Utterly interesting

Paul McCartney’s song "Blackbird" on the Beatles' White Album is often compared to Lennon's "Julia" for its tender qualities, possibly making it one of the most delicate songs in the band's entire repertoire. Inspired by a Bach piece that McCartney and George Harrison had learned in their youth, the finger-picked acoustic guitar in "Blackbird" gives it a folk lullaby feel. However, the song's complex time signatures and delicate melody made it challenging to record, with Abbey Road sessions requiring 32 takes, mostly being false starts, and only 11 complete recordings. The version included on the album is the final take, completed while Lennon was working on "Revolution 9" in the adjacent studio. The footage above shows 1:33 of that session, filmed on 16mm by a film crew from Apple Records under the direction of Tony Bramwell. This segment is part of a 10-minute promotional video that also features scenes of McCartney recording “Helter Skelter” and various other locations such as the Apple Boutique, Apple Tailoring, McCartney’s garden, and more, as noted by the Beatles Bible. It captures a fleeting glimpse of peaceful moments amidst the demanding 5-month White Album sessions, which despite their well-known tension and conflicts, also had their share of such serene instances. The recording of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," which lasted for three days and led to engineer Geoff Emerick quitting, stands in stark contrast. It suggests that the Beatles excelled when working individually in 1968. The accompanying video also reveals a technical aspect of the recording process: the ticking sound in the studio track is not from a metronome but from Paul's feet tapping on the wooden studio floor to keep time for the intricate song, which alternates between 3/4, 4/4, and 2/4 time signatures. “Part of its structure is a particular harmonic thing between the melody and the bass line which intrigued me,” he remembered, and we see him striving to get it right. In October 1968, the initial public rendition of “Blackbird” was unexpectedly witnessed by the girls who frequented The Beatles' residences, studios, and workplaces, as famously depicted in George Harrison’s track “Apple Scruffs.” One of the fans, Margo Stevens, remembered the moment when Paul McCartney and his new partner, Linda, were seen passing through the grand gates outside his residence in the picturesque area of St Johns Wood, merely a short stroll away from Abbey Road. “The light went on in the Mad Room, at the top of the house, where he kept all his music stuff and his toys. Paul opened the window and called out to us, ‘Are you still down there?’ ‘Yes,’ we said. He must have been really happy that night. He sat on the windowsill with his acoustic guitar and sang ‘Blackbird’ to us, standing down there in the dark.” The Civil Rights origins of the song The song was created based on a guitar technique influenced by Bach, a style that both Paul and George had enjoyed demonstrating since they were teenagers. It was written while they were at Paul's farm in Scotland. “I was in Scotland playing my guitar and I remembered this whole idea of ‘you were only waiting for this moment to arise’ was about, you know, the black people’s struggle in the southern states, and I was using the symbolism of a blackbird. It’s not really about a blackbird whose wings are broken, you know. It’s a bit more symbolic!” The assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr in Memphis in April 1968 marked a turning point in the civil rights movement.. “Blackbird,” like John Lennon’s “Revolution” and George’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” was penned as a reaction to the apparent disorder of what would later be known as a year marked by protests, fatalities, and hopelessness. “Those were the days of the civil rights movement, which all of us cared passionately about,” Paul said, “so this was really a song from me to a black woman, experiencing these problems in the States: ‘Let me encourage you to keep trying, to keep your faith, there is hope.’ As is often the case with my things, a veiling took place so, rather than say, ‘Black woman living in Little Rock,’ and be very specific, she became a bird, became symbolic, so you could apply it to your particular problem.” The stripped-back production A major contrast between Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and “The White Album” lies in the more subdued approach taken with the orchestral arrangements on the latter. Paul’s “Blackbird” serves as a prime example of this difference. Just two days prior to the release of “The White Album,” Paul conversed with Radio Luxembourg’s Tony Macarthur at his residence on Cavendish Avenue. In response to Macarthur expressing anticipation for another leap from Sgt. Pepper, Paul remarked: “Well it is another step, you know, but it’s not necessarily in the way people expected. On Sgt. Pepper we had more instrumentation than we’d ever had. More orchestral stuff than we’d ever used before, so it was more of a production. But we didn’t really want to go overboard like that this time, and we’ve tried to play more like a band this time, only using instruments when we had to, instead of just using them for the fun of it.” When discussing "Blackbird," which was recorded on June 11, he went into detail: “Maybe on Pepper we would have sort of worked on it until we could find some way to put violins or trumpets in there. But I don’t think it needs it, this one… It is just one of those ‘pick it and sing it’ and that’s it. The only point where we were thinking of putting anything on it is where it comes back in the end… sort of stops and comes back in… but instead of putting any backing on it, we put a blackbird on it. So there’s a blackbird singing at the very end. And somebody said it was a thrush, but I think it’s a blackbird!” Following the era of the Beatles, McCartney incorporated “Blackbird” into his performances, including it in almost every concert since 1975. The enduring appeal of the song to him over the years was not solely due to its beauty, but also its connection to the Civil Rights movement, a cause that he expressed deep passion for, stating that “all of us cared passionately about.”. “Blackbird” is “symbolic, so you could apply it to your particular problem,” but the song’s intended message, he said, was “from me to a black woman, experiencing these problems in the States: ‘Let me encourage you to keep trying, to keep your faith, there is hope.’” Below you can watch McCartney talk about the story behind “Blackbird” in a 2005 production called Chaos & Creation at Abbey Road.

