Utterly interesting

Gene Kelly, born Eugene Curran Kelly on August 23, 1912, was an American dancer, actor, singer, and director whose innovative and athletic style of dance made him a legend of the screen. His performances brought masculinity, physicality, and a fresh sense of energy to dance that resonated with audiences worldwide. Yet, his journey to Hollywood stardom was far from smooth, and his legacy is as much about his relentless pursuit of perfection as it is about his extraordinary talent. From Pittsburgh to Hollywood: A Fighter’s Journey Gene Kelly’s dance career began somewhat against his will. As a young boy growing up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Gene was first enrolled in dance classes by his mother, Harriet. She believed that dance would provide her sons with a unique skill set. However, at the time, dance was not viewed as particularly masculine, and young Gene bore the brunt of schoolyard bullying because of his lessons. But Gene wasn’t one to shrink from a fight. “I used my fists frequently,” he later admitted, handling the taunts in the only way he knew how. Despite the initial resistance, Kelly’s natural ability soon emerged, and he came to embrace dance as his calling. By his early twenties, he and his brother Fred had established a successful dance school in Pittsburgh. But despite its success, Gene was restless. His classes were overwhelmingly filled with female students, with a male-to-female ratio of ten to one. Realising that his passion for dance went beyond teaching, Kelly decided to shift gears and pursue performance full-time. At 25, with his sights set on Broadway, he made the bold decision to leave Pittsburgh and take his talent to the world stage. Crafting His Own Style: Dance as Athleticism By the time Gene Kelly was carving out a name for himself on Broadway, he had already begun developing a style that set him apart from the dancing elite. It was no secret that Kelly idolised Fred Astaire, but he didn’t see the point in mimicking Astaire’s elegance. Instead, Kelly created a distinct, powerful, and highly masculine dance style that blended ballet, tap, and modern movements with his innate athleticism. When asked to describe the differences between himself and Astaire, Kelly offered a simple but revealing insight: “I work bigger. Fred's style is more intimate… the sort of wardrobe I wore — blue jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers — Fred would never have been caught dead in. He was always immaculate at rehearsals, while I was always in an old shirt. Fred's steps were small, neat, graceful and intimate where mine were ballet-oriented and athletic.” Kelly’s dynamism was underpinned by a rigorous work ethic that left little room for error. Van Johnson, who co-starred with Kelly in the 1940 Broadway hit Pal Joey , famously recalled watching Kelly rehearse with an intensity that bordered on obsession. After a gruelling day of rehearsals, Johnson remembered walking past the stage in the early hours of the morning, only to see a lone figure practising beneath a single lamp. It was Gene, still dancing, pushing himself further. "I watched him rehearsing, and it seemed to me that there was no possible room for improvement. Yet he wasn't satisfied,” Johnson said. This pursuit of perfection would become a defining trait of Kelly’s career. Hollywood Bound: A Star Emerges Kelly’s Broadway success soon attracted the attention of Hollywood, and in 1942, the legendary producer David O. Selznick offered him a contract. His first film, For Me and My Gal  (1942), paired him with Judy Garland, and the partnership with MGM, which later bought out his contract from Selznick, proved to be fruitful. Kelly’s dynamic presence, coupled with his sharp sense of comic timing and innate charm, made him a screen favourite almost immediately. By 1949, Kelly had already made significant waves with Anchors Aweigh  (1945), where he earned a Best Actor Oscar nomination (a rarity for dancers at the time), and On the Town  (1949), his first of three collaborations with Stanley Donen. On the Town  was a groundbreaking film for its use of location shooting in Manhattan, something unheard of for a musical, which traditionally relied on controlled soundstage environments. Kelly and Donen’s fresh approach, combined with the comedic genius of Betty Comden and Adolph Green’s script and Leonard Bernstein’s score, made On the Town  a huge hit and cemented Kelly’s reputation as both a performer and a visionary. The Pinnacle of Success: An American in Paris  and Singin’ in the Rain Although Kelly had already achieved major success, it was his role in An American in Paris  (1951) that truly solidified his place in Hollywood history. The film, directed by Vincente Minnelli and set to the music of George Gershwin, featured a breathtaking eighteen-minute ballet sequence that is still celebrated today as one of the finest achievements in the history of musical cinema. Kelly’s insistence on casting the French dancer Leslie Caron in the lead role was one of his many contributions to the authenticity and emotional power of the film. It was a triumph, winning six Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Kelly himself received an honorary Oscar in 1952, recognising his remarkable contributions to the art of choreography in film. Despite the accolades, Kelly was not one to rest on his laurels. Shortly after completing An American in Paris , he reunited with Stanley Donen to co-direct what would become the most beloved musical of all time, Singin’ in the Rain  (1952). Though initially met with modest acclaim, its reputation has grown exponentially over the years. Today, it is widely regarded as one of the greatest films ever made. While Kelly’s performance in the titular rain-drenched sequence remains iconic, the film’s satire on the transition from silent to sound films is what gives it lasting relevance. Yet, at the time of its release, it didn’t receive the same critical attention as An American in Paris  and left the Oscars empty-handed. The Later Years: A Director’s Chair and Changing Tides As Hollywood’s love affair with big-budget musicals began to wane in the late 1950s, so too did Kelly’s prominence as a performer. His frustrations with MGM mounted, particularly after the studio refused to lend him out for key roles in Guys and Dolls  (1955) and Pal Joey  (1957). Both films went to his friend Frank Sinatra, who, ironically, had played second fiddle to Kelly just a decade earlier. Kelly transitioned towards directing in the 1960s, with films such as A Guide for the Married Man  (1967) and the ambitious but troubled Hello Dolly  (1969). Though his directing career never quite reached the heights of his on-screen performances, Kelly’s presence behind the camera was undeniable. He would later return to his dancing roots in That’s Entertainment — Part 2  (1976), appearing once more on screen to pay tribute to the Golden Age of Hollywood that he had helped define. Gene Kelly’s last film appearance was in the 1980 musical Xanadu  alongside Olivia Newton-John. Though the film was a critical and commercial flop, Kelly, ever the gentleman, described it simply as "a good idea that just didn’t come off." Legacy of a Legend Gene Kelly passed away on February 2, 1996, at the age of 83, after a series of strokes. His contributions to dance and film remain unparalleled. Asked to sum up his career, he characteristically downplayed his impact, stating simply, “I took it as it came and it happened to be very nice.” But Kelly’s humility belies the magnitude of his influence. By blending ballet and athleticism, injecting masculinity into dance, and pushing the boundaries of cinema choreography, Gene Kelly revolutionised the way dance was perceived and experienced by audiences. His legacy endures, not just in the films that made him famous, but in the generations of dancers and filmmakers he inspired along the way.

