Utterly interesting

The name Caligula is synonymous with depravity (thanks in part to the saucy 1979 film of the same name ) But where did Caligula learn his nefarious ways? Growing up on the island of Capri under the guidance of Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus, that's where! The stories that surround Tiberius are both scandalous and salacious, as shocking to our modern sensibilities as they were to his contemporaries. But what made his private life so perverted? How did he abuse his absolute power? And who was the man behind the myth? Heir by Default — The Murky Rise of Rome’s Second Emperor Born in 42 BC into the prominent Claudian family, Tiberius Claudius Nero seemed at first destined for a life as a distinguished general rather than an emperor. His mother, Livia Drusilla, was astute and ambitious — so much so that she divorced Tiberius’ father to marry Octavian, later crowned Augustus, Rome’s first emperor. Augustus was methodical in grooming successors, but fate robbed him of his preferred heirs. Gaius, Lucius and Marcellus, bright young men favoured to inherit the empire, died young — so suspiciously that whispers still linger that Livia engineered their demise to clear a path for her son. Whether this was calculated murder or mere misfortune, by the time Augustus lay dying in AD 14, Tiberius remained the only plausible choice. In his youth, Tiberius appeared promising. He was a disciplined commander who expanded Rome’s frontiers in Armenia, the Alps and along the turbulent Rhine. Yet behind the martial stoicism lurked a man uncomfortable with court politics. He despised the constant scrutiny of the capital and the politicking expected of an heir. In a dramatic gesture of withdrawal, he voluntarily exiled himself to Rhodes in 6 BC, citing his unhappy marriage to Julia the Elder, Augustus’ own daughter. Many believed he resented her for separating him from his beloved first wife, Vipsania Agrippina. Rhodes was his haven, where he studied Greek rhetoric and philosophy while Rome fretted over the succession. Orgy of the times of Tiberius on Capri, Henryk Siemiradzki (1881) When Augustus died in Nola in AD 14, Tiberius returned reluctantly to assume the purple. The Senate confirmed him, but the new emperor felt cornered by suspicion and deeply mistrustful of Rome’s elite. He governed with indifference, delegating the day-to-day running of the empire to confidants. Foremost among these was Lucius Aelius Sejanus, the ambitious Prefect of the Praetorian Guard. Sejanus effectively steered Rome until his alleged coup plot was uncovered in AD 31, resulting in his abrupt execution. One figure overshadowed even Sejanus : Germanicus, Tiberius’ adopted son and a darling of the public. A charismatic general adored by the legions, Germanicus died under mysterious circumstances during a campaign in Syria. Many were quick to blame Tiberius for poisoning him — another rumour that cemented the emperor’s sinister image. Increasingly disillusioned and paranoid, Tiberius withdrew further from the city. By AD 22 he seldom set foot in Rome, retreating instead to the coastal retreats of Campania and, from AD 26 onwards, the isolated rocky island of Capri. Capri — A Paradise of Depravity The Villa Jovis , perched dramatically atop Capri’s cliffs, became Tiberius’ infamous pleasure fortress. Its terraces commanded sweeping views of the Gulf of Naples — but within its secluded chambers, scandal festered. Ancient historians, notably Suetonius and Tacitus, preserve stories that read more like dark Roman pornography than sober biography. According to them, Tiberius decorated his palace with explicit frescoes rivalled only by the erotica found in Pompeii’s notorious brothels. Here, the emperor is said to have kept an entourage of young boys dubbed his spintriae , a term translated loosely as “tight bums”. These boys, prized for their youthful bodies, were forced to engage in sexual acts for the emperor’s amusement. It is reported that Tiberius devised humiliating and sometimes torturous entertainments: during drunken feasts, guests were forced to drink excessively, then bound to prevent them from relieving themselves, purely for Tiberius’ grim pleasure. But it was for pedophilia that Tiberius was most notorious.  Tiberius trained infants he called his “little fish” to swim between his thighs when he took a bath and nibble on his genitalia. And that’s not the only horrendous accusation to survive against him. We’re also told that he would take newborn babies from their mothers and hold them to his genitals, hoping they would respond to him as if to their mother’s breast. Tiberius is alleged to have sodomized two boys during a sacrificial ceremony on the island, and when they complained he had their legs broken. He also sexually assaulted aristocratic women, causing one woman, Mallonia, such trauma that she was driven to suicide.  The “Old Goat’s Garden” — Scandal and Satire By his later years, Tiberius was described as repulsively unkempt and wild-haired. He rarely shaved and cared little for appearances, earning him the derisive nickname “the old goat” from the theatre crowds of Rome. The Latin pun was obvious: Capri, or Capreae  in Latin, means goat island. Romans called his palace gardens “the old goat’s garden”, a barbed joke at their absent emperor’s expense. Capri’s Villa of Jupiter, reconstructed by C. Weichardt Myth or Malice? Assessing the Sources The catalogue of Tiberius’ alleged perversions survives chiefly through the works of Suetonius and Tacitus, whose disdain for imperial excess was matched only by their relish for lurid detail. Suetonius, a court secretary under Hadrian, drew upon palace archives, letters and eyewitness gossip. His Lives of the Caesars  remains an extraordinary source for the early emperors, though few modern historians swallow his stories wholesale. Tacitus, more measured but equally damning, frames Tiberius as a ruler corroded by paranoia and vice. Yet both writers belonged to an elite senatorial class that loathed the concentration of power in one man’s hands, and especially in Tiberius’, for he distrusted them in return. Was Tiberius truly the monster described? It is unlikely every story is factual. Ancient Rome revelled in scandal as much as any tabloid culture today, and an unpopular ruler provided perfect material for gossip. However, the consistency and sheer number of accounts suggest that, at the very least, Tiberius’ retreat from Rome bred secrecy and suspicion, allowing his private debaucheries to grow unchecked. Legacy — The Emperor Who Fled Rome Tiberius died in AD 37, probably of natural causes at the age of 77, though whispers claimed he was smothered on the orders of his successor, Caligula. His ashes were interred alongside Augustus — an irony, considering how far he had strayed from Augustus’ carefully cultivated image of dignified rule. In the centuries since, the shadow of Capri has remained a symbol of what unchecked imperial power can become. Tourists still climb the pathways to the ruins of Villa Jovis, peering over the same cliffs from which, rumour has it, Tiberius hurled unwanted lovers and servants to their deaths. In the end, whether entirely factual or partially embroidered, the stories of Tiberius Caesar remain a chilling cautionary tale. They remind us that behind the marble statues and Latin inscriptions, Rome’s emperors were flesh and blood — and sometimes, very dark indeed

