacetime bravery award, the Ashok Chakra, and Pakistan’s Tamgha-e-Pakistan and Nishan-e-Pakistan for her courage. The Hijackers’ Fate All five identified hijackers were captured by Pakistani authorities. In 1988 they were sentenced to death, though these sentences were later commuted to life imprisonment. In a twist, Zayd Hassan Abd al-Latif Safarini was eventually extradited to the United States in 2001, where he pleaded guilty and received a 160-year prison sentence. The other four men were released to Palestinian custody in 2008, sparking outrage among survivors and victims’ families. The FBI later issued $5 million rewards for their capture, and one of them, Jamal Saeed Abdul Rahim, was reported killed in a drone strike in 2010, though his death has never been officially confirmed. The bloodstained shoes of injured or dead passengers at Karachi airport on Sept. 7, 1986. Allegations of Libyan Involvement Much like the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie in 1988, Libya was accused of being behind the attack. Lawsuits were filed in the U.S. by survivors and families of victims, alleging that Muammar Gaddafi’s regime had provided support to the Abu Nidal Organisation. Libya eventually settled other terrorism cases, but its role in Pan Am 73 has never been officially acknowledged. The legal battles for compensation, particularly for Indian families, dragged on for decades. Legacy and Memory For those who survived, the hijacking left lifelong scars. Many passengers suffered physical injuries and psychological trauma that never fully healed. The multinational nature of the flight meant that the tragedy rippled across continents, touching communities from India to the U.S. to Europe. The bravery of crew members, particularly Neerja Bhanot, is still remembered. In 2016, Bollywood released Neerja , a film that brought her story to a wider audience and highlighted her sacrifice. Even decades later, the case remains partly unresolved. The FBI continues to keep some of the hijackers on its Most Wanted Terrorists list, releasing age-progressed photos in hopes of capturing them. Why Pan Am Flight 73 Matters Today The Pan Am Flight 73 hijacking is more than just a tragic story from the 1980s. It highlights the vulnerabilities of civil aviation in the face of terrorism, the importance of quick thinking by airline crew, and the devastating consequences when political conflicts spill into everyday lives. It’s also a reminder of extraordinary bravery. As one survivor later said: “In the darkest hours of our lives, it was the courage of ordinary people like Neerja that gave us hope.”

Matilda McCrear's story has emerged from a shadowy chapter of history thanks to the efforts of Dr. Hannah Durkin from Newcastle University. Dr. Durkin initially believed that Redoshi Smith, a former slave who passed away in 1937, was the last survivor of the transatlantic slave trade. However, her research has since led her to uncover another woman, Matilda McCrear, who was also brought from Africa on the same ship. McCrear lived until 1940, passing away at the age of eighty-three or eighty-four in Selma, Alabama. As per BBC News, Matilda McCrear, alongside her sisters and their mother, Gracie, arrived in the United States at the tender age of two, aboard the final slave vessel, the Clotilda. This ship docked in Mobile, Alabama, in July 1860, a mere year before the outbreak of the American Civil War. Upon their arrival, Matilda and her mother were acquired by a plantation owner named Dr. Memorable Walker Creagh. Originally trained as both a doctor and an attorney, Dr. Creagh inherited a vast plantation, leading him to assume roles as a politician and a Gentleman Planter in South Carolina, where he oversaw a significant number of slaves. Matilda's mother was coerced into marrying another slave, while her two other daughters were forcibly separated from the family by a different plantation owner, never to be reunited. Despite their dire circumstances, Matilda and her mother made a daring attempt to escape their enslavement at one point, only to be apprehended and returned to their owner. The story of Matilda and her family highlights the horrors of slavery, the abuses of the US South’s sharecropping system, the injustices of segregation and the suffering of black farmers during the Great Depression. - Hannah Durkin Dr. Durkin's objective was to trace Matilda's life journey by combing through census records and previous interviews, aiming to gain insights into the experiences of a slave family navigating the era of Emancipation. Through her diligent research, she managed to establish contact with Matilda's grandson, eighty-three-year-old Johnny Crear. Johnny himself had lived through significant historical events such as the Selma riots of 1963 and the marches led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Upon learning of Dr. Durkin's discoveries, Johnny expressed a mix of emotions. While he felt grateful that his grandmother's legacy had brought him into existence and was eager to learn more about her history, he couldn't help but harbour anger towards the unjust circumstances that had forced Matilda into a life of slavery. Following the end of the war, the plight of former slaves did not see significant improvement. Many found themselves coerced into sharecropping arrangements, wherein the landowner allowed them to cultivate the land but demanded a substantial portion of