Verna Erikson is a name that may not resonate widely in contemporary discourse, yet her work and contributions as a social advocate, particularly in Finland, form an important part of the country’s social history. Known primarily for her activism and humanitarian work, Erikson played a pivotal role in advancing the welfare of the underprivileged in Finnish society during the early 20th century. Early Life and Education Verna Erikson was born in 1882 in Finland, a country which at the time was an autonomous Grand Duchy under the Russian Empire. Her early years were shaped by a sense of social responsibility that would later guide her career and activism. She grew up in a middle-class family that valued education, and this emphasis on learning allowed her to pursue academic studies at a time when women’s access to higher education was still limited. Erikson’s education, while modest by modern standards, would later become one of her most powerful tools in her advocacy work. Finland at the turn of the century was undergoing significant socio-political changes. The country was witnessing a rising nationalist movement, which aimed for greater autonomy from Russian rule, while also grappling with the industrialisation that was transforming the traditional agricultural economy. It was within this context of rapid social change that Erikson began to direct her attention towards the plight of those who were often left behind in these transitions. Social Advocacy and Labour Rights One of Erikson’s most significant areas of focus was the condition of working-class women, many of whom were employed in low-wage jobs under harsh conditions. In particular, she became involved in labour rights movements aimed at improving the working conditions for women in Finland’s emerging industrial sector. Her advocacy was centred on the need for better wages, safer working environments, and access to education and healthcare for women workers. Verna Erikson’s approach was characterised by its practicality. She worked closely with grassroots organisations and labour unions, pushing for reforms through policy rather than protests or strikes. Her calm, measured approach earned her the respect of both workers and policymakers, allowing her to act as a bridge between these two often-opposed groups. This ability to mediate between different social classes was one of her key strengths, helping to bring about meaningful, if incremental, changes to labour laws in Finland. Women’s Rights and Suffrage Alongside her labour advocacy, Erikson was deeply involved in the Finnish women’s rights movement. Finland was one of the first countries in the world to grant women the right to vote and stand for election, doing so in 1906. This early progress in gender equality, however, did not eliminate the structural barriers women faced in Finnish society, and Erikson was keenly aware of this. She campaigned for equal educational opportunities for women and girls, believing that education was the cornerstone of achieving greater gender equality. Her work in this area was not limited to theoretical discourse. Erikson was involved in organising practical efforts to provide women with the skills and knowledge they needed to navigate a rapidly modernising world. In particular, she championed vocational training programmes for women, which would allow them to pursue careers beyond traditional domestic roles. Humanitarian Work Verna Erikson’s commitment to social justice was also evident in her humanitarian work. She was actively involved in various charities and organisations aimed at helping the most vulnerable in society, particularly during times of crisis. Her work in the aftermath of World War I, for example, was crucial in providing aid to Finnish families who had been displaced or impoverished by the conflict. Erikson’s efforts extended beyond mere charity, as she sought to address the underlying social issues that perpetuated poverty and inequality in Finnish society. Her humanitarian work was informed by a broader view of society’s responsibility towards its citizens. Erikson believed that the state had an obligation to ensure the welfare of all its people, particularly those who were most vulnerable. This belief in collective responsibility underpinned much of her work, whether in labour rights, women’s rights, or humanitarian aid. Legacy and Influence Verna Erikson’s legacy is one of steady and sustained effort in the pursuit of social justice. While she may not have been a revolutionary figure, her work helped to lay the groundwork for many of the social reforms that would come to define Finnish society in the 20th century. Her emphasis on the importance of education, gender equality, and labour rights continues to resonate in Finland today. Her influence can also be seen in the broader Nordic model of social welfare, which prioritises social equality, comprehensive public services, and the rights of workers. Erikson’s life and work were emblematic of the kind of quiet but persistent activism that has played a critical role in shaping the modern welfare state in Finland and other Nordic countries. While Verna Erikson may not be widely known outside academic and historical circles, her contributions remain significant in understanding the development of social advocacy and welfare policies in Finland. Her life serves as a reminder of the impact that dedicated, long-term social activism can have, even if it does not always receive public recognition during one’s lifetime.

Born in 1896, Lavinia Schulz possessed an innate talent that defied convention. Alongside her husband, Walter Holdt, born in 1899, she embarked on a journey of artistic exploration that would challenge societal norms and redefine the boundaries of expressionism. Schulz and Holdt crafted these elaborate costumes specifically for their dance performances, operating under the moniker "Die Maskentänzer" (The Mask Dancers). These ensembles transcend mere clothing, resembling sculptures that envelop the wearer entirely. Their designs evoke a whimsical amalgamation of characters — from bug-eyed insects to jesters to bearded tomatoes — while also hinting at dynamic movement, with exaggerated eyeballs seemingly ready to leap off the face. Intricate wires protrude, and wooden blocks dangle, creating a surreal landscape where even a bridge teeters precariously from shoulder to shoulder. Many of these geometric silhouettes defy conventional anatomy, enclosing hands, feet, and heads within confining structures, devoid of any discernible exit. The vibrant and discordant colors were reportedly chosen according to esoteric principles. Yet, amidst this fantastical display, Schulz and Holdt's craftsmanship, particularly their meticulous sewing, remains impeccably matched to their boundless imagination. Schulz undeniably assumed the role of the duo's leader. She oversaw the creation of costumes, choreographed the dances, and staunchly upheld the artists' distinctive philosophy, which equated aesthetic significance with adversity. According to Schulz, the essence of live performance lay in its intensity, achievable only when the performer immersed herself in a heightened state of mind, facilitated by privation. Schulz famously asserted, "Art must be demanding; otherwise, it holds no value." Embracing austerity, deprivation, and rigorous self-discipline wasn't merely a means of enduring the challenges of a creative existence but rather a prerequisite for producing anything of genuine worth. Six months following the capture of these photographs, tragedy struck on June 18, 1924, when Schulz fatally shot Holdt in the head before turning the gun on herself. The couple succumbed to their wounds, leaving behind their one-year-old infant son, who wasn't inhured. Following the tragic murder-suicide, the couple's apartment underwent clearance, and their possessions were relocated to the Hamburg Museum of Arts and Crafts, where they were stored in the attic. For sixty years, these items remained forgotten—a serendipitous oversight that played a crucial role. Had the collection been meticulously cataloged, it would have likely been looted by the Nazis.

Every once in a while this 2010 clip surfaces again online. What is seemingly a school play, thankfully isn't! The video was originally posted to YouTube under the title " Scarface School Play " in 2010, when it also went viral. But it was later revealed that the whole project was put together by music video director Marc Klasfeld. He did it with professional child actors in a theatre in Los Angeles' Koreatown. At the time, Klasfeld told the Los Angeles Times that it was "amusing" to see the outrage the video caused, adding that he wondered why the critics did not "speak out more against the sexualization of young girls in American culture or the relentless violence on screens of all sorts." Speaking to Entertainment Weekly Marc discussed his wider career as an established music video director. "A lot of people probably know this about me, but I've done hundreds upon hundreds of music videos, commercials, and virals. So for me, this was just one more thing that I did. It wasn't this one-off thing that I did. I did a movie. I did a comedy-satire about the Los Angeles riots called The L.A. Riot Spectacular . I've done dozens of controversial music videos. Just last year, I did a very popular viral called "Hammer Pants Dance." So this is something that is just part of what I do. There are many things that I'm uncredited for, too. But this one just happened to hit that certain nerve and just kind of took off into the pop culture heavens and just exploded. And it's been pretty interesting to watch." As for why video blew up so quickly, Klasfeld believes it's unfortunately right for the times. "Most people view America in a state of decline right now," he said. "And this really hits home for them in a way that they think something like this is actually possible in our society, morals have really slipped to this kind of level."

During the early 20th century, a distinctive and movable type of housing surfaced, known as mobile wooden homes. These structures, colloquially known as mobile homes, offer a captivating glimpse into a bygone era, when flexibility, craftsmanship, and the open road beckoned to a generation yearning for adventure. The concept of mobile living was not entirely novel during this era. However, it was during the early 20th century that it gained significant traction. The confluence of factors, such as improved transportation systems, economic opportunities, and the desire for a more transient lifestyle, led to the rise of wooden homes on wheels. The Smithsonian awards the honour of being the nation’s first recreational vehicle to Pierce Arrow’s Touring Landau in 1910. The Touring Landau used a patented, fifth-wheel trailer hitch mechanism that was permanently attached to the automobile. The model was shown at Madison Square Garden and offered to the public for $8,250. It lists a phone line to connect the trailer to the driver and has a chamber pot. Early motorhomes were usually converted goods trucks and were heavy, noisy, inflexible and expensive, restricting their use to the wealthy or self-builders. Until the 1920s, the most common car was the Ford Model T, and RVs had to be custom-built. In 1923, a Nomad house car was built on the chassis of the Ford Model TT. It was owned by novelists John Stanton and Mary Chapman, who owned it for 47 years and travelled in it to 24 states. In 1927, Leonard S Whittier built a custom RV on the chassis of a Brockway model H bus chassis. It had wicker chairs, bookcases, a refrigerator, and a sink as well as an electric stove. It even had a septic tank. The 1930s decade saw manufacturers begin to make travel trailers, ranging from very small to very large. In 1936, the Curtiss Aerocar was made by Glen Curtiss, an aircraft designer. In the same year, the Airstream Trailer Co. manufactured the Clipper, with riveted aluminum resembling an airplane. It could sleep four and carried a supply of water. In 1937, the teardrop trailer which slept two became popular. In 1938, Commander Attilio Gatti, an Italian explorer, had two “jungle yachts” made for his trips to Africa. The jungle yachts had a dining car, bar, two bedrooms, and lighting, as well as a telephone. Living in these homes on wheels was not without its challenges. These homes were relatively compact compared to traditional houses, and they presented difficulties in terms of heating, plumbing, and insulation. However, the inhabitants of these mobile homes were inherently resourceful. Wooden homes on wheels from the early 20th century are more than just dwellings on wheels; they represent a unique chapter in American history. They symbolise a time when individuals were ready to forego traditional living for the thrill of the open road and the bonds of community that came with it. While the wooden motor homes of the early 20th century offered a unique and liberating experience, they were not without challenges. Limited amenities, maintenance issues, and the evolving landscape of road infrastructure presented hurdles for those who chose this unconventional lifestyle. Despite the challenges, the legacy of wooden motor homes endures. They paved the way for the modern recreational vehicle (RV) industry, influencing the design and concept of mobile living spaces. Today, the spirit of wanderlust embodied by these early 20th-century wooden motor homes lives on in the hearts of those who continue to embrace a life on the road. The wooden motor homes of the early 20th century were more than just dwellings; they were a manifestation of the human desire for exploration and freedom. As we look back on this unique chapter in housing history, we can appreciate the craftsmanship, innovation, and adventurous spirit that defined an era where the road was not just a means of transportation but a pathway to a life less ordinary.