Imagine two men in heavy canvas coats and metal face masks, standing ten paces apart, pistols in hand. Instead of the hush and horror of an 18th century duel they were met with the clack of elaborate triggers and the soft pop of wax slugs. For a fleeting moment around 1908 the old ritual of honour was reinvented as spectacle and sport, duelling with wax bullets. This curious chapter in the history of shooting lives at the crossroads of aristocratic ritual, turn of the century spectacle and budding modern pastimes. It looked dramatic, it promised risk, and it was deliberately theatrical: the stakes were pride not life. But it was not harmless, and its rise and fall tell us something about changing attitudes to violence, modern sport and safety. Note the handguard on the pistol’s grip to shroud the shooter’s exposed hand . What was wax bullet duelling At the start of the 20th century a handful of shooting clubs in France Britain and the United States promoted a new, non lethal version of pistol duelling. Competitors used specially adapted duelling pistols which fired wax bullets rather than lead. To reduce velocity gunpowder was drastically reduced or omitted and only the primer or a very small charge propelled the soft projectiles. Shooters wore heavy protective clothing and a metal helmet often fitted with a glass plate for eye protection. Pistols sometimes had guards to shield the fingers. The visual was both familiar and strange. It echoed the choreography of honour duels, the measured pace the steps the formalities, while turning what had once been a deadly ritual into a kind of staged combat sport. Matches could be treated as skill contests or as jokey public entertainments where a man might be “theoretically pronounced dead” for comic effect after being struck. But the bullets though soft were not entirely benign. At close range or without proper covering they could break skin or inflict painful wounds and ricochets posed a real danger to bystanders. The Olympic confusion You will read variations of the same claim that pistol duelling was an Olympic sport in 1908. The truth is more nuanced. Pistol duelling as a competitive activity featured at the 1906 Intercalated Games and a version of it was demonstrated in London around the time of the 1908 Games as part of the wider atmosphere of exhibitions and sporting novelties. There were no official demonstration sports in the modern sense until later. So while wax bullet duelling rubbed shoulders with Olympic era events and received international attention it was not a medal event in the 1908 programme in the way many later sports were. Who tried it and what they said The craze originated in France where a Parisian School of Dueling and a number of enthusiasts championed the practice. The pistols and wax projectiles were developed and refined by figures including doctors and shooting aficionados who wanted a safer training method for duellists or an exciting new sport. Not everyone was enchanted. Walter Winans, a noted marksman and big game hunter of the period, who was associated with shooting circles in Britain, warned that the pastime was not without peril. He cautioned that wax slug shooting was risky for spectators and competitors alike remarking that “spectators might lose their eyes by a stray or ricochet bullet.” Whether offered as a challenge to chivalry or as a warning about inadequate safety the sentiment stuck. Journalists who tried the sport reported painful injuries including the loss of skin between thumb and forefinger when a shot landed on an exposed hand. Why it mattered then A few things made wax bullet duelling feel plausible around 1900. The culture of honour still lingered among certain classes. Technological tinkering with firearms and ammunition was common. Public appetite for novelty entertainments was high and exhibitions offered stages to demonstrate foreign sporting curiosities. The idea of simulating a ritual duel without killing the participants was simultaneously nostalgic and modern. In practice the novelty struggled with safety and uptake. The First World War changed attitudes to firearms and combat. Firearms technology and the brutal reality of modern war made mock duels seem oddly naïve. The sport faded and for most of the 20th century wax bullet duelling was a brief oddity to be recalled in magazine pieces and museum displays. The sports modern descendants If the wax bullet duels of 1908 feel familiar it is with good reason. Paintball and airsoft share a family resemblance. Those sports use soft projectiles require protective kit and have become global industries. But unlike paintball the early duels demanded the stylised etiquette of formal pistols and stage like procedure. Paintball emphasises mass action and fun; wax duelling emphasised duel protocol and one on one skill. A duelist protected against wax bullets, Lebouttellier, winner of the International Revolver Championship Wax bullets did not vanish. They survived as practical tools for training trick shooters fast draw competitors and even magicians. Fast draw competitions use wax bullets or balloon popping blanks to allow speed shooting without lethal risk. Magicians have long used wax slugs for bullet catch illusions. Wax projectiles also remain an affordable quiet training round for some shooting clubs. Safety and the lesson learned The story of bloodless duelling is not simply quaint. It is a reminder that technologies invented to reduce harm may introduce new