the harvest in return. If the sharecroppers failed to sell their allotted share, they became indebted to the landowner for their upkeep. Lacking access to education and means to earn a livelihood, their circumstances hardly differed from their days in bondage. After gaining freedom, Matilda displayed a fierce determination to forge her own path. She opted to discard the surname of her former owner, adopting the name McCrear. Despite being compelled into sharecropping alongside her family, she demonstrated resilience in asserting her independence. Additionally, she entered into a relationship with a Jewish white man from Germany, a union forbidden by law at the time. Their relationship was considered shocking for the era, yet Matilda defied societal norms, spending the remainder of her life with him and raising their fourteen children together. In her seventies, fueled by a sense of justice, she marched to the county courthouse to demand compensation for the years she endured in slavery. Understandably, as a black woman in the 1930s, her plea fell on deaf ears, resulting in dismissal. However, undeterred by the setback, Matilda later granted an interview to the Selma Times-Journal. The subsequent coverage ignited public interest and may have ultimately attracted the attention of civil rights activists, leading Dr. Durkin to uncover Matilda's remarkable life story. The transatlantic slave trade, which spanned from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century, is regarded by French historian Jean-Michel Deveau, cited by UNESCO, as one of the most monumental tragedies in human history in terms of its vast scale and enduring duration. This trade network operated across Africa, America, Spain, the Netherlands, England, France, and the Caribbean. Historical estimates suggest that between twenty-five to thirty million Africans were forcibly taken and sold into slavery, with countless others perishing during the harrowing voyages aboard cramped cargo ships, where they were shackled shoulder to shoulder for weeks on end. The capture of slaves in Africa was often carried out by fellow Africans, who exchanged their human captives for European commodities such as rum, weapons, ammunition, textiles, jewels, and other luxury goods.

In the mid-19th century, thousands of women across Europe died after giving birth. Doctors explained these deaths with the popular “miasma theory” – the belief that invisible clouds of “poison air” spread through hospital wards, killing patients at random. But one Hungarian obstetrician wasn’t convinced. Ignaz Semmelweis, now remembered as the “saviour of mothers,” discovered that something as simple as washing hands could all but eliminate childbed fever. Tragically, his discovery was ridiculed in his lifetime. Early Life and Education Ignaz Semmelweis was born on 1 July 1818, in Buda, near modern Budapest. His father was a prosperous grocer, and the young Ignaz was first sent to study law at the University of Vienna in 1837. Within a year, he shifted to medicine, eventually earning his doctorate in 1844. Drawn to obstetrics, he began work in 1846 as an assistant in the maternity wards of Vienna General Hospital. Theresia Müller and Joseph Semmelweis, the parents of Ignaz Semmelweis A Deadly Divide in the Hospital The hospital had two maternity wards. Ward No. 1, staffed by doctors and medical students, had an appalling reputation: women admitted there were far more likely to die of puerperal fever (childbed fever). In Semmelweis’s very first month, 36 out of 208 women died, a shocking 17% fatality rate. Ward No. 2, staffed only by midwives, had far fewer deaths. Poor women in Vienna avoided Ward No. 1 if they could. Some even chose to give birth on the streets, where their chances of survival were higher. Challenging the “Miasma Theory” The accepted explanation was miasma, a deadly gas or “poison air.” But Semmelweis refused to accept that a mysterious vapour would target one ward while sparing another just down the corridor. He began to suspect the doctors themselves. Ward No. 1’s staff frequently carried out autopsies in the morning before delivering babies in the afternoon, often without washing their hands. Midwives, by contrast, never performed autopsies. The breakthrough came in 1847, when Semmelweis’s colleague Jakob Kolletschka died after cutting himself during an autopsy. His symptoms mirrored those of the women who had died in childbirth. To Semmelweis, the link was obvious: infection was being carried from corpses to mothers by unwashed hands and instruments. Handwashing Saves Lives Semmelweis ordered doctors and students to wash their hands in chlorinated lime solution before examining patients. The results were dramatic. In just months, mortality rates in Ward No. 1 plummeted. By 1849, deaths from puerperal fever had almost disappeared. For the first time in medical history, maternal death in childbirth could be drastically reduced. Hostility from the Medical Establishment Despite the clear evidence, Semmelweis’s findings were not welcomed. Senior doctors in Vienna attacked his ideas, insisting that disease could not possibly be spread by gentlemen physicians. His statistics, though compelling, challenged centuries of medical tradition. By 1849, Semmelweis was dismissed from his post. Mortality rates in Ward No. 1 quickly returned to their previous levels as doctors abandoned handwashing. Later Career in Budapest