When the world slid towards chaos in the late 1930s, there were individuals who, faced with impossible choices, quietly chose to do the right thing. One such person was Paul Grüninger, a Swiss police commander who risked everything — his career, his reputation, his livelihood — to save thousands of Jewish refugees. His is not a story of dramatic battles or political speeches, but one of steadfast humanity in the face of rising bureaucracy and cold-hearted rules. Who Was Paul Grüninger? Born on 27 October 1891 in St. Gallen, Switzerland, Paul Grüninger lived through the First World War and the interwar years, experiencing firsthand a Europe increasingly marked by economic hardship and political extremism. Before joining the police force, he served briefly as a schoolteacher and later enlisted in the Swiss army during the First World War, although Switzerland remained neutral. By 1925, Grüninger had risen to the position of Commander of the St. Gallen Cantonal Police, responsible for overseeing the eastern border with Austria — a position that would thrust him into the moral crisis that would define his life. St. Gallen’s border with Austria was historically busy, but after the Anschluss of March 1938, when Nazi Germany absorbed Austria, the flow of people changed dramatically. Jewish families, once living stable lives, now fled with little more than the clothes on their backs, seeking a slim chance of survival across the Swiss border. Paul Grüninger (left) Switzerland’s Harsh Refugee Policy Switzerland had long prided itself on neutrality, but by the late 1930s, that neutrality had hardened into something less benevolent. In an effort to maintain good relations with Nazi Germany and avoid being overwhelmed by refugees, the Swiss Federal Government implemented strict immigration controls. In October 1938, negotiations between Switzerland and Germany resulted in the notorious “J-stamp” agreement — all Jewish Germans and Austrians now had a large “J” stamped into their passports, making it almost impossible for them to enter Switzerland legally. It was an early, chilling example of administrative measures reinforcing racial persecution. Official Swiss policy dictated that refugees without proper entry visas were to be turned back at the border — effectively returning them to countries where antisemitic violence was official state policy. For border officials like Paul Grüninger, the situation presented a brutal choice: obey orders and send desperate people back into the arms of their persecutors, or defy orders and risk everything. Grüninger in later years Grüninger’s Quiet Rebellion Paul Grüninger decided he could not, in good conscience, enforce a policy that condemned people to death. He began allowing refugees to cross the border illegally, often turning a blind eye to those arriving without papers, and actively helping them regularise their status once inside Switzerland. He did more than simply look the other way. Grüninger falsified official documents, altering the dates of entry so that refugees appeared to have arrived before the March 1938 cut-off. This clever manipulation meant that the authorities had to treat them as legal entrants. Without this administrative sleight of hand, many of the refugees would have been sent back across the border to almost certain death. Thanks to his efforts, thousands found temporary shelter in camps like Diepoldsau, supported by Jewish aid organisations, while they awaited permission to stay or opportunities to emigrate further afield. Grüninger’s work required constant vigilance. He filed false reports to the Swiss Federal Police, understated the numbers of new arrivals, and impeded efforts to trace those who had slipped across the border without authorisation. He even paid out of his own pocket for winter clothing and basic supplies for those who had fled Austria with nothing. His methods were simple but dangerous: he instructed his subordinates to turn a blind eye, he cooperated with Jewish organisations in Switzerland and abroad, and he never asked too many questions. His focus remained solely on saving lives. The Broader Human Context: The Story of Joseph Spring While Paul Grüninger risked everything to protect refugees, many others fell victim to Switzerland’s harsh border policies. One tragic example is that of Joseph Spring, a 16-year-old boy from Berlin. In November 1943, Joseph and his two cousins, Henri (14) and Sylver Henenberg (21), fled mass arrests in Belgium and attempted to cross into Switzerland near La Cure, in the canton of Vaud. Although they carried forged French papers identifying them as “Aryans,” they immediately revealed their Jewish identity to the Swiss authorities, hoping for asylum. Joseph Spring and his cousin Sylver Henenberg in the winter of 1943. Shortly afterward this photo was taken they were handed over to the Gestapo by Swiss officials. Instead, Swiss border guards turned them back. Undeterred, they tried again the following night — only to be arrested. Swiss officials handed them over directly to the Gestapo, specifically informing the Germans that the boys were Jewish and handing over their hidden papers. Henri and Sylver were murdered upon arrival at Auschwitz. Joseph Spring survived, but only by the narrowest of margins, protected by an older inmate and enduring forced labour, death marches, and further internment in Germany until his liberation by American forces in 1945. By November 1943, Swiss officials already had detailed knowledge of the extermination happening in camps like Auschwitz, including crematoria capacity. They could not claim ignorance. Cases like Spring’s reveal the deadly consequences of the border policies that Grüninger courageously defied. The Exposure and the Aftermath Unfortunately, such quiet acts of defiance could not remain secret indefinitely. German authorities grew suspicious as more and more Jewish refugees slipped into Switzerland. They eventually informed the Swiss government of Grüninger’s activities. In March 1939, Paul Grüninger was dismissed from his post without pension. Soon after, he faced criminal charges for breach of duty, falsifying documents, and aiding illegal immigration. His trial, which began in January 1939, dragged on for over two years. In March 1941, the court found him guilty. While the judges recognised that his motivations had been humanitarian, they insisted that, as a government official, his primary duty was to obey orders, not to question them. Grüninger was fined heavily, made to pay the costs of his own trial, and was left without the financial security he had earned over a lifetime of public service. From that point onward, he lived in relative poverty, taking on odd jobs to survive. He was ostracised by former colleagues, many of whom viewed him as a traitor to the Swiss system rather than a saviour of the persecuted. Grüninger’s Unwavering Belief in His Actions Despite the hardship, Paul Grüninger never expressed regret for his actions. In 1954, he explained his reasoning in simple, profound terms: “It was basically a question of saving human lives threatened with death. How could I then seriously consider bureaucratic schemes and calculations?” Grüninger’s quiet dignity in the face of adversity was perhaps his most remarkable quality. He continued to live modestly, never seeking fame or fortune, never demanding recognition for what he had done. In the year of his death in 1972, Grüninger was recognised as a "Righteous Among the Nations" by the State of Israel. A Long Overdue Recognition Public awareness of Grüninger’s actions remained limited for decades. It was not until the late 1960s and early 1970s, as Europe began to reckon more honestly with the legacy of the Holocaust, that journalists and historians began to draw attention to his heroism. Following a media campaign and growing public outcry, the Swiss government in December 1970 issued a somewhat reserved letter of apology. Yet even then, they refused to reopen his case or reinstate his pension. Paul Grüninger died in 1972, never having seen his name fully cleared. It took until 1995 for the Swiss Federal Government to formally annul his conviction, acknowledging that he had acted with moral integrity at a time when many had chosen complicity. His legacy was finally rehabilitated, and he was recognised as one of the Righteous Among the Nations by Yad Vashem, Israel’s official memorial to the victims of the Holocaust. Today, his name appears on schools, memorial plaques, and public buildings across Switzerland, a belated tribute to a man who chose to do good when it mattered most.