hazards if adopted without proper thought. Heavy gear and helmets mitigated some risks but the soft projectiles could still hurt and the risk of stray shots made spectator safety problematic. The wax experiments also show how sport can serve cultural ends. By reimagining a lethal ritual as a sport the participants sought to domesticate violence, to turn honour into spectacle. That transformation was partial and temporary. The courts social norms and evolving laws made formal duelling obsolete and modern justice systems channel disputes into lawyers offices rather than gun salutes. Where you can still see the kit Museum collections and private collectors sometimes hold Lepage or similar wax bullet duelling pistols complete with masks and wax cartridges. Online collectors sites and a number of specialist firearms blogs and videos explain how these pistols were constructed and how the wax projectiles were formed. They make for an arresting museum display because they sit at the interface of craft making sport and ritual. Sources Atlas Obscura Wax Bullet Duels Were the Paintball Fights of 1909 https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/wax-bullet-duels-were-the-paintball-fights-of-1909 Mental Floss Bullet Time When Pistol Dueling Was an Olympic Event https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/646824/when-pistol-dueling-was-olympic-event Ripley s Believe It or Not Bloodless Dueling in the Olympics With Wax Bullets https://www.ripleys.com/stories/bloodless-dueling-wax-bullets Forgotten Weapons Lepage Wax Ball Dueling Pistols https://www.forgottenweapons.com/lepage-wax-bullet-dueling-pistols/ TopendSports Pistol Dueling at the 1908 Olympic Games https://www.topendsports.com/events/demonstration/dueling-pistol.htm

The concept of concentration camps is often associated with Nazi Germany, but their origins stretch deep into British history. Over the past century, the British government has employed these camps during conflicts both at home and abroad. From the Boer War in South Africa to the internment of civilians on the Isle of Man, the establishment of Polish-run camps in Scotland during World War II, and the exploitation of forced labour, concentration camps have played a recurring role in British policy. The British had been early adopters of these exceedingly useful establishments. During the Second Boer War (1899–1902), they set up a network of camps in which conditions were so grim that over twenty-two thousand children under the age of sixteen died of starvation and disease. During World War I, the United Kingdom used concentration camps to control those they could not or would not bring before the courts: men who had committed no offense besides belonging to the wrong nationality or ethnic group. Among these were Germans and Austrians living in Britain as well as Irish citizens suspected of disloyalty to the crown. A century ago, no one hesitated to call concentration camps by their correct name. On December 4, 1914, for instance, the Manchester Guardian carried the headline “Disorder at Lancaster Concentration Camp .” The article described a bayonet charge by troops to restore order among the German civilians detained in the camp. Eighteen months later authorities opened a concentration camp in a remote part of Wales to cope with the thousands of Irish political prisoners who had been filling up British prisons. Frongoch Concentration Camp, built around a disused factory, established the pattern for the camps that began to appear all over Europe in the 1930s: a barbed wire fence circled the old buildings, and wooden huts were constructed to increase the camp’s capacity. Eventually Frongoch held over two thousand Irish republicans. On March 22, 1933, the first concentration camp in Nazi Germany opened near the Bavarian town of Dachau. Like Frongoch , it consisted of a barbed wire fence around an old factory with wooden huts to house more prisoners. Dauchau’s example inspired the autocratic ruler of another country: Poland’s aging Marshal Pilsudski was, like Hitler, having problems with citizens who opposed his rule. A little over a year after Dachau opened, his regime set up a camp for those “whose activities or conduct give rise to the belief that they threaten the public security, peace, or order.” Like Dachau, the Bereza Kartuska concentration camp followed the British model: a disused building surrounded by barbed wire. British politicians hold habeas corpus — the right not to be imprisoned without trial — in sentimental regard, claiming it as one of the United Kingdom’s core values. Their attachment to this notion reveals itself to be mere rhetoric, however, whenever habeas corpus threatens to interfere with good governance. Then, the United Kingdom ditches this right with indecent haste. The history of British concentration camps in the 1940s, when the government not only imprisoned refugees and German soldiers but also gave a foreign government the right to organize camps on the British Isles, highlights this fundamental hypocrisy. Collar the Lot In June 1940, with a German invasion expected at any moment, Prime Minister Winston Churchill decided to arrest every German and Austrian in the country and send them all to concentration camps. To those who reminded him that many of these people were Jewish refugees, he responded briefly and memorably: “Collar the lot!” Of course, no one wanted to call these new institutions “concentration camps,” so they renamed them “internment