Semmelweis returned to Hungary, working at the St. Rochus Hospital in Budapest. There, his methods again saved lives: maternal mortality fell sharply when handwashing was enforced. Semmelweis's main work: Die Ätiologie, der Begriff und die Prophylaxis des Kindbettfiebers , 1861 In 1861, he published his major work Die Aetiologie, der Begriff und die Prophylaxis des Kindbettfiebers  ( The Etiology, Concept and Prophylaxis of Childbed Fever ). Dense with statistics and difficult to read, the book was mocked by many leading physicians. The medical profession clung to older theories of disease for decades, dismissing his insistence on cleanliness. Decline and Death Years of rejection weighed heavily on Semmelweis. He suffered from depression and, by the mid-1860s, symptoms of what may have been early dementia. In 1865, he was tricked into entering an asylum. There he was beaten, restrained, and suffered infected injuries. Within two weeks, Ignaz Semmelweis was dead, aged just 47. Only a handful of people attended his funeral. Legacy and Recognition Semmelweis’s ideas were vindicated decades later, as antiseptic techniques championed by Joseph Lister and the germ theory of Louis Pasteur became universally accepted. Today, hand hygiene is considered one of the most basic and essential practices in medicine. Though dismissed in life, Semmelweis is now honoured as a pioneer. His body was reburied in Budapest in 1891, and statues commemorate him around the world. He is remembered not for discovering a new drug or performing groundbreaking surgery, but for proving that the simplest action, washing your hands, can save countless lives. Conclusion Ignaz Semmelweis transformed medicine, but at a terrible personal cost. By challenging entrenched beliefs, he revealed how arrogance and prejudice in the medical profession delayed lifesaving practices for decades. His story is a reminder that science advances not only through discovery, but through the courage to question authority. Sources Semmelweis, Ignaz. Die Aetiologie, der Begriff und die Prophylaxis des Kindbettfiebers  (Etiology, Concept and Prophylaxis of Childbed Fever). Vienna: C.A. Hartleben, 1861. (Original publication of his findings) Margotta, Roberto. History of Medicine . New York: Barnes & Noble, 1968. Nuland, Sherwin B. The Doctors’ Plague: Germs, Childbed Fever, and the Strange Story of Ignac Semmelweis . New York: W.W. Norton, 2003. Hanninen, Osmo, Farley, John, and Hanninen, J. “Ignaz Semmelweis: An Annotated Bibliography.” Medical History , Vol. 38, No. 1 (1994): 79–90. Carter, K. Codell. Childbed Fever: A Scientific Biography of Ignaz Semmelweis . Greenwood Press, 1983. Loudon, Irvine. “Ignaz Phillip Semmelweis’ Studies of Death in Childbed.” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine  87, no. 12 (1994): 731–734. BBC History. “Ignaz Semmelweis.” Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/semmelweis_ignaz.shtml The Science Museum, London. “Ignaz Semmelweis and the story of handwashing.” Available at: https://www.sciencemuseum.org.uk/objects-and-stories/ignaz-semmelweis Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Ignaz Semmelweis.” Available at: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Ignaz-Semmelweis

If you could encapsulate madness in a film, Apocalypse Now  would undoubtedly be the crown jewel of cinematic insanity. The filming process itself was a warzone, not far removed from the brutal conflict it portrayed. A film that took over three years to make, helmed by a director who nearly lost everything—his health, his sanity, and his fortune—just to see his vision come to life. What was supposed to be a 14-week shoot ballooned into a nightmare of guerrilla filmmaking in the Philippines, where the cast and crew faced monsoon rains, political turmoil, tropical diseases, and the personal demons of its leading actors. In the words of director Francis Ford Coppola, Apocalypse Now  was not simply about Vietnam; it was  Vietnam. It’s a wonder the film made it to theatres at all. The behind-the-scenes chaos was enough to warrant its own documentary, but the final product? A masterpiece born out of cinematic hell. Apocalypse Could Have Been  Now What many don’t know is that Apocalypse Now  almost never saw Coppola's touch. If fate had played out differently, George Lucas could have been the one filming in Vietnam while the conflict was still raging. Lucas, who later became synonymous with space adventures, had a much darker vision for the film—shot guerrilla-style amidst actual gunfire. However, the absurdity of the idea, combined with the dangers, made it impossible for any studio to consider backing such a suicidal endeavour. So, the project sat in limbo until Coppola picked it up in the mid-70s. His vision? Something far grander, more artistic, and completely unhinged. By the time filming wrapped, there were no more illusions—this movie wasn’t just about a war. It was about madness. The original plan was deceptively simple: a 14-week shoot in the Philippines beginning in early 1976. Of course, nothing went to plan. Instead, what unfolded was a living nightmare that would test the limits of every person involved. The problems began early when Coppola fired his original lead, Harvey Keitel, after just two weeks. Keitel, whose intensity didn’t match Coppola’s vision for the role of Captain Willard, was replaced by Martin Sheen—who was no saint himself, battling alcoholism and personal issues that would soon spill over onto the set. When Sheen arrived, he wasn’t stepping into a well-oiled machine but a chaotic battlefield. Coppola, known for his methodical, almost obsessive attention to detail, was literally writing the script as they went along, a Herculean task that kept everyone on edge. Adding to the mayhem, the Philippine army, which had lent helicopters for the combat sequences, would frequently recall them to fight in real battles against anti-government rebels. The crew would stand by, ready to film one minute, only to watch the helicopters fly away the next. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone. Partying in Paradise… and Then the Typhoon Despite the madness of the workday, the crew found solace in the chaos by partying even harder at night. Vietnam vet Doug Claybourne, who was brought in as a production assistant, recalls the hotel being a non-stop rager. It was paradise by day, insanity by night. "We’d have a hundred beers lined up around the swimming pool," Claybourne said, adding that some people would even dive off the roofs into the water below. It was chaos—but it was the only way to cope with the intensity of the work. Then came the typhoon. Nature itself seemed to conspire against Coppola and his dream of completing the film. The storm destroyed much of the set, bringing production to a grinding halt. Coppola retreated back to San Francisco for a month, attempting to regroup and rethink his battle plan. Yet, even after the temporary pause, some of the crew had had enough and refused to return to the jungle. Martin Sheen, despite deep misgivings, did return, but he had an ominous sense of doom hanging over him. "I don’t know if I’m going to live through this," he confided to friends. His fear wasn’t entirely unfounded. Enter Kurtz… And the Corpses Filming eventually resumed, but Coppola’s greatest challenge was yet to come—working with Marlon Brando. Brando was cast as Colonel Kurtz, the rogue Green Beret who had gone AWOL deep in the jungle. When Brando finally arrived on set, everyone was shocked—he was enormous, tipping the scales at around 300 pounds. Coppola’s vision of Kurtz as a lean, hardened warrior evaporated instantly. How could he dress Brando in a military uniform when there was none that could fit him? Worse still, Brando hadn’t bothered to learn his lines or prepare for the role. Coppola, ever the perfectionist, was forced to start from scratch. According to Dennis Hopper, the production came to a standstill for a week while Coppola literally read Brando the entire script aloud. Brando, for his part, decided to improvise most of his scenes, insisting on being filmed in shadow to hide his girth. The result is an enigmatic portrayal of Kurtz, veiled in darkness both literally and figuratively. Then came one of the more macabre revelations on set: corpses. Real ones. Dean Tavoularis, the production designer, had acquired actual dead bodies to enhance the authenticity of Kurtz’s compound. When co-producer Gray Frederickson discovered this grim fact, he was horrified. It turned out the bodies had been procured from a grave robber who sold cadavers to medical schools. The police were called, and everyone on set had their passports confiscated until the situation was sorted out. The bodies were eventually hauled away—though no one was quite sure where they were dumped. In the end, the corpses that were supposed to be used as props were replaced with extras. “We Had Access to Too Much Money… and We Went Insane.” As if the turmoil wasn’t enough, Martin Sheen suffered a near-fatal heart attack in the middle of filming. Coppola, whose mental state was already fragile, convinced himself that he was to blame. At one point, the pressure drove him to have an epileptic seizure. He would later admit, “We had access to too much money and little by little, we went insane.” Dennis Hopper, who was playing a crazed photojournalist, wasn’t faring much better. His character was supposed to be unhinged, and by all accounts, he didn’t have to stretch too far to play the role. Hopper openly requested cocaine to help him get through his scenes, which, disturbingly, was supplied by the production. But nothing compared to Coppola’s personal descent into despair. Faced with financial ruin, he had sunk millions of his own dollars into the production. Three times he declared that he was going to commit suicide. Yet, somehow, the film was completed. The madness that enveloped the production had birthed something extraordinary. When Apocalypse Now  finally premiered in 1979, it was hailed as a masterpiece. A Final Word on Madness The chaotic production of Apocalypse Now  has become legendary, almost as much as the film itself. In the years that followed, the stories from the set became as much a part of the film’s mythology as its characters. Dennis Hopper, true to form, almost missed the press screening because he was found naked in his hotel room, wearing only a cowboy hat and boots. And Marlon Brando? He refused to talk about the film ever again, still upset over unpaid royalties. But what Apocalypse Now  left behind is more than just a film about war—it’s a testament to the extremes of human endurance, creativity, and madness. It’s said that making the film was its own version of going up the river, deeper into the heart of darkness. Maybe that’s why it’s so powerful. It’s not just about Vietnam; it was  Vietnam.