Imagine this: it’s a crisp Sunday morning in late 1973, and the usually bustling streets of Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and The Hague are eerily quiet. No cars, no traffic jams, just the sound of bicycles whizzing by, children playing in the streets, and the occasional bell from a passing tram. For three months in the autumn and early winter of that year, this peaceful scene became a weekly reality as the Dutch government implemented a ban on cars on Sundays. The reason? The ongoing global oil crisis. Why the Ban? The early 1970s saw significant geopolitical turmoil, with the Middle East at the centre of it. Following the Yom Kippur War in October 1973, members of the Organization of Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries (OAPEC) decided to place an embargo on nations that supported Israel. As a result, oil prices skyrocketed across the globe, sending shockwaves through oil-dependent countries, particularly in Western Europe. For the Netherlands, heavily reliant on imported oil, this sudden shortage posed a serious threat to its economy and energy security. In response to the crisis, the Dutch government, led by Prime Minister Joop den Uyl, sought ways to reduce oil consumption. One of the more drastic measures was the introduction of the “Autoloze Zondag” (car-free Sunday). From November 1973 to January 1974, every Sunday was declared a car-free day, forcing people to leave their vehicles at home. The idea was simple: by reducing car usage for just one day a week, oil consumption would decrease, alleviating some pressure on the nation’s energy reserves. A Novel Experiment While it may sound like an inconvenience, the car ban was largely met with good humour and a sense of solidarity. The streets, often clogged with cars, were suddenly transformed into open spaces where people could cycle, walk, or simply enjoy the outdoors. The Dutch, already a nation of avid cyclists, embraced the opportunity to pedal through their cities and countryside in droves. Bicycle sales reportedly surged during this period, and families made the most of their car-free Sundays by spending time outdoors, walking or playing games in the streets. People who lived through the car ban often recall it fondly as a strange but enjoyable period. There was something almost nostalgic about seeing children playing football in the streets, or entire families out on their bikes, without the constant hum of car engines in the background. It was as though the country had been given a weekly opportunity to slow down, breathe, and reconnect with simpler pleasures. The Practicalities Of course, enforcing such a widespread ban wasn’t without its challenges. Police patrols were increased to ensure compliance, and roadblocks were set up to prevent any cheeky motorists from taking a Sunday joyride. Essential services such as ambulances, fire engines, and public transport were still allowed to operate, ensuring that daily life could continue in an emergency. Most Dutch citizens were cooperative, although there were a few who grumbled about the inconvenience, especially those living in more rural areas where cars were more of a necessity. But for the most part, the measure was effective. Energy consumption dropped, and the country managed to weather the storm of the oil crisis without too much disruption. The Legacy of Autoloze Zondag Although the ban only lasted three months, its legacy has lived on in Dutch culture. For many, those car-free Sundays are remembered as a unique and somewhat surreal time, when the world seemed to slow down, and the streets were reclaimed by people rather than machines. The Dutch love of cycling, already strong, was perhaps solidified during this period, as bicycles became the go-to mode of transport for millions. While the idea of a nationwide car ban seems almost unthinkable today, the “Autoloze Zondag” serves as a reminder of how quickly society can adapt when faced with a crisis. It was a bold, creative response to an international problem, and though it may have been born out of necessity, it ended up bringing a temporary but refreshing change to the lives of the Dutch people. So, next time you hop on a bike or take a walk down a quiet street, you might just imagine what life was like in the Netherlands for those three peculiar, car-free months in 1973, when the roads were handed back to the people, and Sundays were all about simple, quiet pleasures.