In 1881, Charles W. Oldreive patented "The New Iron Horse," a remarkable invention. One might wonder about the appeal of a large wheel that one could sit inside. However, the concept is akin to the earlier giant penny-farthing bicycles, which operated without a chain drive. In those bicycles, the pedals were directly connected to the wheel, meaning that each turn of the pedals corresponded to a turn of the wheel. Hence, the larger the wheel, the greater the speed the bicycle could achieve. According to Science Source : "Tricycles were used by riders who did not feel comfortable on the high wheelers, such as women who wore long, flowing dresses. " According to the patent 245,012 , issued to Charles Wood Oldreive of Chelsea, Massachusetts, "it will 'be seen that, owing to the large diameter which may be given to the wheel B, the vehicle can be run at a very high degree of speed and be easily manipulated by a person when within the car." According to Oldreive, the rider sat inside the wheel, which he referred to as a "boat." Instead of using pedals, the rider turned cranks on both sides with their hands. To brake, the rider would pull on two long arms that would drag on the ground. Steering was done using two lines that controlled the rear wheels. A fascinating feature of the drive mechanism is that it is actually geared, instead of having it driven directly by handles connected to the hubs. "Each hub of the wheel has fixed to it on its inner side and concentric with such hub a gear, m, which engages with a driving-gear, o, by means of an intermediate gear, a, such gears being shown in dotted lines in Fig. 2. The said intermediate and driving gears are applied to the car so as to be capable of being revolved by a crank, s, fixed on the arbor of the driving-gear." Had Oldreive used gears differently, he would not have needed the big wheel and might have gone down in history as the inventor of the safety bicycle, the predecessor of the bike as we know it. He could also walk on water While investigating this tale, the name Charles W Oldreive from Chelsea, Massachusetts frequently appeared. Known for creating water walking shoes, one wonders if this individual could have developed two vastly distinct modes of human transportation. According to New Scientist : "As a young inventor in Massachusetts, he’d been fascinated by old-style bateaux, fur-trading boats with shallow drafts for negotiating small rivers and flat bottoms to provide stability when heavily laden with pelts. Taking his cue from the bateaux, Oldrieve designed cedar “shoes” for walking on water." Another source, Forgotten Stories , tells it differently, noting that walking matches were a big deal in the 1880s: "Well, if those chaps could make a good living taking a stroll on land, Oldrieve saw no reason he couldn’t figure out a way to take a stroll on the water. Taking a hint from the rowboats which pleasure-seekers took out into Boston harbor, and building on a previous water-walking attempt by a gentleman named Ned Hanlan who’d abandoned the pursuit and gone into rowing matches instead, Oldrieve fashioned an ingenious pair of water walking shoes." Ned Hanlan went on to become a Canadian hero and world champion rower . Oldreive's Canadian wife Caroline was an expert rower as well, described in Waterways Journal as "a woman of athletic ability and strong physique, accustomed to rowing and other outdoor activities." Oldreive went on to walk on water as "the human water spider," eventually walking from Cincinnati to New Orleans. They both came to a very sad end: Caroline died of injuries from a 4th of July Fireworks accident, and a grieving Oldreive killed himself by drinking chloroform a week later. Which brings us back to the question: Did the Charles Wood Oldreive of Chelsea Massachusetts invent both the tricycle and the water shoes? It seems unlikely. The patent for the tricycle is dated 1881, and according to his obituary , C.W. Oldreive was born in Chelsea, Massachusetts in 1868, which would have made him 13 years old when the patent was issued. However, the obit does name his father: Charles Oldreive, born in England in 1839. It is probable that there were two Charles Oldreives, a father and a son, both of whom created a novel type of human-powered transportation.

The Shankill Butchers ride tonight You’d better shut your windows tight They’re sharpening their cleavers and their knives And taking all their whiskey by the pint — The Decemberists, “The Shankill Butchers” From 1975 to 1979 they terrorised Northern Ireland. Today the area they haunted, Shankill, has become synonymous with savagery. The Shankill Butchers were a loyalist (Protestant) gang, many of whose members belonged to the Ulster Volunteer Force. Headed by Lenny Murphy, a former convict, the gang brutally murdered 23 people within a period of four years. Catholics were abducted on the streets and slowly tortured. Some were ferociously beaten. Others were shot or had their throats cut open. The group's actions became so famous that they quickly became part of folklore. Catholics who were raised during the peak of the "Troubles" (as the conflict was later called) remember being cautioned by their mothers not to venture out after dark, or else they would fall victim to the Butchers. During the 1970s and 1980s, Northern Ireland experienced a violent conflict between Catholics and Protestants known as a civil war. Protestant loyalists aimed to keep the country within the United Kingdom, whereas Catholic nationalists sought for it to separate from the United Kingdom and join a united Ireland. Despite being the majority in Northern Ireland, Catholics believed they were facing discrimination under the Protestant-controlled Stormont government. Protestants received favorable treatment in terms of job opportunities and housing. In 1964, nationalists initiated a nonviolent civil rights movement aiming to eliminate employment and housing bias, advocate for police reform (as the police force was predominantly Protestant), and call for the repeal of the Special Powers Act, which permitted arrests and detentions without due process. Initially, the demonstrators aimed to maintain nonviolent intentions and methods. The civil rights campaign leaders were confident in their ability to achieve political change without the need for violence. However, the situation took a turn in August 1969 when clashes broke out between Catholic nationalists and the royal police force, perceived as a symbol of an oppressive government. This led to two days and two nights of rioting during the "Battle of the Bogside," triggering a wave of violence across Northern Ireland. Subsequently, the British Army was deployed to quell the unrest and restore order. The nation was now divided into three armed and increasingly hostile factions: the Catholic majority (including the Irish Republican Army), the Protestant minority (including the Ulster Volunteer Force), and the British Army (which Catholics perceived as siding with the Protestants). At first the IRA merely targeted Protestant businesses, planting 150 bombs, but largely avoided killing civilians for fear of alienating its growing support among the Irish public. Yet as the violence escalated, first one soldier and then another was killed. Famously, a 19-year-old soldier stranded in Belfast was seized and held captive by a mob of women before being killed by a Catholic of around his own age. He died begging for his mother. Looking back on his time in the IRA some decades later, leader Tommy McKearney tried to explain his motivations for engaging in acts of violence. “At that stage I believed that it was essential that I take part in the struggle. Coming from the community I come from, and came from at that time, with the history we have, it’s not seen as criminal. I didn’t see it as a criminal activity. I didn’t see it as any different than any other man joining an army to take part in a defense of war would.” His fellow IRA member Richard Macauley avers: “In a war one does things one wouldn’t normally consider doing.” Soon these words would take on a grim new meaning. At the time, however, most people on both sides of the conflict had only a vague inkling of the horrible forces that war could unleash. “I think there was a fear in the Protestant community,” reflects one loyalist woman, “that whatever we had unleashed would be something we would find very, very difficult to curtail.” In 1973, a young man named Lenny Murphy was acquitted for a murder he had almost certainly committed: the shooting of a Catholic, William Edward Pavis, in broad daylight. The one witness to the crime, Murphy’s accomplice, died in jail of cyanide poisoning after writing a note exonerating Murphy and taking full responsibility for the murder. Investigators at Scotland Yard believe Murphy—a cunning man who had already sabotaged a police lineup—forced his accomplice to write the note and then take his own life. “I don’t honestly believe