On quiet Paris mornings, before the cafés raised their shutters and before traffic asserted itself, a solitary figure moved slowly through the streets with a large wooden camera and a heavy tripod. He paused not at monuments, but at doorways, shop windows, corners, and empty streets still holding the imprint of recent life. What he was recording was not spectacle but disappearance. The man was Eugène Atget, and the photographs he made would become one of the most comprehensive visual records of Paris at the moment it slipped from one century into another. Three sex-workers rue Asselin. An indirect path to photography Atget was born on 12th February, 1857, in Libourne, a small town in south western France. Orphaned young, he was raised by relatives and spent much of his early adult life searching for a profession. He worked as a sailor, trained as an actor, and later studied painting at the École des Beaux Arts. None of these paths provided stability, but each shaped the way he later approached photography. Acting sharpened his awareness of posture and presence. Painting trained his eye for balance and surface. Life at sea fostered patience and self reliance. It was only in the late 1880s, already in middle age by the standards of the time, that Atget turned seriously to photography. By the turn of the twentieth century, he had committed himself almost entirely to documenting Paris, moving methodically through its streets with what contemporaries often described as obsessive focus. 'The Ragpickers Paris remade and the pull of vieux Paris Atget’s timing was critical. Paris was still living with the consequences of Georges-Eugène Haussmann’s nineteenth century modernisation programme. Haussmannisation had swept away large areas of medieval Paris, replacing narrow streets with broad boulevards, uniform façades, and new parks. The process was efficient, monumental, and necessarily destructive. By the late nineteenth century, this transformation had sparked a growing cultural fixation on vieux Paris , the idea of an older city that existed before modern planning, traffic systems, and commercial signage. Atget’s work emerged directly from this atmosphere. His photographs of narrow alleys, small courtyards, street labourers, and informal trades can be read as a quiet counter archive to Haussmann’s vision. Early images such as street pavers, rag pickers, and street musicians, photographed in the late 1890s, reveal his attention to forms of labour already slipping out of view. These were not nostalgic scenes staged for effect. They were records of everyday survival in a city that was reorganising itself at speed. Two sex-workers at the corner of Boulevard de la Chapelle and rue de Fleury. The flâneur with a purpose Atget’s working life closely aligned with the figure of the flâneur, articulated by Charles Baudelaire in his 1863 essay The Painter of Modern Life . Baudelaire described the flâneur as someone who wandered the modern city without destination, open to chance, observation, and fleeting impressions. “For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator,” Baudelaire wrote, “it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude.” Mannequins, Avenue de Gobelins Atget walked Paris in precisely this way, but with a camera as his reason for stopping. He wandered until something arrested him, a prostitute waiting in a doorway, a waiter standing at a threshold, a shop window filled with mannequins, or a street temporarily emptied of people. His Paris often appears strangely still, not because it lacked life, but because he worked early in the morning, when movement had left its traces but not yet returned. This openness to involuntary memory echoes the literary Paris of Marcel Proust, who lived and wrote in the city during Atget’s lifetime. Like a Proustian madeleine, Atget’s images trigger recollection through ordinary details rather than dramatic events. Street musicians, circa 1898-99. Sex Workers and Marginal Lives One of the most revealing aspects of Atget’s work is his sustained attention to people at the edges of respectability. Sex workers appear repeatedly in his photographs, standing alone or in small groups, framed by doorways or street corners. Images made on rue Asselin and around Boulevard de la Chapelle in the early 1920s show women looking directly at the camera, neither posed nor hidden. Atget did not sensationalise these encounters. They sit alongside photographs of hawkers, labourers, and shopkeepers, forming part of a broader record of working life. In doing so, he produced some of the most straightforward visual documents of prostitution in early twentieth century Paris, free of moralising or melodrama. Rag collector, 1899. Documents pour artistes Atget never described himself as an artist. His calling card from around 1900 read, “E. Atget, Creator, and Purveyor of a Collection of Photographic Views of Old Paris.” He conceived his work as documents pour artistes , practical resources for painters, sculptors, and designers. This intention shaped both his subject matter and his extraordinary discipline. After making a photograph, Atget developed, washed, and fixed the negative himself. Each negative was assigned a consecutive number, written in graphite on the verso and scratched into the emulsion. Prints were contact printed only, never enlarged, ensuring that every photograph remained the same size as its negative. Marchand d’abat-jour (lampshade seller), rue Lepic, 1900. He printed using commercially available albumen and gelatin silver printing out papers. Negatives were clamped into printing frames and exposed to sunlight, allowing him to inspect progress until the image reached the desired density. Prints were then washed, fixed, and gold toned, following standard practice of the period. Finished prints were numbered in pencil and inserted into albums using corner slits rather than adhesive. Albums were organised both chronologically and by theme, with additional volumes assembled according to subjects likely to interest clients, architecture, shopfronts, street trades, gardens, or figures. Poverty, principle, and absolute control For much of his life, Atget lived in extreme poverty. For around twenty years, he reportedly survived largely on milk, bread, and sugar, claiming that all other foods were poison. Whether belief or necessity, the regime reflected his severe self discipline. This rigidity was noted by Berenice Abbott, who encountered Atget in the 1920s. “In art and hygiene he was absolute,” Abbott wrote. “He had very personal ideas on everything which he imposed with extraordinary violence.” That intransigence shaped his photographs. He resisted artistic