camps” to differentiate them from the Nazis’ practice. But these camps also held people indefinitely and without trial because of their nationality, ethnicity, religion and/or political beliefs. While the British camps do not begin to compare to those in Nazi Germany, they were indisputably concentration camps. Whatever their name, the government built them to keep those the state could not permit to remain at large behind barbed wire. These new camps resembled Frongoch, Dachau, and Bereza Kartuska: the military commandeered rows of houses and built barbed wire fences around them. In addition to German nationals — the vast majority of whom were Jews who had fled their homes to avoid a similar fate — the government arrested and held a thousand British citizens. These prisoners included a retired admiral, a member of parliament, and the former general secretary of the Women’s Social and Political Union, otherwise known as the suffragettes. That same year, the British government allowed another country to build a running network of concentration camps in Scotland. After the fall of France in 1940, over twenty thousand Polish soldiers were evacuated from the beaches of Dunkirk to Britain. The United Kingdom and Poland agreed that they would be dispatched to Scotland, charged with protecting the east coast from the German forces who had just invaded Norway. In return, the Polish government in exile, led by General Wladyslaw Sikorski, was allowed to conduct their affairs as they saw fit. The British government treated these bases in Scotland as sovereign Polish territory. General Sikorski feared that other exiled Polish politicians were plotting against him, so he opened a camp at Rothesay, on the Isle of Bute, just thirty miles from Glasgow, for those he worried would threaten his authority. He made no secret of his intentions, explaining at a meeting of the Polish National Council in London on July 18, 1940, “There is no Polish judiciary. Those who conspire will be sent to a concentration camp.” Eventually, Sikorski set up half a dozen camps. Some held political prisoners, including Marian Zyndram-Koscialkowski, former Polish prime minister, and General Ludomil Antoni Rayski, former commander of the Polish Air Force. Others were reserved for “persons of improper moral character,” including homosexuals. A large number of detainees were Jews. The Rothesay camp was relatively easy-going, intended only to prevent discontented army officers and politicians from working against Sikorski’s interests. While at Rothesay, these dissidents could not be in London attempting to challenge the general’s authority. As the number of camps increased, the newer ones started to look more like the traditional version with barbed wire fences, watchtowers, and brutal guards prepared to shoot prisoners out of hand. Prisoners in camps such as those at Tighnabruich, Kingledoors, and Inverkeithing were certainly mistreated and occasionally murdered. On October 29, 1940, for example, a Jewish prisoner named Edward Jakubowsky was shot dead at the camp near Kingledoors. Courts later ruled that the guard who killed him, Marian Przybyski, was using his weapon in the execution of his duties. The British police did not investigate these deaths because the Polish army had complete and unlimited authority over their own citizens in Britain. As the war continued, some members of parliament became uneasy about the Scottish camps and began asking questions about individual cases, which invariably involved Jewish prisoners. In 1941, Samuel Silverman, the MP for Nelson and Colne, inquired about Benjamin and Jack Ajzenberg, two Jewish brothers who had been arrested by Polish soldiers in London and transported to Scotland. Silverman asked the secretary of state for war, “How many persons are now detained by the Polish authorities in this country under their powers under the Allied Forces Act?” He received a vague reply: the British government could not afford to alienate their ally at such an important time. Unease about the Polish camps reached a climax in 1945. On June 15, just weeks after the end of the war in Europe, the Russian newspaper Pravda carried an article that began: The Polish Fascist concentration camp system, notorious before the Germans started Buchenwald and other camps, was preserved when the Poles fled from Poland. An account of the abduction of Dr Jan Jagodzinski, a Jewish academic, followed. He had been spirited off to Scotland and held in the Inverkeithing concentration camp, just a few miles north of Edinburgh. To alleviate fears, the Polish government allowed the press to visit the camp. It quickly regretted this decision: the first prisoner the writers spoke to was another Jew, and the journalists learned that a prisoner had been shot dead by one of the guards the previous week. After World War II ended, the newly elected Labour government put pressure on the Polish authorities to close down their camps, but they stayed open as late as 1946. By that time, the British themselves had begun employing slave labour on an industrial scale, using hundreds of camps across the country to imprison workers. Surrendered Enemy Personnel The end of the war precipitated an agricultural crisis in the United Kingdom. As part of the government’s policy to achieve food self-sufficiency, it dedicated twice as much land to growing wheat in 1945 as in 1938. During the war, the Women’s Land Army and schoolchildren donated their time to farming. After