he was a bad man,” Murphy’s mother would later insist in a BBC documentary, Shankill Butchers , though at least one fellow loyalist described him as a “psychopath.” The youngest of three sons, of below average height, Murphy was an unlikely murder suspect. Blue-eyed, with curly, dark brown hair, his most striking features were a series of tattoos signifying his allegiance to the Ulyster loyalists, and a leather jacket and scarf. During his time in prison, he married and had one daughter with 19-year-old Margaret Gillispie. After his release, Murphy frequented pubs near Shankill Road, nursing what some would later describe as a pathological hatred of Catholics. According to him, on August 13, 1975 he had just left the Bayardo when the pub was rocked by a bomb planted by IRA members, killing five Protestants and injuring over 50. Shortly after this event, Murphy began gathering a gang of about 20 men who would come to be known as the Shankill Butchers. On November 25, 1975, the body of Frank Crossan, a North Belfast Catholic and father of two, was discovered in a back alley by an elderly woman. Whilst walking towards the city centre at shortly after midnight he had been pulled into a taxi by four of the butchers, including Murphy, who hit him over the head with a wheel brace. He was beaten and the shard of a glass bottle was shoved into his head. As the taxi approached the Shankill area, Crossan was dragged from the car and Murphy cut his throat with a knife. He was almost decapitated. Reflecting on the scene, one of the constabularies in charge of the investigation said, “Evil was the only word to describe it. Just evil.” A few nights later, a local man named Ted McQuaid and his wife Dierdre attended a party. At around 3:30am they were walking home along the Cliftonville Road when she noticed a black taxi slowly driving past on the opposite side of the road. It turned left and disappeared from view, then reappeared a moment later. Dierdre pointed out to her husband the strange nature of the taxi’s movements and they argued about it. However, even when it stopped a short distance in front of them, Ted remained unalarmed. Apparently annoyed by Dierdre’s warnings, he began walking several steps ahead of her. When the door of the car opened and a young man got out, Ted was standing in between him and his wife. The man stumbled towards them, swaying as if he was drunk. Dierdre said to Ted, “It’s okay, he’s drunk.” As she said this, the man reached into his left pocket and pulled out a small gun, firing four bullets at Ted in rapid succession. “He never looked at me,” Dierdre would later recall, “but kept shooting at Ted.” As the assailant returned to the taxi and sped away, Ted, who lay bleeding on the ground, urged his wife to run. Though seriously wounded, he was still breathing ten minutes later when picked up by an ambulance, but died on arrival at the Mater Hospital. The murderer, William Moore, later tried to distance himself from the killing of Ted McQuaid by insisting that he had urged Murphy not to murder a blind man who had been out walking his dog at around the time they first spotted Dierdre and Ted. Moore did not consider the blind man an “acceptable target,” while Murphy had no scruples about killing anyone so long as he could confirm they were Catholic. According to crime reporter Martin Dillon in his book The Shankill Butchers , Moore’s protestations against killing the blind man unconsciously echoed the feelings of many Irish on both sides of the conflict during the war years. In Northern Ireland at that time, as in so many other places, people condemned the atrocities being committed against their own side while turning a blind eye to the atrocities that their side was committing. Loyalty to the tribe kept them silent in the face of obvious injustice. At the same time, it seems clear that Moore was trying to rationalise his role in the murder of Ted McQuaid by conceding that while, yes, he had done some terrible things, he had also done some very good things like saving the life of the blind man. In emphasising this kind act, he may have convinced himself that what he did was normal and good. These flimsy self-rationalisations were rapidly turning the Shankill Butchers into the figures of legend that Colin Meloy would one day describe in song: They used to be just like me and you They used to be sweet little boys But something went horribly askew Now killing is their only source of joy Yet the killings took place against a backdrop of merciless barbarism in Northern Ireland that was slowly engulfing the rest of the United Kingdom. While extending the military campaign to England had been debated by the IRA’s ruling counsel for some time, at first they had refrained from targeting the British for fear of rendering themselves illegitimate. “Doves” argued against the use of force while hawks felt London should be bombed. In 1973 the doves were overruled and the IRA began a strategic series of bombings in London and other major cities. In the first London bombing in early 1973, 200 people were injured. In January 1974, a bomb exploded at Madame Tussauds, followed a few minutes later by another bomb in the Earls Court Exhibition Centre. In June, a bomb exploded in the Houses of Parliament, injuring eleven people. A month later, one person died when a bomb went off in the Tower of London. In November, a bomb was thrown through the window of the Kings Arm Pub in Woolwich, killing an off-duty soldier and civilian. Downing Street tried to appease the Republican terrorists by appearing to negotiate a ceasefire in which the British army would leave Northern Ireland. In reality this agreement was just a tactical maneuver: the government hoped to placate the IRA and end the bombings without any significant military disengagement. Though the ceasefire crippled and nearly destroyed the Republican army, the end result was more violence. Fearing that a secret deal was being made with the IRA, Loyalist (Protestant) paramilitaries launched a bloody onslaught against Catholics, hoping to lure the IRA into breaking the truce. Five Catholics were killed inside a pub and three members of a popular band were gunned down. The IRA retaliated by bombing a pub on the Shankill road and killing five Protestants. Journalist J. Bowyer Bell reflects on this tragic period in his exhaustive 800-page book, The Irish Troubles: A Generation of Violence, 1967-1992 : “Over the years I watched the bombs being made . . . and saw them go off . . . I watched the landscape change and watched even the indomitable Irish change. And I changed. Gradually, like everyone else, I was transmuted by the years on the edge of a war without victories, with only victims, a long, long war. There were so many funerals, so many betrayed, so many broken hearts. There were children I had seen in strollers grow up to carry .38 revolvers . . . And there were so many innocent dead, forgotten maimed, so many idealists corrupted and so much good gone wrong.” Viewed in this context, the massacres perpetrated by Murphy and his gang lose their mythical proportions. While nothing excuses the murder of 23 innocent people, still less the sadistic manner in which the murders were committed, the truth is that men were killing each other throughout Ireland and the Shankill Butchers distinguished themselves primarily by the cruel way they went about it. The IRA, writes Dillon, “refuse to accept that their actions . . . breed an atmosphere in which gangs such as the Shankill Butchers develop and thrive.” If we examine the Pyramid of Hate used by the Anti-Defamation League, we see that violence doesn’t consist of just the most vicious acts inflicted on others. Those acts are made possible at the most basic levels by name-calling, stereotyping, and insensitivity to the humanity of our enemies. Hatred is always rooted, first and foremost, in a lack of empathy. Dangerous groups that hope to inflict violence will begin by conditioning their members to view outsiders as inhuman. They paint their enemies as deviants, degenerates, and freaks who are corrupting the world with their presence and need to be eliminated. The truth is that there were good and bad people on both sides of the conflict, as there are in almost any conflict. But a community spiraling into violence will convince itself that it is pure and incorruptible, untainted by evil in motivation or execution, while its enemies seek only to destroy it. Studies have shown that the number one instigator of violent aggression in a group is a feeling of self-righteousness. Towards the end of the documentary Shankill Butchers , journalist Stephen Nolan interviews psychologist Geoffrie Beattie, who grew up in a Protestant enclave with Jim “The Bomber” Watt, who would later become a notorious member of the Butchers gang. “You’ve been there, in a gang,” says Nolan. “And then of course, as a psychologist you must have an understanding of the weaker members of a gang, and