On 3 November 1883, a Wells Fargo stagecoach climbed Funk Hill in California’s Gold Country. Its driver, Reason McConnell, slowed the horses when a masked figure appeared from behind a boulder. The outlaw wore a long linen duster and a derby hat perched over a flour sack mask with two holes cut for eyes. In his hands he carried a shotgun. In a calm but commanding voice he spoke the words that drivers across Northern California had come to dread: “Throw down the box.” This was Black Bart, the most unusual outlaw of the Old West. Unlike Jesse James or Billy the Kid, he wasn’t a drinker or a killer. He never fired a shot, never swore at his victims, and often raised his hat politely to women. Sometimes, he even left behind poems signed “Black Bart, the Po8.” But on that day at Funk Hill, his long run of luck ended. A young hunter named Jimmy Rolleri happened to be nearby with a rifle. Shots rang out, the outlaw stumbled away, and in his hasty retreat he dropped a handkerchief with a laundry mark. That small piece of cloth would lead Wells Fargo detectives straight to the man behind the mask: Charles E. Boles, the gentleman bandit of California. 1882 Wells, Fargo & Co. Reward Circular. 17" x 11 1/4" (unfolded) two-sided circular, San Francisco, December 18, 1882, issued by Wells, Fargo & Company, offering an $800. Poem written by Black Bart himself! Early life: from Norfolk to New York Charles E. Boles (sometimes spelled Bolles) was born around 1829 in Norfolk, England, the third of ten children of John and Maria Boles. In 1831, the family emigrated to Jefferson County, New York, settling on a farm north of Plessis Village. Charley, as friends called him, grew up in a large household of six brothers and three sisters. The lure of gold Like thousands of young men, Boles was caught up in the California Gold Rush. In late 1849, he and his brothers David and James joined the flood of prospectors in the Sierra foothills, working claims on the North Fork of the American River near Sacramento. They returned east in 1852, but Charles went west again with brothers David and Robert. Both soon died of illness, leaving Charles to carry on alone before abandoning his claim and heading back east. In 1854 he married Mary Elizabeth Johnson in Decatur, Illinois. By 1860, the couple had four children. Yet Charles was restless, always drawn back to adventure and the promise of gold. Civil War veteran On 13 August 1862, Boles enlisted as a private in Company B of the 116th Illinois Infantry Regiment. He proved to be a reliable soldier, rising to First Sergeant within a year. He fought at the Siege of Vicksburg, where he was badly wounded, and later marched with Sherman on the infamous March to the Sea. By the end of the war, he had received brevet commissions as both second lieutenant and first lieutenant. Discharged in June 1865, he returned to Illinois, carrying the discipline of a soldier but also the trauma of bloody campaigns. Bart later admitted that his shotgun was never loaded during robberies, he couldn’t bear the thought of more killing after what he’d seen in the war. C.E. Bolton, alias Black Bart, aka Charles Boles, in the San Quentin prison register. Prospecting and a grudge against Wells Fargo In 1867 Boles went west again to prospect in Idaho and Montana. In an 1871 letter to his wife, he described a bitter encounter with Wells Fargo agents. He felt cheated and humiliated, vowing revenge against the company. It was an anger that would soon fuel one of the strangest outlaw careers of the 19th century. Enter Black Bart By 1875, Charles Boles had transformed into Black Bart, a polite, literate, and strangely theatrical stagecoach robber. His style was unique: A long linen duster coat A bowler/derby hat A flour sack mask with eyeholes A double-barrelled shotgun (unloaded) A gentlemanly manner—no swearing, no drunkenness, no unnecessary cruelty He was also afraid of horses, which meant he fled on foot after every robbery. Unlike other outlaws who relied on gangs, Bart always worked alone, bluffing drivers into believing gunmen were hiding nearby. First robbery: 26 July 1875 His debut came on the road between Copperopolis and Milton, Calaveras County. He stopped stage driver John Shine, ordering him to “throw down the box.” To add menace, he called into the brush: “If he dares to shoot, give him a solid volley, boys!” Shine, seeing what appeared to be rifles aimed at him, surrendered. Later inspection revealed the “gunmen” were sticks tied to branches. The take was modest, just $160 (about $5,200 today), but the performance was flawless. A catalogue of robberies Over the next eight years, Bart robbed at least 28 confirmed stagecoaches in California and Oregon. His favourite hunting grounds included: The Sonora–Milton road (Calaveras County) Routes between North San Juan and Marysville The Point Arena to Duncans Mills stage (Mendocino and Sonoma Counties) The Quincy–Oroville line (Plumas and Butte Counties) The Ukiah–Cloverdale run The Yreka–Redding stage (Shasta County) Interstate routes along the Siskiyou Trail into Oregon Passengers often recalled his deep, resonant voice, his “intellectual” conversation, and his oddly polite humour. Fourteen-year-old Donna McCreary, who once saw him up close, described him as greying, missing front teeth, with piercing blue eyes and slender hands. The poet of the Sierra Bart became famous not just for his robberies but for the verses he occasionally left behind. Poem #1 – 3 August 1877, Point Arena to Duncans Mills: I’ve labored long and hard for bread, For honor, and for riches, But on my corns too long you’ve tread, You fine-haired sons of bitches. Poem #2 – 25 July 1878, Quincy to Oroville: Here I lay me down to sleep To wait the coming morrow, Perhaps success, perhaps defeat, And everlasting sorrow. Let come what will, I’ll try it on, My condition can’t be worse; And if there’s money in that box’Tis munny in my purse. Though he only wrote two authenticated poems, it was enough to earn him the nickname “Black Bart, the Po8.” The Wells Fargo problem By the late 1870s, Bart was the bane of Wells Fargo. The company issued reward posters, and its chief detective James B. Hume made it his personal mission to capture him. Bart taunted Hume, sometimes sending greetings after robberies. He stole thousands of dollars in gold and mail, often disappearing without a trace. Wells Fargo’s reputation was at stake—how could such a courteous thief outwit them again and again? Funk Hill: the final robbery On 3 November 1883, Bart returned to Funk Hill, the site of his very first holdup. This time, driver Reason McConnell had an armed passenger nearby: Jimmy Rolleri, a 19-year-old hunter with a Henry rifle. Jimmy Rolleri (above) saved the day by firing the shot that strikes Black Bart in the hand, causing the bandit to carelessly leave behind his handkerchief. The laundry stamp marked on it helped Wells Fargo Detective Harry Morse find his man. Bart forced McConnell to unhitch his team before wrestling with a bolted-down strongbox. As he carried it away, McConnell and Rolleri fired. Bart stumbled, wounded in the hand, and dropped mail. He stuffed some gold amalgam into a log, discarded his shotgun, and fled. At the scene investigators recovered his eyeglasses, food, and a handkerchief marked F.X.O.7. The laundry mark that unmasked him Detectives Hume and Morse canvassed nearly 90 laundries in San Francisco before tracing the mark to Ferguson & Bigg’s California Laundry on Bush Street. The customer was “C.E. Bolton,” a mining engineer lodging nearby. Inside his room police found a Bible inscribed from his wife, confirming his true name: Charles E. Boles. He initially gave the alias “T.Z. Spalding” but eventually admitted to several robberies (though only those before 1879, thinking the statute of limitations protected him). Trial and San Quentin In 1884, Wells Fargo pressed charges only for the Funk Hill robbery. Bart was convicted and sentenced to six years in San Quentin Prison. Prison reports described him as witty, enduring, and impeccably polite. He worked in the pharmacy, becoming an able chemist. Released on 1 January 1888 for good behaviour, he told reporters: “No, gentlemen, I’m through with crime.”  