peace, it was unlikely that they would continue to engage in back-breaking labour for free. Without an unpaid workforce, the country could not maintain its agricultural output. In 1945, Britain held hundreds of thousands of German prisoners at home as well as in Canada, the United States, and North Africa. In order to use them as slave labour, however, the government would have to strip them of the protections afforded by the Geneva Conventions, which Britain had signed. So the United Kingdom changed their prisoners’ status from prisoners of war to surrendered enemy personnel. Prisoners of war must be housed and fed at least as well as their captor’s own armed forces. With many thousands of prisoners working the land, this was not possible. During the harsh winter of 1945, the men transported to Britain only had tents for shelter, which would have breached international law had they been recognised as prisoners of war. In the first postwar year, the United Kingdom brought a staggering number of men from all over the world to work the land. In May 1946, three thousand men a week were arriving in Britain and being sent off to army-protected camps. The Geneva Conventions also require prisoners of war to be repatriated as soon as hostilities cease, but it took the United Kingdom until 1948 to allow the last of the enslaved Germans to return to their own country. Between 1945 and 1948, the Nuremberg trials prosecuted Nazi officers for crimes against humanity, including, of course, “compulsory, uncompensated labour.” In 1947, the SS officers who had administered the Third Reich’s slave system were tried, and a number of the defendants were subsequently hanged for their wartime activities. Judge Robert Toms said, “There is no such thing as benevolent slavery. Involuntary servitude, even tempered by humane treatment, is still slavery.” At the time of this judgment, over three hundred thousand enslaved workers were bringing in the British harvest. Double standards This brief article does not delve deeper into the British concentration camps from 1940 to 1948, which would involve a more extensive examination of the United Kingdom's choice to maintain certain German camps operational. For instance, the Belsen concentration camp, later renamed Hohne, detained Jewish individuals who sought to relocate to Palestine against the preferences of the British authorities. Even following the war's conclusion, the British constructed two additional camps near the German town of Lubeck. By 1947, Am Stau and Poppendorf were filled with Jewish individuals whom the British were reluctant to see departing Europe. The use of concentration camps in Britain during both world wars and beyond reveals a pattern of governance where human rights are readily sacrificed in the name of national security. Whether in South Africa during the Boer War, on the Isle of Man, in Wales, or under Polish administration in Scotland, Britain has been an enthusiastic operator of these institutions while being among the first to condemn others for similar practices. Indeed, the United Kingdom’s legacy of concentration camps reflects a broader hypocrisy: a nation willing to sacrifice the rights and dignity of individuals in the pursuit of pragmatic governance, all the while publicly professing commitment to liberty and justice.

The QI trio of John Lloyd, James Harkin and Anne Miller have compiled a book called “2,024 QI Facts To Stop You In Your Tracks”. Behold the fascinating anecdote elucidating David Attenborough’s influence on tennis: "The introduction of yellow tennis balls, aesthetically superior for color television, can be credited to David Attenborough during his tenure as Controller of BBC2. (Previously, they were white.)" Veteran tennis aficionados may fondly recall the era of white tennis balls, while younger enthusiasts might be unfamiliar with this historical facet, as the sport transitioned to yellow balls at a certain juncture. When lawn tennis was introduced in the late 1800s, either white or black tennis balls were used and they continued to use it until the 1970s. Here is where the great Sir David Attenborough comes into the picture. In a piece for Radio Times , he revealed: “I was controller of BBC2 in 1967 and had the job of introducing colour. We had been asking the government over and over again and they wouldn’t allow us, until suddenly they said, ‘Yes, OK, you can have it, and what’s more you’re going to have it in nine months’ time,’ or whatever it was.” It didn’t too long to set the wheels in motion as the BBC broadcast Wimbledon in colour for the first time during the summer of 1967. Here is a video of a “colourful” Wimbledon in 1967. However, the sport continued to use white tennis balls, but the introduction of colour television meant it was harder for viewers to pick up the flight of the white ball or when it clipped the white lines. It forced the International Tennis Federation to look at alternative colours and they approved fluorescent yellow known as “optic yellow” in 1972, but it took Wimbledon another 14 years before they finally saw the light. “The ITF introduced yellow tennis balls into the rules of tennis, as research had shown these balls to be more visible to television viewers. Meanwhile, Wimbledon continued to use the traditional white ball, but eventually adopted yellow balls in 1986.” And that’s how tennis changed from white balls to yellow, although some believe the colour is green, but let’s not get started on all that.