that leader having a massive impact.” “Well, some of the weaker members of the gang,” says Beattie, “are bound into the gang. I think partly through fear. And what kind of fear is it? Well, partly fear of rejection. Because you’re much more vulnerable when you’re on your own. Now you might be very uncomfortable with what you’re doing at times, but the trauma of being rejected by the group just might outdo it. So you stay part of it. You do whatever he asks.” Perhaps this is why, even after his imprisonment for firearms possession in 1977, Murphy’s gang continued to roam the back alleys of the night seeking bloodshed. Now led by Moore, the gang kidnapped and tortured Stephen McCann, a Queen’s University student, Joseph Morrissey, and Francis Cassidy, a dock worker. But they made their fatal mistake in the attempted killing of Gerald McLaverty, a young Belfast man whose family had recently left the city. Late on Tuesday, May 10, 1977, McLaverty was walking down the Cliffordville Road when the gang approached him, posing as policemen, and forced him into a waiting car. The victim was driven to a disused doctor’s surgery, where he was beaten with sticks, stabbed, and left for dead on a back entry. Unexpectedly, however, he survived until early morning, when a woman heard his cries for help and phoned the police. News of the assault was delivered to Detective Chief Inspector Jimmy Nesbitt, who had been tirelessly pursuing the Butchers since their inception. The survival of Gerald McLaverty proved to be the breakthrough moment in the case. Nesbitt had the recovering victim disguised as a police officer and driven around the Shankill area on May 18 in the hope that he might recognize his assailants. Within the next day each of the Butchers was hunted down and brought into custody. There followed a mass trial in which the murderers were collectively sentenced to over 2,000 years in prison. Ironically, the principal culprit was never charged in connection with the case. Lenny Murphy completed his sentence for firearms possession in July 1982 and was gunned down in November. He had just pulled up outside of his girlfriend’s house, where he was now hiding to evade police capture, when two IRA gunmen emerged from a black van and opened fire. Ironically, although Catholic nationalists claimed responsibility for the murder, they were given the details of Murphy’s location and movements by Protestant UVF members. He bled to death in the upper Shankill, just around the corner from where the gang had dumped the bodies of many of its victims. But in death, even Lenny Murphy attracted mourners. His Aunt Agnes wrote, “Nothing could be more beautiful than the memories we have of you; to us you were very special and God must have thought so too.” On November 20 the murderer’s coffin was paraded outside his mother’s home in Brookmont Street by leading members of the UVF. Six masked gunmen fired a volley of shots over the coffin, and the police were prevented from arresting them by a ring of black taxis which sealed off the street from the Shankill. As the procession moved slowly down Shankill Road, a lone piper played the hymn, “Abide with Me.” He was given a hero’s funeral, and his tombstone reads, “Here Lies a Soldier.” And, even after the signing of the Good Friday Peace Accords in 1998, some in the Shankill community continued to honour the butchers as fallen heroes. “Is that what people really thought about the Shankill Butchers?” asked the daughter of Joseph Morrissey when she became caught up in a vast funeral procession for a dead butcher. Trapped in her car by the mourners, unable to get away, she watched the coffin pass with tears in her eyes. “I can’t tell you how I felt, but for me, the message was: he was a hero. The man who cut my father to pieces and tortured him for three hours was a hero.” Today, not one of the Shankill Butchers is in prison.

The 1800s was a century marked by significant changes in fashion, personal hygiene, and the concept of beauty. During this era, an array of grooming products and accessories became essential for both men and women. One such item was the vinaigre de toilette container, a small yet elegant vessel designed to hold scented vinegar. This aromatic elixir served multiple purposes, from masking unpleasant odours to providing a refreshing pick-me-up. The Origins of Vinaigre de Toilette The use of scented vinegar as a beauty and hygiene product can be traced back to ancient civilisations, including the Greeks and Romans. However, vinaigre de toilette as we know it today gained popularity in the 18th century and continued to evolve throughout the 19th century. It was used for a variety of purposes, such as a refreshing skin toner, a remedy for fainting spells, and a fragrant additive to bathwater. The Design of Vinaigre de Toilette Containers Vinaigre de toilette containers in the 1800s were designed with both practicality and aesthetics in mind. These containers were typically made of glass, porcelain, or silver, and they came in a wide range of shapes and sizes. Some featured intricate hand-painted designs, while others were adorned with elegant silver or gold accents. The stoppers, often made of cork or metal, were designed to seal the container and prevent evaporation of the precious scented vinegar. One of the most recognisable designs of vinaigre de toilette containers in the 1800s was the "chatelaine," a decorative belt hook or pin from which a variety of essential accessories dangled. These chatelaines often included vinaigre de toilette containers as one of the suspended items, highlighting their significance in a woman's daily life. Scented Vinegar Recipes The scented vinegar contained within these elegant containers was made using a variety of botanical ingredients, each imparting a unique fragrance and therapeutic properties. Common ingredients included herbs like lavender, rosemary, and mint, as well as spices like cloves and cinnamon. The recipes for vinaigre de toilette were closely guarded secrets in some cases, passed down through generations or kept within the confines of perfumeries. The Uses of Vinaigre de Toilette Vinaigre de toilette served a multitude of purposes in the 1800s. It was used to mask the unpleasant odors that were common in a time when daily bathing was not yet a widespread practice. The refreshing scent of the vinegar also helped revive the spirits, making it a popular choice during long carriage rides or on a hot summer day. Women would often dab a few drops on their handkerchiefs and use it as a subtle perfume. In addition, vinaigre de toilette was believed to have health benefits, as its aromatic properties were thought to combat fainting spells and alleviate headaches. Decline and Revival As the 19th century gave way to the 20th, vinaigre de toilette containers began to wane in popularity. Evolving hygiene practices and the advent of new fragrance products contributed to the decline of these ornate vessels. However, in recent years, there has been a resurgence of interest in historical grooming rituals and scents. Some artisan perfumers have even revived traditional vinaigre de toilette recipes, and vintage vinaigre de toilette containers have become prized collectibles. Vinaigre de toilette containers in the 1800s were more than just elegant vessels; they were a testament to the changing notions of beauty, hygiene, and personal care during that era. These ornate containers held a scented elixir that not only masked odours but also added a touch of elegance and refreshment to daily life. While they may no longer be a common sight in the modern world, they offer a glimpse into a bygone era when grooming and self-care were elevated to an art form.

The Berlin Wall stood as a powerful symbol both during its years of concrete reality and in the moment it finally fell. For nearly 30 years it split East and West Germany, shaping daily life so profoundly that many believed they would never witness its opening. When the borders finally eased and reunification followed, the shift was so significant that it reshaped the way people understood their own futures. This is how looked then, and how it looks now. An abandoned car at the Wall by the Brandenburg Gate in 1989 and today. West Berlin police in 1988 at the Glienicker Brücke which crossed from West Berlin into the GDR at Potsdam. The Brandenburg Gate in 1962 behind concrete blocks. US tanks at Checkpoint Charlie on Friedrichstraße in October 1961, shortly after the Wall was constructed. Andrei Sacharov and his wife Yelena Bonner, were exiled to Gorky for seven years, the banner asks for justice Border police at Invalidenstraße/Sandkrugbrücke crossing in 1971. The Versöhnungskirche Bernauer Straße, was demolished in 1985. The East Side Gallery in 1990 before this former stretch of the Wall became a focal point for artists. The Wall at Brücke Waldemarstraße, Kreuzberg in 1986. Pariser Platz by the Brandenburg Gate is sealed off in autumn 1989.