fashion, ignored emerging modernist aesthetics, and continued to work with large format equipment long after smaller cameras became available. War, loss, and a late shift The First World War interrupted Atget’s work. He stored much of his archive in his basement for safekeeping and almost entirely stopped photographing. Valentine, his long term partner, lost her son Léon at the front, a personal loss that marked the period deeply. Between 1920 and 1921, Atget sold thousands of negatives to institutions, finally achieving a degree of financial independence. In his final years, he turned his attention to photographing the parks of Versailles, Saint Cloud, and Sceaux, while also producing his late series of sex workers. Valentine died in 1926. In 1927, shortly before his own death on 04th August, 1927, Abbott photographed Atget in a series of portraits, describing him as slightly stooped, tired, remote, and appealing. Atget did not live to see the full recognition of his work. During his lifetime, his photographs attracted the attention of Surrealists, who published them in La Révolution surréaliste in 1926, drawn to their deserted streets, stairways, and uncanny shop windows. Sex-worker, rue Asselin. After his death, Abbott became his most committed advocate. She purchased a substantial portion of his archive, promoted his work through exhibitions and publications, and eventually sold her collection to the Museum of Modern Art in 1968. The archive, comprising thousands of prints and glass plate negatives, became foundational to Atget’s international reputation. American photographers such as Walker Evans and Lee Friedlander absorbed Atget’s clarity and restraint into their own work. In 1931, Ansel Adams described Atget’s prints as “direct and emotionally clean records” and among the earliest expressions of true photographic art. A methodical witness to disappearance Atget’s photographs are neither sentimental nor theatrical. They are careful, repetitive, and patient. Taken together, they form an archive of a city reshaped by modernisation and loss. He did not attempt to stop change, only to record what existed before it vanished. Paris moved on. Atget walked slowly. And in that deliberate pace, he left behind one of the most enduring visual histories of urban life ever assembled.

The Rolling Stones tend to get introduced as one of the greatest live bands in history, and fair play, they’ve spent nearly sixty years proving it. Even now, they still show up and blast through sets as if the whole ageing process was merely a suggestion. But for a band so famously loud and loose on stage, their studio work is just as interesting, even if it tends to get pushed aside in favour of tales about hotel-room furniture flying out of windows. Behind the scenes, Jagger and Richards never approached recording with the neat, lab-coat precision of Pink Floyd or The Beatles . Those bands were busy fine-tuning tape loops and exploring the limits of studio engineering. The Stones’ approach was more along the lines of: wander in, see what happens, and hope inspiration turns up before the engineer gives up and goes home. Sessions were often chaotic, beautifully scruffy, and powered by whatever riff Keith had stumbled across at three in the morning. Keith, of course, operated on his own schedule, which rarely aligned with concepts like “daylight” or “eight hours of sleep”. Engineers would recall him turning up at impossible times, cigarette already lit, muttering something about a new idea he needed to try “right now”. Half the time these half-awake experiments ended up becoming the backbone of a song. And because the Stones rarely bothered pretending that demos were strictly private, those early recordings now give us a rare look at the bones of some of their most iconic tracks. Two of the most revealing are the demos for ‘Wild Horses’ and ‘Gimme Shelter’, both featuring Keith on lead vocals. It’s always a bit disorienting at first. Keith’s voice is absolutely fine, and his solo albums prove he can carry a tune. But we’re so conditioned to hearing Mick front these songs that Keith’s versions feel like wandering into the wrong cinema screen by mistake. You know you’re in roughly the right place, but something’s definitely off. Take ‘Gimme Shelter’. The song came out of a dark patch in 1969, which might be why it has that creeping, end-of-the-world feeling. Richards famously came up with the riff while watching a storm roll in over London. They recorded it at Olympic Studios during a period when the Stones were shaking off the last bits of sixties idealism and gearing up for something grittier. Add in its later connection to Altamont and Merry Clayton’s spine-splitting vocal, and the song’s mythology practically writes itself. Compared to all that drama, Keith’s early vocal sounds a bit like he’s just testing the plumbing before the house gets built. ‘Wild Horses’, though, is a different story. Recorded during their stop at Muscle Shoals Sound Studio in Alabama in December 1969, the track belonged to Keith long before it became a polished album classic. His demo of it actually suits his voice surprisingly well. The song often gets linked to Marianne Faithfull, but Keith brushed that aside. “Everyone always says this was written about Marianne but I don’t think it was; that was all well over by then,” he said later. “But I was definitely very inside this piece emotionally.” He also described the song as a perfect example of how he and Jagger worked: “If there is a classic way of Mick and me working together this is it. I had the riff and chorus line, Mick got stuck into the verses. Just like ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Wild Horses’ was about the usual thing of not wanting to be on the road, being a million miles from where you want to be.” You can absolutely hear that in the demo. Keith sounds like a man who has stared into the middle distance for several hours contemplating life, travel, and probably the state of his hotel room. His voice has a kind of worn tenderness, and the guitar is gentle, almost apologetic. Later covers might be technically stronger, but Keith’s version has that unpolished honesty you only get when someone’s recorded themselves while feeling all of it rather deeply. That’s the charm of these demos. They strip away the swagger, the stadium lights, the decades of mythology, and leave you with the actual process: someone with an acoustic guitar, a half-formed idea, and the determination to get it down before the moment slips away. Before the legend and the live spectacles, this is how the songs started. A bit messy, a bit sleepy, a bit brilliant. Exactly like the Stones, really.