For over half a century, photographer Ron Galella got up close – often far too personal – with some of the world’s biggest celebrities. His unrelenting style and invasive camera lens helped to shape the modern idea of celebrity, capturing unguarded moments on the streets and in the nightclubs of New York and Los Angeles. Whether invited or not, Galella's snapshots became iconic, yet his methods made him one of the most controversial figures in photography. From being punched by Marlon Brando to having a restraining order filed against him by Jackie Onassis, Galella lived by his own motto: “Shoot first, ask questions later.” Galella’s story is filled with drama and celebrity clashes, but none was more famous than his infamous run-in with the legendary Marlon Brando. In 1973, Galella was following the actor to a restaurant in New York’s Chinatown when Brando snapped. Without warning, the actor threw a punch so powerful that it knocked out five of Galella’s teeth in one blow. Not one to let the incident slide, Galella sued Brando, eventually settling for $40,000 (£26,262). Reflecting on the incident in a 2010 documentary, Galella remarked, “I don't want anyone to think they can go around punching me if I am taking their picture. Get that story out, not the money.” Galella’s response to the punch was memorable: the next time he attempted to photograph Brando, he donned a football helmet emblazoned with his name ‘Ron’ – a tongue-in-cheek way of ensuring his safety while continuing his relentless pursuit of the perfect shot. Marlon Brando wasn't the only celebrity to react violently towards Galella. Brigitte Bardot had him hosed down by her boyfriend; Richard Burton sent people to steal his film; and Sean Penn once started a brawl with Galella’s nephew while dating Madonna. Galella recalls, “He started spitting and fighting with my nephew. But it was just a boxing match. Nobody got hurt. Madonna was yelling ‘Oh, stop, stop!’ at the door.” Even at Studio 54, the famed nightclub where the rich and famous partied, Galella wasn’t always welcome. Co-founder Steve Rubell threw him out twice. But the setbacks never stopped Galella from capturing his vision of celebrity life. Despite these confrontations, Galella had his fair share of positive encounters. Ali MacGraw, a 1970s Hollywood starlet, had written him a note thanking him for the “marvellous photographs” he took of her in 1971. However, their friendly rapport came to an abrupt end in 1973 when Galella flew to Jamaica, where MacGraw was having an affair with Steve McQueen during the filming of Papillon . Galella, in true fashion, left a note at the studio gates requesting to take a photograph of the couple. To his surprise, it wasn’t MacGraw who responded, but McQueen himself, brimming with aggression. “Steve, not Ali, came to the gate and declared there would be no interviews and no visitors. Being streetwise, he threatened to send his posse of friends after me if I did not leave … I did not want to go home without any photos, so I asked for a fifteen-minute photo-op of him alone and then I would leave. He agreed only after I signed an agreement, and stated, ‘I’ll give you 15 minutes of me provided you leave on the next plane out of Jamaica.’” Galella, as always, got his shot, though McQueen’s threats lingered in the air. Galella’s reputation for intrusiveness wasn’t limited to scuffles with celebrities. One of his most notorious subjects was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, former First Lady of the United States. After years of relentless pursuit, which included him tailing her across the streets of New York, she filed a restraining order against him in 1972. Galella was required to stay 25 feet away from Jackie and 30 feet from her children. Yet even after the order, he continued to find ways to photograph her, often risking legal action for that one perfect candid shot. What set Ron Galella apart from other photographers of his time was his European-inspired approach to celebrity photography. He modelled himself after pioneers like Tazio Secchiaroli and Marcello Geppetti, the very men who inspired Federico Fellini’s creation of Paparazzo in La Dolce Vita . Like them, Galella had little regard for boundaries, capturing stars in their most unguarded moments – no Hollywood glamour, just raw and unfiltered reality. This style came at a cost: physical altercations, legal battles, and being banned from certain circles. But Galella’s influence on celebrity culture cannot be overstated. His photos gave the public an intimate, albeit intrusive, view of their favourite stars, and helped shape the way we understand modern fame today. Perhaps one of the nicest stories from Galella’s storied career occurred during an ordinary lunch in New York. “After grabbing a plate of food from the buffet at Sardi’s, I sat at a table with an unknown man sitting across from me. He said, ‘Someday you will be taking my picture.’ I did take two shots of this confident, handsome young man. Later, after Mean Streets  and The Godfather Part II  were released, I found out the unknown man was now-legendary actor Robert De Niro.”

Dirk Bogarde, whose real name was Derek Jules Gaspard Ulric Niven van den Bogaerde, was serving as a captain in the British Army at the time of Bergen-Belsen’s liberation. While his primary duties were not directly related to the camp’s liberation, Bogarde arrived at Bergen-Belsen shortly after its discovery. His experience there left an indelible mark on his psyche, and he would later describe the horrors he witnessed in rare and carefully chosen words. Though Bogarde was not among the first to enter the camp, his accounts are harrowing. He recalled the overwhelming stench of death and the sight of the emaciated, skeletal figures that remained. In later years, he was hesitant to speak in detail about his experience, only occasionally alluding to the overwhelming scale of human suffering. His time at Bergen-Belsen was something he struggled to process throughout his life, describing it as an experience that “redefined humanity.” As Bogarde wrote in The Daily Telegraph in 1988, someone in the unit to which he was attached as an intelligence officer – he spent much of his time analysing and interpreting reconnaissance photographs – said the Germans had abandoned a large concentration camp "and we ought to 'swan off ' and have a look." He hoped to find a pair of service-issue boots, which were better made in Germany, and had little suspicion of what