Alice Cooper has been well-known since the late 1960s and he seems to have been friends with people from all corners of the entertainment world. Here are just a few... In 1973 Salvador Dalí created a portrait of Alice Cooper’s brain using chocolate éclairs, ants, diamonds and early holographic technology. Here, the notorious shock-rocker remembers his eccentric encounter with art’s surrealist king Taken from the S/S18 issue of Another Man: April 1973. Even by the louche standards of the St Regis Hotel – a deluxe 1904 Beaux-Arts bolthole in midtown Manhattan frequented by Marlene Dietrich, Ernest Hemingway and John Lennon – it was quite an entrance. “All of a sudden these five androgynous nymphs in pink chiffon floated in,” says Alice Cooper, recalling his first encounter with Salvador Dalí in the hotel’s King Cole Bar. “They were followed by Gala (Dalí’s wife) who was dressed in a man’s tuxedo, top hat and tails, and carrying a silver cane. Then came Dalí. He was wearing a giraffe-skin vest, gold Aladdin shoes, a blue velvet jacket and sparkly purple socks given to him by Elvis.” Having announced his presence with a syllable-stretching cry of “The Da-lí… is… he-re!”, the artist requested a round of ‘Scorpion’ cocktails for his guests: rum, gin and brandy served in a conch shell, topped with an orchid. He then ordered himself a glass of hot water. Taking a jar of honey from his pocket and setting the glass on a pedestal, Dalí began pouring the liquid into the glass, dramatically raising it higher so that it formed globules on the surface. Cutting the stream with a pair of scissors, he then raised his arms in a dramatic flourish, prompting a round of applause from his acolytes. “Me and my manager looked at each other in amazement,” says Cooper. “I realised at that point that everything was about Dalí. The world revolved around him. I wasn’t meeting him. I was entering his orbit.” So began one of the strangest and most fascinating artistic encounters of the 20th century. In 1973 both Cooper and Dalí – aged 25 and 69 respectively – were at the height of their powers. Now seen as the genial grandfather of shock-rock, at the time Cooper was the world’s most disreputable pop star. A string of seditious-sounding hit singles – most notably School’s Out – had tapped into a groundswell of teen disaffection that would later mutate into punk. His blood-spattered live show, meanwhile – featuring live snakes, beheaded baby dolls and fake blood, culminating in his nightly decapitation by guillotine – had made him the scourge of the establishment. “ALL OF A SUDDEN THESE FIVE ANDROGYNOUS NYMPHS IN PINK CHIFFON FLOATED IN. THEY WERE FOLLOWED BY GALA WHO WAS DRESSED IN A MAN’S TUXEDO, TOP HAT AND TAILS, AND CARRYING A SILVER CANE. THEN CAME DALÍ. HE WAS WEARING A GIRAFFE-SKIN VEST, GOLD ALADDIN SHOES, A BLUE VELVET JACKET AND SPARKLY PURPLE SOCKS GIVEN TO HIM BY ELVIS” – ALICE COOPER “His incitement to infanticide and his commercial exploitation of masochism is evidently an attempt to teach our children to find their destiny in hate, not in love,” MP Leo Abse told Parliament the same year, arguing that Cooper should be banned from the UK for promoting “the culture of the concentration camp”. Dalí, of course, had long been seen as the master of the macabre. The superstar of surrealism, the Spanish artist was a born antagonist who lived by the mantra: “What is important is to spread confusion, not eliminate it.” Seeing Cooper’s success as an opportunity to create fresh outrage, he had hatched a plan to establish the duo as the planet’s presiding kings of weird. But there was one slight problem. When Dalí started to explain his idea of turning Cooper into the world’s first living hologram, to be called First Cylindric Chromo-Hologram Portrait of Alice Cooper’s Brain, his words came out not in English, but in a stream of nonsensical pan-European gobbledygook. “It would be one word in English, one word in French, one word in Italian, one word in Spanish and one in Portuguese,” says Cooper of Dalí’s surrealist Esperanto. “It made no sense whatsoever. You could only understand one-fifth of what he was saying.” Despite the barrier to communication, Cooper’s heart leapt. As a teenage art major at Cortez High School in Phoenix, Arizona, Dalí’s fantastical paintings – littered with melting clocks, eggs and ants – had spoken to him on an equally unfathomable level. “Dalí was our hero,” he says, recalling the obsession he shared with schoolmate and future Alice Cooper band bass player Dennis Dunaway. “Before The Beatles came along, he was the only thing we had. We would look at his paintings and talk about them for hours. His paintings had a lot of humour in them too. So when we formed our own band it was only natural that we took some of those images – like the crutch – and used them in our performances.” Groucho called Alice ‘Coop,’ the way Groucho had called Gary Cooper “Coop,” and it stuck. They met while dueting on “Lidia the Tattooed Lady” at a Frank Sinatra birthday party. They became friends while living in Beverly Hills. Groucho had insomnia and would call Coop at 1 a.m. to hang out. “He had a chair next to his bed with a six pack of Budweiser, and we would sit and watch old movies. And then pretty soon, after about two movies were over, I’d look over and he’d be in his beret and his cigar and he’d finally go to sleep. I’d put out his cigar, turn out the lights and go home. And the next night, one o’clock in the morning: ‘Hey coop, can’t sleep, come on over.’” The Hollywood Vampires was a celebrity drinking club formed by Alice Cooper in the 1970s. The hazing to get into the club was to outdrink all the members. Cooper listed himself, Keith Moon, Ringo Starr, Micky Dolenz and Harry Nilsson as the club's principal members: "It was that crowd, every night those same people. Every once in a while John Lennon would come into town or Keith Emerson and they would be honourable members of the night. They still have a plaque there at the Rainbow, where it says 'The Lair of the Hollywood Vampires'. Although Brian Wilson and Iggy Pop often fraternized with members of the club, it remains unclear if they were formally inducted. Additional members Keith Allison John Belushi Marc Bolan Jack Cruz Keith Emerson Mal Evans John Lennon Bernie Taupin Klaus Voormann Also, this Elvis anecdote is well worth a listen.

There are moments in history that begin with a shrug and end with a shudder. The story of James Jameson, heir to an Irish whiskey fortune and naturalist by ambition, is one of those moments. He joined a celebrated African expedition as a gentleman observer and left it a figure of horror, a man whose sketches and silence became evidence in one of the most disturbing episodes of Victorian exploration. What follows is not a lurid tale for its own sake but a careful reading of the words left behind, the testimonies sworn, and the choices made when power and curiosity walked into a house by the Congo and never quite walked out again. “It is horrible to watch these men slowly dying before your face, and not be able to do anything for them.” The line above sits in Jameson’s diary like a flare in a dark sky. It speaks to the slow privations of the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition but also to the moral weather of the time. Men were dying. Choices were being made. And in June 1887, Jameson took up position at Yambuya as second in command of the rear column, a decision that placed him on the stage where his reputation would be tried in the court of public opinion long after his death. Henry Morton Stanley with the officers of the Advance Column, Cairo, 1890. From the left: Dr. Thomas Heazle Parke, Robert Henry Nelson, Henry Morton Stanley, William Grant Stairs, and Arthur Jephson. An expedition already under strain Jameson joined the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition by formal agreement on 20 January 1887 and paid one thousand pounds into the venture. He was engaged as a naturalist. The expedition’s field commander was Henry Morton Stanley whose reputation for relentless drive preceded him. Stanley worried that Jameson looked “physically frail,” yet he agreed to the appointment after hearing of Jameson’s previous travels. They reached Banana in March and steamed up the Congo River. As days lengthened into weeks, Jameson discovered what many had learned before him. Stanley could be a harsh leader and a hard man to satisfy. When Stanley fell ill with dysentery he placed blame on Jameson who had responsibility for cooking and rations. That resentment lingers in the records like a taste of iron. Physician Thomas Heazle Parke watched the party inch deeper into the Congo Basin and wrote of Jameson’s cast of mind. He noted that Jameson “was fascinated by the subject of cannibalism .” It is a line that would later carry the weight of dreadful consequence. Yambuya and the burden of waiting In June 1887 the expedition split. Stanley marched inland to search for Emin Pasha while Jameson remained at Yambuya on the Aruwimi River as second in command of the rear column under Major Edmund Musgrave Barttelot. The logic was simple. Stanley had hauled too much equipment for the carriers at hand. The celebrated trader Tippu Tip had promised more porters. With the reinforcements, the rear column would follow with the stores that were meant to arrive from the river mouth. In practice the promise broke like a reed in floodwater. Tippu Tip failed to deliver. Jameson travelled to Stanley Falls in August to press the matter and returned without result. No news came from Stanley. Privation and sickness took a third of the camp. Jameson wrote: “It is horrible to watch these men slowly dying before your face, and not be able to do anything for them.” Relations with nearby villages collapsed. Local people refused to sell food. Their resentment was no mystery. The rear column was linked in their eyes to the slave raiding that scarred the region. The response recorded by later historians is stark. Jameson and his companions resorted to “kidnapping women and children from villages