Asked if he would write more poetry, he laughed: “Did you not hear me say that I was through with crime?” The mystery after 1888 After San Quentin, Bart vanished. He never reunited with his wife but wrote letters, saying he felt demoralised and shadowed by Wells Fargo. His last confirmed sighting was at the Visalia House Hotel on 28 February 1888. After that, rumours spread: That he moved east under an alias. That Wells Fargo secretly paid him off. That he lived quietly in Marysville as a pharmacist. That he fled abroad, possibly even to Japan. An obituary for a “Charles Boles” appeared in 1917, but it was never proven. Copycats and enduring legend In November 1888, a stage was robbed by a masked man who left behind a poem. Detective Hume compared the handwriting and declared it a copycat. By then, it didn’t matter. Bart’s legend was fixed in folklore. He was the outlaw who robbed on foot, feared horses, tipped his hat to women, and wrote poetry in the dust of the Sierra. Legacy of the gentleman bandit Black Bart stands apart from the usual cast of Old West criminals. He wasn’t a killer or a brawler. His robberies relied on bluff, performance, and a strange sense of style. Today his story lives on in books, museums, and tourist trails across California. He remains the gentleman bandit of the Sierra Nevada, remembered less for the gold he stole and more for the verses he left behind. Sources San Francisco Bulletin , 14 November 1883 Daily Alta California , 23 September 1882 Wells Fargo History – https://www.wellsfargohistory.com Calaveras Heritage Council – https://www.calaverasheritagecouncil.com PBS American Experience: The Wild West  – https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience James B. Hume Papers, California State Library – https://www.library.ca.gov Robert J. Chandler, Wells Fargo Detective: The Biography of James B. Hume  (University of Oklahoma Press, 2008) John Boessenecker, Gentleman Bandit: The True Story of Black Bart, the Old West’s Most Infamous Stagecoach Robber  (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2008) Marysville Cemetery Commission, interview with Victoria Tudor (2017)

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

Charles Osborne holds a singularly unique place in medical history as the man who hiccuped for an astonishing 68 years. His extraordinary affliction began in 1922 and only ceased in 1990, a span of time that would see dramatic changes in the world, but for Osborne, it was marked by the relentless rhythm of hiccups. The Onset of an Unending Hiccup The story begins in 1922, when Osborne, then a 28-year-old Iowan farmer, experienced the onset of his hiccups under peculiar circumstances. While lifting a hog for slaughter, he suffered a minor accident. Osborne described feeling a strange sensation within his abdomen, and almost immediately, his hiccups began. These were not the transient spasms familiar to most, but persistent, unceasing contractions that defied the understanding of contemporary medicine. The Relentless March of Time For the next 68 years, Osborne's life was punctuated by these involuntary contractions of his diaphragm. His condition, later termed chronic hiccuping, would challenge not only his physical endurance but also his psychological resilience. Despite seeking medical advice from numerous specialists, no effective remedy was found. Osborne's hiccups averaged around 40 times per minute in the initial decades, slowing somewhat in later years to about 20 per minute, a frequency still profoundly disruptive to daily life. The Impact on His Life Despite facing significant challenges due to his relentless hiccuping, Osborne demonstrated a remarkable level of adaptation and resilience throughout his life. He remained dedicated to his work on the farm, married twice, and had eight children. His persistent condition garnered public curiosity and media attention, turning him into a medical curiosity of his time. The impact of his hiccups on his speech made communication difficult, leading to occasional social isolation. Nonetheless, Osborne's narrative also highlights the importance of community and family support. Those around him adjusted to his condition, showcasing deep empathy and patience that underscore human solidarity in coping with chronic illness. Theories and Speculations Osborne's prolonged hiccuping has puzzled medical experts for years, leading to a variety of theories attempting to explain this unusual phenomenon. One prevalent hypothesis suggests that the accident he endured could have potentially triggered a series of events resulting in damage or irritation to crucial components like the diaphragm or the phrenic nerves, responsible for the rhythmic contraction of the diaphragm during breathing. Alternatively, it is speculated that a disturbance in the brain region governing the hiccup reflex, particularly the brainstem, might be at the root of his persistent hiccups. Despite undergoing numerous medical evaluations and tests, the exact cause of Osborne's relentless hiccuping remained elusive throughout his lifetime, adding to the mystery surrounding his condition. The complexity and intricacy of the human body's physiological processes often make it challenging to pinpoint the precise origins of such atypical and perplexing medical issues, leaving room for speculation and ongoing research in the field of medicine. The Quiet End In 1990, after almost seventy years of enduring the relentless torment of incessant hiccuping, Osborne's life took an unexpected turn as his mysterious condition suddenly came to a halt. The cessation of his hiccups was as abrupt as their onset, leaving both Osborne and those around him in awe of this inexplicable change. For the first time in decades, Osborne experienced a sense of relief and freedom from the disruptive and exhausting hiccuping episodes that had plagued him for so long. He lived the final year of his life without the hiccups that had defined it for so long, passing away in 1991 at the age of 97.

In August 1990, Playgirl Magazine advertised the chance to “Sleep with Donald Trump” on its cover to its predominantly female audience. The move followed Trump’s messy and public divorce with his first wife, Ivana, who alleged that the entrepreneur had sexually assaulted her and pulled out her hair. Ivana Trump reportedly walked out of the marriage with a settlement of between US$14 million and US$25 million. As his divorce pended , the magazine quickly ran a contest with the offer to “sleep with” the businessman. “He’s rich, almost single and yours for the asking,” a blurb on its table of contents read. “Here’s how you can get the Donald out of your dreams and into your bed!” Obviously, readers weren’t actually invited to get frisky with Trump. According to fact-checking site Snopes , the contest was simply a PR stunt approved and paid for by Trump and/or a book publisher which explained, in the small print, that winners would receive a pillowcase silk-screened with an image of his face. The description also touted Trump as a fitting bedfellow by stating, “He’s tall, good-looking, about to be divorced, and rich beyond your wildest imagination. His every move makes headlines—even his bedroom moves. One woman reportedly called him ‘the best sex I’ve ever had.’” As well as a pillowcase made for audiences to “lie there whispering sweet nothings to his ear all night,” winners would each be handed a copy of Joel Reed’s Donald Trump: The Man, The Myth, The Scandal . “Don’t wait,” Playgirl magazine prompted. “A catch like Donald Trump won’t stay out of someone’s bed for long!”