lay ahead. "I had known for some time that the camps existed – we saw them on our aerial photographs often enough – but it didn’t really occur to me that through the greening larches and under a clear, hard, blue sky, the last traces of the snow melting in the woods, I would be entering a hell which I should never forget and about which, for many years, I would be unable to speak." One particularly haunting image he recounted was of prisoners still clinging to life, lying amongst the dead, too weak to move. He remembered handing cigarettes to survivors, only to watch them fall into unconsciousness, unable to smoke them. The sheer helplessness of the situation – the inability to offer comfort to those beyond hope – affected Bogarde deeply. The Immediate Aftermath of Liberation The British Army’s priority upon liberating Bergen-Belsen was to contain the rampant spread of disease and provide relief to the survivors. They restored the camp’s water supply and brought in food, though the prisoners’ starved bodies often could not handle the intake, leading to further deaths. Medical personnel, both military and civilian, arrived to provide treatment, but many prisoners were too far gone to be saved. Tragically, an estimated 14,000 people died shortly after liberation due to the extreme conditions they had endured. Dirk Bogarde’s Wider Experiences During the War Born in 1921, Dirk Bogarde came from a well-educated family and, like many young men of his generation, was swept into the war. He enlisted in 1939, joining the Queen’s Royal Regiment before transferring to the Intelligence Corps. His work as an intelligence officer placed him in several critical operations, particularly in the final stages of the war. During the Allied advance across Europe, Bogarde’s unit was responsible for scouting ahead, locating enemy positions, and reporting back to the advancing forces. This role brought him into close contact with the aftermath of many battles and skirmishes, providing him with a front-row seat to the war’s brutal realities. As an intelligence officer, Bogarde was also involved in sensitive operations. His duties included interrogating captured German soldiers and gathering information that could be useful for the advancing British forces. Bogarde spoke fluent French, which made him an asset in communications and translation in the European theatre of war. He had a sharp mind and strong analytical skills, qualities that made him a trusted officer. While Bogarde’s experiences at Bergen-Belsen stand out for their emotional and psychological toll, his wider wartime service also shaped him in profound ways. He was stationed in various parts of Europe and witnessed both the strategic and human aspects of the conflict. He had several narrow escapes, including a near-death experience in Italy, which added to his growing awareness of the fragility of life. He would later describe the war as a time when he was forced to confront the darkest aspects of human nature. Bogarde told interviewer Russell Harty it was like looking into Dante’s Inferno and spoke of the "mountains of dead people", recalling: "I can't really describe it very well, I don't really want to. I went through some of the huts and there were tiers and tiers of rotting people, but some of them were alive underneath the rot and were lifting their heads and trying… trying to do the victory thing. That was the worst." He admitted in the same televised interview that what he saw there had changed him forever: "After the war I always knew that nothing, nothing, could ever be as bad… nothing could frighten me anymore. I mean, no man could frighten me anymore, no director... Nothing could be as bad as the war or the things I saw in the war." He later wrote in one of his autobiographies: "At 24, the age I was then, deep shock stays registered forever. An internal tattooing which is removable only by surgery, it cannot be conveniently sponged away by time." There has been debate surrounding his wartime experiences, as some of the accounts in four of his volumes of autobiography and in private correspondence appear contradictory. Critic John Carey claimed in The Times analysis of Bogarde’s “wildly camp, funny and despondent, tactful and defamatory, petulant and generous” letters that "It is virtually impossible that he (Bogarde) saw Belsen or any other camp. Things he overheard or read seem to have entered his imagination and been mistaken for lived experience." In his best-selling authorised biography of Bogarde, published after his death, John Coldstream notes that Bogarde would have been extremely busy at that time with his job interpreting photographs taken by 39 Reconnaissance Wing of the Royal Canadian Air Force: “A considerable task it was, too, even at that late stage in the war: the total number of pictures processed in April 1945 by No 5 Mobile Field Photographic Section – one of two such teams operating with the Canadians – was a staggering 348,306.” Robin Dashwood, reviewing Coldstream’s book in the Times Educational Supplement, suggested that “the Rank matinee idol turned European art cinema darling turned best-selling author literally invented his own life, telling different people different facts about himself and often retreating behind the shield of fiction.” Coldstream writes on the extensive website set up by Bogarde's estate, dirkbogarde.co.uk , that "some of my interviewees said that received imagery was so vivid that soldiers serving in the vicinity became convinced that they had seen events for themselves. If Bogarde was experiencing what is now termed ‘false memory syndrome’, he had ample justification." However, since the biography's publication in 2004, no one serving with Bogarde has come forward to either confirm or refute his account to Coldstream. Evidence places 39 Wing about an hour away from the camp at the time of its liberation, and there were floods of visitors in the initial days afterwards, so it’s extremely likely that he was there. In Bogarde's own words - "I think it was on the 13th of April—I'm not quite sure what the date was" (it was the 15th) "—in '44" ( the camp was liberated on the 15th April 1945, and it was the 20th April 1945 when Bogarde made his visit) "when we opened up Belsen Camp, which was the first concentration camp any of us had seen, we didn't even know what they were, we'd heard vague rumours that they were. I mean nothing could be worse than that. The gates were opened and then I realised that I was looking