in the area,” returning them only for provisions. Food still ran short. With plantains gone and meat almost exhausted, one diary entry ended with the grim calculation: “As a last resource we must catch some more of their women.” It is impossible to read that sentence without feeling the cold air of a threshold crossed. The naturalist at work and the chill behind the specimens Jameson was formally the expedition’s naturalist. He collected birds and insects with evident dedication, and described them in gratifying detail. Yet the scientific impulse, as biographer John Bierman later put it, “had a peculiarly cold blooded dimension.” After a nearby village was attacked by slavers, a commander brought Jameson the severed head of a man. Jameson salted it for preservation and sent it to London to be dressed and mounted by a taxidermist. William Bonny later claimed he saw the grisly trophy displayed in Jameson’s house. It is an image that stains the eye. In February 1888 Jameson set out once more to pursue porters and promises. This time he found Tippu Tip at Kasongo, far upriver. On the way back to Yambuya in May, an episode occurred that would eclipse everything else. Tippu Tip, a well known slave trader The Jameson Affair - A day at Riba Riba While returning with Tippu Tip, Jameson attended festivities at the house of the chief of Riba Riba, a village by the river. Tippu Tip and his men spoke freely about cannibal banquets. According to Jameson’s diary, he replied that people at home believed such stories were only “traveller’s tales … in other words, lies.” One of Tippu Tip’s associates responded with a challenge. “Give me a bit of cloth, and see.” Jameson wrote that he sent for six handkerchiefs ( six handkerchiefs were enough to pay for a young slave girl the Congo at that time – European cloth was a valuable import, while slaves, especially young children (for whom there was little demand except for the cannibalistic one) could be bought cheaply.) What he witnessed next, by his own account, was beyond the pale of anything he had imagined: “I sent my boy for six handkerchiefs, thinking it was all a joke …, but presently a man appeared, leading a young girl of about ten years old at the hand, and I then witnessed the most horribly sickening sight I am ever likely to see in my life. He plunged a knife quickly into her breast twice, and she fell on her face, turning over on her side. Three men then ran forward, and began to cut up the body of the girl; finally her head was cut off, and not a particle remained, each man taking his piece away down to the river to wash it. The most extraordinary thing was that the girl never uttered a sound, nor struggled, until she fell. Until the last moment, I could not believe that they were in earnest … that it was anything save a ruse to get money out of me … When I went home I tried to make some small sketches of the scene while still fresh in my memory, not that it is ever likely to fade from it. No one here seemed to be in the least astonished at it.” Jameson recorded that the girl had been captured and enslaved not far from the village. The horror of the scene is not arguable. What would be argued for years was this. Did Jameson, by presenting cloth and standing by, purchase a life in order to watch it extinguished A slave girl – drawing from Jameson's diary Farran speaks, and speaks again After the expedition and after Jameson’s death, Henry Morton Stanley chose to publish the story in the London Times on 8 November 1890. In a way it was a preemptive strike. Stanley’s management of the rear column was being savaged by survivors. If others were to blame, the blow might fall less heavily on him. His most damaging witness was Assad Farran, Jameson’s interpreter. Farran alleged that Jameson had expressed a wish to see cannibalism performed and that Tippu Tip proposed the purchase and sacrifice of a slave. Farran said Jameson handed over six handkerchiefs and a ten year old girl was produced. She was tied to a tree. Knives were sharpened. She was stabbed twice in the belly and cut in pieces. The meat was washed at the river. The rest cooked at once. Farran insisted Jameson sketched the scene as it unfolded and then coloured the drawings at leisure. He even described the sequence of the six images. “They are six small sketches neatly done, the first when the girl was led by the man, the second when she was tied to the tree and stabbed in the belly, the blood gushing out, another when she was cut in pieces, the fourth a man carrying a leg in one hand and the knife in the other, the fifth a man with a native axe and the head and the breast, and the last a man with the inward parts of the belly.” Farran’s claims were dynamite, and they were also unstable. In September 1888 when questioned by two committee members, he revoked his original statements. He said he had spoken from bad feeling. In this revised account Jameson stumbled upon the scene after the girl had already been killed and merely sketched the butchery. He added that such sights were common and that he had seen similar occasions himself. The contradiction cannot be squared. One version places Jameson as purchaser and collaborator. The other makes him an appalled witness who arrived too late to intervene. Historians have tried to understand why Farran reversed himself. Some speak of pressure applied to protect the expedition from scandal. Others suggest simple opportunism. What matters for the facts is this. Farran was at Riba Riba, and despite his changes there are striking congruences between his details and Jameson’s private diary, which had not yet been published. Both accounts match on price, the girl’s age, that she was stabbed twice in the upper body, and that the sequence began in the chief’s house. A reconstruction of Jameson's sketches, from James William Buel, Heroes of the Dark Continent ( c.  1890). It follows the description of the sketches given by Farran. Bonny described their contents somewhat differently, and Jameson's actual sketches were never published Bonny’s recollection and Stanley’s spin Another voice entered the file. William Bonny, a member of the rear column at Yambuya, had not been present at Riba Riba but he saw the drawings and heard Jameson’s account. His memory differs from Farran’s on some important points. He does not mention a tree but he confirms the sequence from presentation to stabbing to butchery and he says the final sketch depicted the feast itself. “Mr. Jameson showed me the sketches and described the scene in detail. I cannot now describe each of the six sketches; but they begin with the picture of the girl being brought down tied by one hand to the native, who holds in his right hand the fatal knife. He is then represented thrusting the knife into the girl, while the blood is seen spurting out. Then there is the scene of the carving up of the girl limb by limb, and of the natives scrambling for the pieces and running away to cook them, and the final sketch represents the feast.” Bonny wrote that Jameson paid six handkerchiefs for the girl. He also stated that Jameson recounted the events to him in a way consistent with Stanley’s published account. Later writers have concluded from this that Jameson knew the girl would be killed and calmly sketched what followed. There is, however, room for uncertainty. We do not have the exact words Jameson used with Bonny. The only words we possess from Jameson are the diary passages already quoted. Those words insist that he believed he was witnessing a cruel demonstration staged to take his cloth and not a murder purchased at his request. Whether this belief can stand against his actions is the heart of the matter. Knowledge, time, and responsibility One can gather strands from the surviving testimony without sensational flourish. Jameson knew cannibalism existed in the region. He had recorded details of it in his diary. He had spoken with men who practised it and described their preferences for victims and methods of preparation. He had seen human remains from a feast. His colleague Herbert Ward knew as much or more and had been invited to eat human flesh by hosts who found no shame in the custom. Given this knowledge, the moment an associate said “Give me a bit of cloth, and see,” a reasonable person might have suspected that a dreadful demonstration was at hand. Jameson handed over the cloth. He did not act to save the girl. He watched. He sketched later that day. He then spoke with Tippu Tip in the afternoon about routine expedition matters. He did not record any quarrel or protest about the act itself. There is no evidence that he sought to punish those responsible. The recording pen returned to logistics and supplies. That silence has its own weight. The wider world around a single act Writers who studied the Congo in that period have recorded the routine nature of the practice among specific groups. Some described the buying and butchering of slave children as everyday business. Human flesh was cookery, not sacrament, and children were held to be especially fine meat. There are accounts of children raised for slaughter. There are accounts of knife strokes and swift deaths. Years after Jameson’s visit, a European official at Riba Riba is said to have rescued a boy destined for a banquet, while another officer saw little reason to intervene because such things were normal in the surrounding villages. The Congo Free State administration did not root out the practice. Some European officers developed a taste for it themselves, if later chroniclers are to be believed. To observe that a practice was real and widespread is not to absolve complicity. It simply sets the stage. A powerful outsider with money and escorts who pays for a victim under the pretext of a demonstration takes possession of a life and allows it to be taken. The custom of a place explains the mechanics. It does not explain the choice. The cost of blame Stanley’s decision to push the story into public view did not save his reputation. The furore damaged him and the larger enterprise. The very idea of privately organised