Some people juggle, some perform card tricks, and then there was Alfred Langevin—who could smoke a pipe through his eyes. A Man of Unique Talents Langevin was a resident of Detroit, Michigan, in the 1930s, a time when the world was reeling from the Great Depression and desperate for a bit of amusement. Enter Mr. Langevin, whose particular skill set was equal parts astounding and slightly unsettling. Not only could he inhale tobacco smoke through his mouth and exhale it through his eye sockets, but he could also blow up balloons and even play the recorder using his eye socket. And just to be clear—because you're probably wondering—yes, he had two perfectly normal, functioning eyes. The Science (or Mystery) Behind the Skill How exactly was Alfred Langevin able to perform this ocular sorcery? The precise reason remains uncertain, but the best guess lies in an anatomical anomaly related to his tear gland. A rare defect in the nasolacrimal system—the part of your body that connects the eyes, nose, and throat—may have created an unusual passageway, allowing him to redirect air (or smoke) in ways most of us cannot. This condition is not entirely unheard of. In fact, the same kind of tear duct oddity is responsible for an even stranger Guinness World Record: the furthest distance for "squirting milk from the eye." Yes, this is an actual competitive category, and the reigning champion is Mike Moraal from Vancouver, Canada, who propelled a stream of milk an eye-watering 8.745 feet in 2001. Alfred Langevin, Ripley’s Star Performer Langevin’s abilities did not go unnoticed. He was featured in Ripley’s Believe It or Not!  cartoon series, an institution dedicated to chronicling the weird and wonderful. He wasn’t just a footnote either—his talent earned him a place in Ripley’s famous Odditorium , the travelling museum of the strange, from 1933 to 1940. His likeness even made it onto a 1933 Odditorium  postcard, which is probably one of the few pieces of mail in history that required a double-take. Imagine, for a moment, being a guest at a 1930s dinner party where Langevin decided to demonstrate his skills. One moment, he’s lighting up his pipe, the next—smoke is emerging from his eye. You would either drop your drink in amazement or reconsider your life choices altogether.

Ernest Hemingway survived through anthrax, malaria, pneumonia, dysentery, skin cancer, hepatitis, anemia, diabetes, high blood pressure, two plane crashes, a ruptured kidney, a ruptured spleen, a ruptured liver, a crushed vertebra, a fractured skull, and more. But on July 2, 1961, the Nobel Prize-winning author, adventurer, war correspondent, bullfighter, drinker and all-round macho man, died on this day. His fourth wife, Mary, said that he killed himself accidentally while cleaning his double-barrelled 12-gauge shotgun. Was it an unintentional event? The death of the 61-year-old public figure has been a subject of controversy ever since the tragic shooting at his residence in Idaho. Over the years, writers, researchers, and even psychiatrists have delved into this enigma. In 2006, American psychiatrist Christopher D. Martin remarked, "The various factors contributing to Hemingway’s deteriorating health towards the end of his life are overwhelming." He identified bipolar mood disorder, depression, chronic alcoholism, repetitive traumatic brain injuries, and the onset of psychosis as key elements. Some analysts have suggested that Hemingway's issues, including depression, may have originated in 1928 when his father, Clarence, took his own life by gunshot. The Hemingway family history reveals a tragic pattern, with his grandfather, brother, sister, and granddaughter all having died by suicide. Furthermore, the Hemingway lineage is also marked by the hereditary condition of hemochromatosis. In 2010, Swiss scientist Sebastian Dieguez argued that Hemingway's documented behaviours and symptoms were misinterpreted, proposing that his death was not accidental but a suicide triggered by the untreated disease-induced suffering. Hemochromatosis is a rare iron-overloading disorder that causes internal damage of joints and organs, diabetes, cirrhosis of the liver, heart disease, and depression. It is also known as the Celtic Curse, and when it goes untreated can cause severe pain, suffering, and death. It is worse when mixed with the kind of excessive drinking in which Hemingway frequently indulged. Around 1960, Hemingway experienced a significant setback in his physical condition when he discovered that he was no longer able to write. Instead of words flowing, he encountered a worsening depression, as noted by English writer and researcher John Walsh. During the spring of 1961, Hemingway was requested to provide a single sentence for a commemorative book celebrating John F. Kennedy's inauguration. Regrettably, he was unable to fulfill the request and informed his close friend and biographer, A.E. Hotchner.: "It just won't come anymore," and wept. Walsh continued: “Building and sustaining the image of ‘Hemingway the Man's Man’ took courage and determination, but it was something he needed to do – and when it dwindled, along with the all-important capacity to write, he had no answer except to go the same way as his father.” He felt anxious about his finances, worried that he might never be able to go back to Cuba to retrieve the manuscripts he had stored in a bank vault, and longed for his home, his books, and his life there. He started to become paranoid, convinced that the FBI was monitoring his movements in Ketchum. Mary was unable to look after her husband, and it was unacceptable for a man of Hemingway's era to acknowledge that he was suffering from mental illness. By the end of November, Saviers arranged for him to be taken to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota under the guise of receiving treatment for hypertension. To maintain his privacy, he was admitted under Saviers's name. Meyers notes that Hemingway's treatment at the Mayo Clinic was shrouded in secrecy but confirms that he underwent electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) up to 15 times in December 1960 and was discharged in a deteriorated state in January 1961. Reynolds obtained Hemingway's medical records from the Mayo Clinic, which indicate 10 ECT sessions. The physicians in Rochester informed Hemingway that his depressive condition, which was being addressed, might have been triggered by his prolonged use of Reserpine and Ritalin. Regarding the ECT treatment, Hemingway informed Hotchner,"What is the sense of ruining my head and erasing my memory, which is my capital, and putting me out of business? It was a brilliant cure, but we lost the patient." In January 1961, he was sent back home, described by Meyers as being "in ruins". When asked to write a tribute to President Kennedy in February, he struggled to produce more than a few sentences after a week of effort. A few months later, on April 21, Mary discovered him in the kitchen with a shotgun. She contacted Saviers, who then had Hemingway admitted to the Sun Valley Hospital under sedation. Once the weather improved, Saviers flew back to Rochester with his patient. During that visit, Hemingway underwent three electroshock treatments. He was released at the end of June and was home in Ketchum on June 30. Two days later he "quite deliberately" shot himself with his favourite shotgun in the early morning hours of July 2, 1961.Meyers writes that he unlocked the basement storeroom where his guns were kept, went upstairs to the front entrance foyer, "pushed two shells into the twelve-gauge Boss shotgun... put the end of the barrel into his mouth, pulled the