Constantine the Great, revered as a pivotal figure in the establishment of Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire, is often portrayed solely through the lens of his Christian conversion and subsequent actions. However, understanding Constantine's relationship with paganism is essential for comprehending the complexities of his reign and the broader religious landscape of his time. This article delves into the nuanced interplay between Constantine and paganism, shedding light on his upbringing, policies, and legacy within the context of a transitioning empire. Pagan Roots and Early Life: Born in 272 AD in the Roman province of Moesia (modern-day Serbia), Constantine was raised in a world steeped in pagan traditions and beliefs. His father, Constantius Chlorus, a Roman general, was a devotee of the cult of Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun, a prominent deity within the Roman pantheon. As such, Constantine's formative years were influenced by the polytheistic religious practices prevalent in the Roman Empire. While little is known about Constantine's religious inclinations during his youth, it is evident that he was exposed to a diverse array of pagan cults and rituals. The Roman Empire, with its vast territorial expanse, encompassed a multitude of religious traditions, from the worship of traditional Roman gods to the incorporation of deities from conquered territories. Religious Reforms and Christian Conversion: Constantine's ascent to power marked a turning point in Roman history, both politically and religiously. In 312 AD, before the Battle of Milvian Bridge, Constantine reported experiencing a divine vision that led to his conversion to Christianity. According to historical accounts, he saw a cross in the sky accompanied by the Latin phrase "In hoc signo vinces" ("In this sign, you will conquer"). This pivotal moment prompted Constantine to embrace Christianity and adopt the Chi-Rho symbol as his standard. Some of the key pagan beliefs he would have encountered include: Polytheism: The Roman religion was polytheistic, meaning it involved the worship of multiple gods and goddesses. Each deity was associated with specific aspects of life, nature, or human endeavors. Among the prominent Roman gods were Jupiter (the king of the gods), Juno (the goddess of marriage and childbirth), Mars (the god of war), and Venus (the goddess of love and beauty). Cult Worship: Romans often participated in cult worship, which involved rituals and ceremonies dedicated to specific gods or divine figures. These cults could be associated with particular deities, such as the cult of Isis or the cult of Mithras, which gained popularity during the Roman period. Imperial Cult: Emperors were often deified and worshipped as divine figures, particularly after their death. This practice, known as the imperial cult, reinforced the idea of the emperor's authority and legitimacy as a ruler. Constantine's father, Constantius Chlorus, as well as other emperors of the time, would have been honoured in this way. Rituals and Sacrifices: Pagan worship often involved elaborate rituals, ceremonies, and sacrifices offered to the gods to seek their favour or blessings. These rituals could include prayers, processions, animal sacrifices, and other symbolic acts performed in temples or sacred spaces. Mystery Religions: Alongside traditional Roman beliefs, mystery religions, such as the Eleusinian Mysteries or the cult of Dionysus, offered initiates secret knowledge and spiritual experiences through initiation rites and ceremonies. Constantine's exposure to these pagan beliefs and practices would have been commonplace in Roman society, shaping his understanding of religion and spirituality before his conversion to Christianity.Following his conversion, Constantine issued the Edict of Milan in 313 AD, granting tolerance to Christians and effectively ending the persecution they had endured under previous emperors. He also initiated policies that favoured Christian institutions and clergy, including the construction of churches and the patronage of Christian leaders. Despite his embrace of Christianity, Constantine's relationship with paganism remained complex. He continued to honour aspects of the traditional Roman religion, participating in pagan ceremonies and retaining pagan symbols in imperial iconography. Constantine's approach to religion was pragmatic, aiming to foster unity within the empire rather than impose a singular faith. Legacy and Historical Interpretations: Constantine's reign marked a profound shift in the religious landscape of the Roman Empire, paving the way for Christianity to emerge as the dominant faith. His conversion and support for Christianity played a significant role in shaping the course of Western history, influencing the development of Christian doctrine and institutions. However, Constantine's legacy regarding paganism is multifaceted and subject to interpretation. While he is celebrated as a Christian emperor, his upbringing and early experiences were rooted in pagan traditions. Some historians argue that Constantine's policies toward paganism were characterised by pragmatism rather than zealotry, as he sought to maintain stability and cohesion within the empire. While his conversion to Christianity marked a significant turning point in Roman history, Constantines upbringing and policies reflect the enduring influence of pagan traditions within the empire. Understanding Constantine's navigation of these religious dynamics is essential for comprehending the complexities of the transition from paganism to Christianity in the Roman world.

“Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go,” 21-year-old Sophie Scholl lamented, before she was guillotined by the Nazis. “But what does my death matter, if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?” Scholl was a member of the White Rose, a small, anonymous group of mostly university students who hoped that by distributing leaflets and graffitiing public spaces, they could awaken complacent German intellectuals. Seven months earlier in June of 1942, Sophie was sitting in a lecture hall at the University of Munich when she noticed a slip of paper under her desk. She picked it up and began to read , “ Who among us has any conception of the dimensions of shame that will befall us and our children when one day the veil has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible crimes — crimes that infinitely outdistance every human measure — reach light of day?” The mass deportation of Jews to concentration camps was now fully underway . As a child, Sophie had been a member of the girl’s branch of the Hitler Youth, but had been troubled when her Jewish friend was prohibited from joining. As Jud Newborn and Annette Dumbach explained in their book, Sophie Scholl and the White Rose , Sophie and her siblings ,  still under the sway of the Hitler Youth — often clashed with their father, an avowed anti- Nazi . One evening, walking along the Danube, he had turned to his children suddenly and hissed , “All I want is for you to walk straight and free through life, even when it’s hard.” Slowly, skepticism wormed its way in. Her alienation reached fever pitch in high school as nearly everything she learned was steeped in Nazi propaganda. Then her father was arrested when his employer overheard him calling Hitler “the scourge of humanity.” But reading the pamphlet, Sophie was conflicted. She had two brothers at the front, her father was in jail awaiting sentencing, and her mother was ill. Waiting to report anti-Nazi literature was a crime. She walked out of the lecture hall with the pamphlet in hand. Sophie went in search of her older brother Hans, who was a medical student also at the University of Munich. He wasn’t in his apartment, so she waited for him there. She found a book by the German poet, Friedrich Schiller on his desk and began reading. One page in particular was covered in marks. The exact words she had read in the pamphlet were underlined. Sophie was terrified. Her brother must have had something to do with the pamphlet. When he returned, Sophie confronted him. He demurred. Two of his friends arrived, and eventually they told her the truth. Her brother and four others were a part of an anonymous resistance campaign. Sophie decided to join them. For the next month, the group worked on their campaign. They bought stamps and paper from different post offices to avoid arousing suspicion. They collected quotes and copied them with a mimeograph. The second pamphlet read, “Since the conquest of Poland 300,000 Jews have been murdered, a crime against human dignity.” The third called for the sabotage of armament plants, newspapers, and public ceremonies, and the awakening of the “lower classes.” Rumours buzzed about the pamphlets. As the language of the pamphlets became increasingly explicit, the gestapo ramped up their efforts to find the perpetrators, arresting anyone at the slightest suspicion of collaboration. L-R: Hans Scholl, his sister Sophie Scholl and their friend Christoph Probst are photographed in 1943. In July, four members of the White Rose including Hans were ordered to spend their summer break working as medics at the Russian front. On their way, they passed the Warsaw ghetto and were horrified. Once in Russia, they understood that Germany was losing to the Soviets despite the fact that the Nazis claimed otherwise. When they returned home in November, they were emboldened, and the White Rose increased the number of pamphlets they were publishing. The group travelled by train to distribute the leaflets all over Germany. They wanted to create the impression that the White Rose was a vast network, that the public was behind them. When the Germans admitted their loss to the Soviets in February of 1943, some White Rose members went out at night and graffitied the words “Freedom,” “Down with Hitler” and “Hitler mass murder” on the city hall and other public places. They believed Nazi Germany might be crumbling, they just needed the people to realise it. On February 18, Sophie and Hans brought suitcases full of the sixth pamphlet to the University of Munich and left them in classrooms and hallways, and on windowsills. They — some accounts say just Sophie — went to a balcony that overlooked one of the university’s main courtyards. As hoards of students streamed out of class, the pamphlets fluttered down from the sky above them. The sixth pamphlet was the last. A janitor had seen Sophie and her brother, reported them, and shortly thereafter they were arrested. Sophie was interrogated for seventeen hours. Four days later, when she finally emerged at the “People’s Court” in the Munich Palace of Justice, she had a broken leg. As Kathryn Atwood described in Women Heroes of World War II, the courtroom was a bevvy of Hitler supporters. Jakob Schmid the man that turned in Hans and Sophie Scholl The judge launched into a tirade about how the members of the White Rose were weakening Germany. The defendants were not given an opportunity to speak. And then, suddenly, a voice called out. It was Sophie. “Somebody had to make a start!” she yelled. “What we said and wrote are what many people are thinking. They just don’t dare say it out loud!” After she interrupted the judge several more times, Sophie, her brother, and another member of the White Rose were sentenced to death. On the back of her indictment, Sophie scrawled the word “Freedom.” Within hours, the trio were lead to the guillotine. From the executioner’s block, her brother shouted, “Long live freedom!” (In total, roughly 5,000 dissenters would be similarly executed.) After the execution, a pro-Nazi rally was held at their university, and the school cleaner who had reported them was given a standing ovation.