non scientific expeditions into Africa lost what glamour remained. Within the expedition the rear column was already disintegrating. Tippu Tip eventually sent some porters. Discipline broke. The party split. Barttelot was killed at Unaria on 19 July. Jameson rushed to the scene and then to Stanley Falls. He saw the trial and execution of Sanga the murderer. He tried to settle a new transport arrangement and even offered to pay five hundred pounds from his own pocket to secure a reliable leader. The talks failed. Tippu Tip proposed to lead the rear guard himself but demanded twenty thousand pounds. Jameson did not have the authority to agree. He decided to go downriver to Bangala Station where Herbert Ward waited for messages from the expedition committee. He fell ill almost at once. Ward received him in an unconscious state and watched him die of fever on 17 August. The next day he was buried on an island opposite the village, his last recorded words echoing in Ward’s memory: “Ward! Ward! they’re coming; listen. Yes! they’re coming now let’s stand together.” How to read the sketches now We are left with words and with drawings we do not have. The original sketches were never published. We have descriptions of them. We have Jameson’s diary. We have Farran’s accusations and retraction. We have Bonny’s memory and Stanley’s framing. We have Jameson’s earlier lines about men dying and about catching women. We have his salt cured specimen sent to a London taxidermist. We have the afternoon in which, by his own account, he went from the murder of a child to a routine conversation with a powerful man whose trade ran on slaves and ivory. The entrenched camp at Yambuya – drawing from Jameson's diary From these materials, historians have formed different judgments about motive and sequence. Some believe Jameson knowingly purchased a girl to watch her death and to record it for scientific and personal curiosity. Others grant that he may have thought he was paying for a grim theatre and only realised too late that the theatre was real and the curtain would be a knife. What no careful reader can grant is exoneration. Power was used. Money changed hands. A child died. A white man of means looked on and later painted what he remembered. It is tempting to make the tale a symbol and leave it there. Better to remember that this was not an isolated atrocity in an otherwise benign enterprise. It was a particularly clear window into the time. Exploration came wrapped in trade. Trade moved with force. Force fed on bodies. The sketches are the record not of a single man’s failing but of a system that made such failings easy to rationalise and easier still to forget. The last chapters at Yambuya When the rear guard finally moved out of Yambuya on 11 June it did so under a cloud. The Manyema porters sent by Tippu Tip proved difficult to control. The column broke into faster and slower parties. Barttelot pushed ahead while Jameson drifted behind with the rest. After Barttelot’s death and the delays that followed, Jameson’s final acts were administrative. Attempt a new contract. Seek authority from the committee. Get approval to spend the twenty thousand pounds. Secure a trusted leader who could deliver them to Lake Albert and reunite them with Stanley. Fever made a mockery of these plans. He died at Bangala Station as the river flowed on and the expedition shattered into fragments of argument and grief. The House in Bangala Station where Jameson died, presumably drawn by Herbert Ward (from Jameson's posthumously published diary) The human line that runs through it This episode can be told as an indictment or as a warning. It is both. It indicts a culture that prized specimens over lives and called the brutality of conquest discovery. It warns us that the line between study and cruelty is thin when those being studied hold no power and those doing the studying can buy outcomes with a handful of imported cloth. The only words we can place at the heart of the story are the words everyone agrees upon. They are the words Jameson wrote himself about the scene at Riba Riba. They are the words no editor could improve because their plainness is the measure of the affront. “I then witnessed the most horribly sickening sight I am ever likely to see in my life.” What happened next was not outrage. It was conversation. That is the scandal that has never quite faded. Sources and further reading The Emin Pasha Relief Expedition overview and James Jameson biography https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emin_Pasha_Relief_Expedition https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Jameson_(naturalist) John Bierman, Dark Safari  and associated articles on the rear column at Yambuya https://www.worldcat.org/title/18828668 Robert B Edgerton, The Fall of the Asante Empire  and essays on colonial era accounts of cannibalism and African warfare https://www.worldcat.org/title/36744838 Tim Jeal, Stanley  and analysis of the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition https://www.worldcat.org/title/34410814 Thomas Heazle Parke, My Personal Experiences in Equatorial Africa https://archive.org/details/mypersonalexperi00park Heinrich Brode, Tippoo Tib https://archive.org/details/tippootibthestor00brod Guy Burrows, The Land of the Pigmies  and Congo Free State accounts https://archive.org/details/landofpigmies00burr Peter Forbath, The River Congo https://www.worldcat.org/title/139436 James William Buel, Heroes of the Dark Continent https://archive.org/details/heroesofdarkcont00buel Contemporary newspaper coverage including The Times of London on 8 November 1890 https://www.thetimes.co.uk/archive

Public executions have long been a dark and controversial aspect of human history, serving as both a form of punishment and a macabre spectacle. The United States, like many other countries, once employed this practice. The last public execution in the U.S. marked the end of an era, reflecting a shift in societal attitudes towards capital punishment and the nature of justice. A crowd variously estimated at 10,000 to 20,000 gathered at Owensboro, Kentucky on August the 14th, 1936 to watch the last ever public hanging in the United States. The condemned was Rainey Bethea, a 22-year-old African American man convicted of rape and murder. Bethea's execution attracted national attention not only because it was the last of its kind but also due to the unique circumstances surrounding it. The event was overseen by Florence Thompson, the county's sheriff, who was to become the first woman in U.S. history to publicly hang a man. This fact alone drew a significant amount of media coverage and public curiosity. Rainey Bethea, aged 22, had been found guilty of raping a wealthy white widow, 70-year-old Lischia Edwards. A neighbour failed to get a reply when he knocked on her door on a Sunday morning in late June, concerned about her not leaving for church. Mrs. Edwards was then found dead on her bed, the coroner later declaring that she had been strangled and raped the previous night. Bethea, who had a criminal record for burglary, had worked as a servant for several Owensboro families and had been employed at the apartment building where Mrs. Edwards lived. He became the prime suspect when a cheap ring belonging to him was found in the room. After being arrested Bethea confessed to the crimes and admitted stealing jewellery belonging to Mrs. Edwards. Under Kentucky state law at the time, conviction for robbery and murder would result in execution at the state penitentiary, but the prosecution, wanting the execution to take place at Owensboro, proceeded only with a charge of rape. This carried the possibility of public hanging, satisfying the lust of some townspeople for vengeance. At his trial in a packed courthouse Bethea pleaded guilty. The prosecution still presented the facts to the jury as they would need to decide the sentence. There was no defence. The judge instructed the jury that their only job was to decide whether Bethea should get between 10 to 20 years in prison or the death sentence. It took them less than five minutes to decide that he should be hanged. This was not good news for Florence Thompson. She had taken over the job of sheriff from her husband who had died three months earlier. Sheriff Thompson, a mother of four, was expected to become the first woman executioner in United States history because in law it was her duty to spring the trap. But she was repelled by the idea and said so publicly. She then received death threats and it was agreed she could ask someone to do the job for her. And so retired police officer Arthur Hash was hired by Sheriff Thompson to pull the lever. Organising the whole squalid affair was an Illinois farmer named G. Phil Hanna who had overseen about 70 hangings. He took interest in the grisly pursuit when he saw a botched execution that caused great suffering for the victim. After studying how to hang someone as humanely as possible he began offering his services. At Owensboro Hanna adjusted the noose around Bethea’s neck and gave the signal to Hash to pull the lever. But Hash was reportedly drunk and failed to notice. Exasperated, Hanna yelled, “Do it now!” And so one of America's most shameful executions came to an end. Many newspapers denounced “the carnival of sadism” saying that the crowds enjoyed it too much. But they also carried a large number of indignant letters, the writers telling of their shame that such a thing could happen in Kentucky. Two years later the state abolished public executions. In modern times, the debate over the death penalty continues, with ongoing discussions about its morality, efficacy, and implementation. The story of Rainey Bethea's execution remains a powerful illustration of how public opinion and legal practices can evolve, reflecting deeper changes in societal values. The last public execution in the United States was not just the end of a practice but a catalyst for change. It forced the nation to confront the brutality of public spectacles of death and to reconsider the meaning of justice and humanity.