trigger and blew out his brains." Upon the authorities' arrival, Mary was sedated and taken to the hospital. The following day, upon returning home, she cleaned the house and managed the funeral and travel arrangements. According to Bernice Kert, she didn't believe she was lying when she informed the press that his death was accidental. Five years later, in an interview, Mary confirmed that he had actually shot himself. Family and friends travelled to Ketchum for the funeral, which was conducted by the local Catholic priest who believed the death was accidental. An altar boy fainted near the casket during the funeral, prompting Hemingway's brother Leicester to remark, "It appeared to me that Ernest would have approved of everything." In his final years, Hemingway exhibited behaviour reminiscent of his father before his suicide. There is a possibility that his father had hereditary hemochromatosis, a condition characterized by the excessive build up of iron in the body leading to mental and physical decline. Medical records from 1991 revealed that Hemingway was diagnosed with hemochromatosis in early 1961. Tragically, both his sister Ursula and his brother Leicester also took their own lives. Additionally, Hemingway's health was further compromised by his persistent heavy drinking. Ernest Hemingway's death was a profound loss, but his literary legacy endures. His works continue to be celebrated for their stylistic innovation and emotional depth. The final days of his life, while tragic, highlight the complex interplay between genius and torment. Hemingway's struggles with mental illness and his ultimate decision to end his life bring attention to the importance of mental health, particularly among those who might seem invincible to the outside world. Sources 1. Borrero, Roberto. “Ernest Hemingway: A Literary Life.” Harvard Review. 2. Meyers, Jeffrey. “Hemingway: A Biography.” New York Times. 3. Hemingway, Mary. “How It Was.” Simon & Schuster. 4. Reynolds, Michael. “Hemingway: The Final Years.” W.W. Norton & Company. 5. “Ernest Hemingway Biography.” Biography.com. 6. “Hemingway’s FBI File.” National Archives. 7. “The Decline of Ernest Hemingway.” The Guardian. 8. Hotchner, A.E. “Papa Hemingway: A Personal Memoir.” Random House. 9. “Ernest Hemingway: A Tragic End.” PBS American Masters. 10. “Hemingway’s Final Days.” The Atlantic. 11. Kert, Bernice. “The Hemingway Women.” Norton & Company. 12. “The Hemingway Papers.” University of Chicago Library. 13. “Hemingway’s Legacy.” Literary Hub. 14. “Understanding Hemingway’s Mental Health Struggles.” Mental Health America.

In December 1961, Sam Leach secured a series of performances for his musician friends from Liverpool at the Palais Ballroom in Aldershot, Hampshire. This marked the first gig in the south of England for Paul McCartney, John Lennon, George Harrison, and Pete Best, who were known as the Beatles. The aim was to catch the attention of London record executives, but Leach overlooked the fact that Aldershot is a military town, 37 miles from London. Furthermore, the advertisement Leach arranged to appear in the local newspapers never materialised because he paid with a cheque instead of cash and failed to provide contact details. The event was promoted as a battle of the bands between Liverpool’s Beatles and London’s Ivor Jay and the Jaywalkers. However, their opponents never turned up. When the Beatles arrived after being driven nine hours from Liverpool by Leach’s friend Terry McCann, their posters were nowhere to be found, and they had to wait to be let into the venue. That night, the Beatles played their usual covers of Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis to about 18 very bored people. "We got in, unloaded the stuff, and the boys set up their amps and waited for the crowds to come flocking – and waited, and waited, and waited." TERRY MCCANN [Sam Leach] was stopping anyone passing by to tell them about the gig. Of course, they would come in, have a quick look, and say 'boring,' and clear off somewhere else. TERRY MCCANN "Halfway through one number, George and Paul put on their overcoats and took to the floor to dance a foxtrot together, while the rest of us struggled along, making enough music for them and the handful of spectators. We clowned our way through the whole of the second half. John and Paul deliberately played wrong chords and notes and added words to the songs that were never in the original lyrics." PETE BEST You can imagine what it was like for the Beatles with about four people dancing and six miserable faces standing around the edge looking on. They did their best, but it was no use. They packed up at about 9:30 pm. Then Sam produced the beer, and the bingo balls started getting kicked around the floor: Liverpool versus Aldershot. TERRY MCCANN I often wonder what happens when those youngsters now talk about the night the Beatles came to Aldershot and hardly anyone turned up to see them. I can just hear it. ‘Oh, there we were, all 18 of us, watching the Beatles on stage… and they did an encore.' SAM LEACH

In Irish mythology, Cuchulainn was a formidable leader and the main character in the "Ulster Cycle" of poems, which can be considered the Irish counterpart to England's Arthurian legends. One poem in this cycle is "Serglige Con Culaind & Oenét Emire," translated as "The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn" or "The Wasting Sickness of Cú Chulaind." In the story, Cuchulainn is taken ill when he is attacked in a dream by two women with horsewhips (he lay asleep in his sickbed for a year as a result). The tale eventually relates how Cuchulainn is summoned to aid some "spirits" in battle, with the upshot being a resounding victory for Cuchulainn, and with the queen of the "spirit" side and Cuchulainn's wife in the "real" world vieing for his affection. Cuchulainn eventually opts for domestic bliss (of course he immediately goes berzerk and runs off to live alone in the mountains... his return is possible only after some druids give him a potion that causes him to forget the entire episode). "McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed..." John McCormack and Richard Tauber were two of the most recorded artists in mid-twentieth century classical music. McCormack was one of the leading Irish tenors of the period (if you click on the link I provided, you can hear some RealAudio samples, including versions of "Wearing of the Green" and "The Minstrel Boy"); Tauber was born in Austria but eventually fled both Austria and Germany during the rise of Nazism to escape persecution (he was Jewish), before ending up in London. In A Drink with Shane MacGowan Shane speaks at length about McCormack. "Frank Ryan bought you whisky in a brothel in Madrid..." Frank Ryan was a member of the IRA, coming from the James Connolly (i.e., socialist) wing of the Republican movement. He fought on the pro-Republican (and anti-Free State) side during the Irish Civil War, and in 1934, with George Gilmore and Peadar O'Donnell helped establish the Republican Congress as a republican, anti-capitalist organisation. The Congress succumbed to factionalism at its first convention held in September of that year and disbanded by 1935. In 1936 as the Spanish Civil War erupted, Ryan led a contingent of 200 Irish soldiers to fight on the Republican (i.e., anti-fascist) side of the conflict (for the Irish fighting on the fascist side, see the reference to the blueshirts in " Boys from the County Hell" ). He was captured and received a death sentence in Spain. It was commuted and he died in German custody in Berlin in 1944. "and you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids..." Both Italian and British fascists referred to themselves as "Blackshirts" (the official newspaper of the British Union of Fascists was called "The Blackshirt"), but given that the scene here is set in Madrid, it probably refers to the Italians since Italy (and Germany) sent forces to aid Franco. "Yids" was British slang for Jews. "and in the Euston Tavern you screamed it was your shout..." Euston is a London area containing Euston Station, the main terminus for trains coming from the northwest of England. Of course, going in the other direction, if you want to get from London to Ireland without flying or driving, your journey starts at Euston since that's where you catch the "Boat Train" to Holyhead The lyrics in full - McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed There's a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head There's devils on each side of you with bottles in their hands You need one more drop of poison and you'll dream of foreign lands When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone Frank Ryan bought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair And in the Euston Tavern you screamed it was your shout But they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair You remember that foul evening when you heard the banshees howl There was lousy drunken bastards singing "Billy In The Bowl" They took you up to midnight mass and left you in the lurch So you dropped a button in the plate and spewed up in the church Now you'll sing a song of liberty for blacks and paks and jocks And they'll take you from this dump you're in and stick you in a box Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground But you'll stick your head back out and shout "We'll have another round" At the graveside of Cuchulainn we'll kneel around and pray And God is in His heaven, and Billy's down by the bay

On 6 July 1957, a significant event occurred in the world of modern music: it was that date when John Lennon met Paul McCartney. It was on that day, the Quarrymen skiffle band performed at the garden fete of St Peter's Church in Woolton, Liverpool. The show unfolded on a stage located in a field behind the church, with Lennon on vocals and guitar, Eric Griffiths on guitar, Colin Hanton on drums, Rod Davies on banjo, Pete Shotton on washboard, and Len Garry on tea chest bass. The group made their entrance via a lorry. In addition to music, there were craft and cake stalls, hoop-la games, police dog demonstrations, and the customary crowning of the Rose Queen. The fete was a much-anticipated event for the locals of the tranquil Liverpool village "The entertainment began at two p.m. with the opening procession, which entailed one or two wonderfully festooned lorries crawling at a snail's pace through the village on their ceremonious way to the Church field. The first lorry carried the Rose Queen, seated on her throne, surrounded by her retinue, all dressed in pink and white satin, sporting long ribbons and hand-made roses in their hair. These girls had been chosen from the Sunday school groups, on the basis of age and good behaviour. The following lorry carried various entertainers, including the Quarry Men. The boys were up there on the back of the moving lorry trying to stay upright and play their instruments at the same time. John gave up battling with balance and sat with his legs hanging over the edge, playing his guitar and singing. He continued all through the slow, slow journey as the lorry puttered its way along. Jackie and I leaped alongside the lorry, with our mother laughing and waving at John, making him laugh. He seemed to be the only one who was really trying to play and we were really trying to put him off!" - Julia Baird, Imagine This That evening the group were due to play again, minus Colin Hanton, this time at the Grand Dance in the church hall on the other side of the road. They were due on stage at 8pm, and admission to the show, in which the Quarrymen alternated on stage with the George Edwards Band, was two shillings. While setting up their equipment to play, the Quarrymen's sometime tea-chest bass player, Ivan Vaughan, introduced the band to one of his classmates from Liverpool Institute, the 15-year-old Paul McCartney. This historic occasion was the first time McCartney met John Lennon, one year his senior. McCartney wore a white jacket with silver flecks, and a pair of black drainpipe trousers. The pair chatted for a few minutes, and McCartney showed Lennon how to tune a guitar – the instruments owned by Lennon and Griffiths were in G banjo tuning. McCartney then sang Eddie Cochran's Twenty Flight Rock and Gene Vincent's Be-Bop-A-Lula, along with a medley of songs by Little Richard. "I remember coming into the fete and seeing all the sideshows. And also hearing all this great music wafting in from this little Tannoy system. It was John and the band. I remember I was amazed and thought, 'Oh great', because I was obviously into the music. I remember John singing a song called Come Go With Me. He'd heard it on the radio. He didn't really know the verses, but he knew the chorus. The rest he just made up himself. I just thought, 'Well, he looks good, he's singing well and he seems like a great lead singer to me.' Of course, he had his glasses off, so he really looked suave. I remember John was good. He was really the only outstanding member, all the rest kind of slipped away." - Paul McCartney, 1995 Lennon was equally impressed with McCartney, who showed natural talent for singing songs that the Quarrymen worked hard to accomplish. McCartney also recalled performing on the church hall piano. "I also knocked around on the backstage piano and that would have been A Whole Lot Of Shakin' by Jerry Lee. That's when I remember John leaning over, contributing a deft right hand in the upper octaves and surprising me with his beery breath. It's not that I was shocked, it's just that I remember this particular detail." - Paul McCartney 1995 The particular detail was later recalled by McCartney in his introduction to Lennon's first book, In His Own Write: "At Woolton village fete I met him. I was a fat schoolboy and, as he leaned an arm on my shoulder, I realised he was drunk. We were twelve then, but, in spite of his sideboards, we went on to become teenage pals." The Quarrymen's set, remarkably, was recorded by an audience member, Bob Molyneux, on his portable Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder. In 1994 Molyneux, then a retired policeman, rediscovered the tape, which contained scratchy recordings of the band performing Lonnie Donegan's Puttin' On The Style and Elvis Presley's Baby, Let's Play House. The tape was sold on 15 September 1994 at Sotheby's for £78,500. At the time it was the most expensive recording ever sold at auction. The winning bidder was EMI Records, who considered if for release as part of the Anthology project, but chose not to as the sound quality was substandard. After the Quarrymen's show the group, along with Ivan Vaughan and McCartney, went to a Woolton pub where they lied about their ages to get served. Later on, Lennon and Pete Shotton discussed the young McCartney, and whether to invite him to join their group. For Lennon it was a dilemma – should he admit a talented member who may pose a challenge to his own superiority within the group, or should he persist without McCartney, retaining his leadership yet likely consigning the group to failure? They decided McCartney would be an asset, and roughly two weeks later Shotton encountered McCartney cycling through Woolton. Paul mulled over the invitation to join, and eventually agreed to join the Quarrymen's ranks.