at Dante's Inferno , I mean ... I ... I still haven't seen anything as dreadful. And never will. And a girl came up who spoke English, because she recognised one of the badges, and she ... her breasts were like, sort of, empty purses, she had no top on, and a pair of man's pyjamas, you know, the prison pyjamas, and no hair. But I knew she was girl because of her breasts, which were empty. She was I suppose, oh I don't know, twenty four, twenty five, and we talked, and she was, you know, so excited and thrilled, and all around us there were mountains of dead people, I mean mountains of them, and they were slushy, and they were slimy, so when you walked through them ... or walked—you tried not to, but it was like .... well you just walked through them, and she ... there was a very nice British MP, and he said 'Don't have any more, come away, come away sir, if you don't mind, because they've all got typhoid and you'll get it, you shouldn't be here swanning around' and she saw in the back of the jeep, the unexpired portion of the daily ration, wrapped in a piece of the Daily Mirror , and she said could she have it, and he" [the Military Police] "said 'Don't give her food, because they eat it immediately and they die, within ten minutes', but she didn't want the food, she wanted the piece of Daily Mirror —she hadn't seen newsprint for about eight years or five years, whatever it was she had been in the camp for. ... she was Estonian. ... that's all she wanted. She gave me a big kiss, which was very moving. The corporal" [Military Police] "was out of his mind and I was just dragged off. I never saw her again, of course she died. I mean, I gather they all did. But, I can't really describe it very well, I don't really want to. I went through some of the huts and there were tiers and tiers of rotting people, but some of them who were alive underneath the rot, and were lifting their heads and trying .... trying to do the victory thing . That was the worst." "After the war, I always knew that nothing, nothing, could ever be as bad ... but nothing could frighten me any more, I mean, no man could frighten me any more, no director ... nothing could be as bad as the war, or the things I saw in the war." The horror and revulsion at the cruelty and inhumanity that he witnessed still left him with a deep-seated hostility towards Germany; in the late 1980s, he wrote that he would disembark from a lift rather than ride with a German of his generation. Nevertheless, three of his more memorable film roles were as Germans, one of them as a former SS officer in The Night Porter (1974). Bogarde was most vocal towards the end of his life on voluntary euthanasia, of which he became a staunch proponent after witnessing the protracted death of his lifelong partner and manager Anthony Forwood in 1988. He gave an interview to John Hofsess, London executive director of the Voluntary Euthanasia Society: "My views were formulated as a 24-year-old officer in Normandy ... On one occasion, the jeep ahead hit a mine ... Next thing I knew, there was this chap in the long grass beside me. A bloody bundle, shrapnel-ripped, legless, one arm only. The one arm reached out to me, white eyeballs wide, unseeing, in the bloody mask that had been a face. A gurgling voice said, "Help. Kill me." With shaking hands I reached for my small pouch to load my revolver ... I had to look for my bullets—by which time somebody else had already taken care of him. I heard the shot. I still remember that gurgling sound. A voice pleading for death .... During the war, I saw more wounded men being "taken care of" than I saw being rescued. Because sometimes you were too far from a dressing station, sometimes you couldn't get them out. And they were pumping blood or whatever; they were in such a wreck, the only thing to do was to shoot them. And they were, so don't think they weren't. That hardens you: You get used to the fact that it can happen, and that it is the only sensible thing to do." Legacy of Wartime Experience Dirk Bogarde’s time in the army, particularly his experiences at Bergen-Belsen, left a lasting legacy. While he went on to become a beloved figure in British cinema, his wartime service provided him with a unique understanding of life’s fragility and the depths of human suffering. It informed his work both on and off-screen, as he brought a sense of gravitas and introspection to his acting roles and his later writings. Though he chose not to dwell publicly on his time at Belsen, the few glimpses he gave into his memories of the camp serve as a sobering reminder of the horrors of war and the unimaginable cruelty endured by so many during the Holocaust. Dirk Bogarde, like so many of his generation, carried the burden of these memories for the rest of his life, quietly reflecting on the darkness of the past while contributing to a post-war world in his own way.

The duel between the Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Winchilsea stands out in British history as a notable example of how personal honour and political disputes were sometimes settled in the early 19th century. This duel, which took place on March 21, 1829, encapsulates the intense political and religious divisions of the time. Background: The Duke of Wellington Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, is one of Britain's most famous military figures, known for his decisive victory over Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Beyond his military achievements, Wellington was also a prominent statesman. In 1828, he became Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. As Prime Minister, Wellington faced numerous political challenges, including the contentious issue of Catholic emancipation, which sought to remove the civil disabilities affecting Roman Catholics in Britain. Background: The Earl of Winchilsea George Finch-Hatton, 10th Earl of Winchilsea, was a staunch Anglican and a vehement opponent of Catholic emancipation. Born in 1791, Winchilsea was deeply involved in conservative politics and was a prominent figure among the Ultra-Tory faction, which opposed any concessions to Catholics. His strong views often put him at odds with more moderate politicians, including Wellington. The Lead-Up to the Duel The immediate cause of the duel was Wellington's support for the Catholic Relief Act of 1829, which aimed to allow Catholics to sit in Parliament and hold other public offices. This act was seen by many conservatives, including Winchilsea, as a dangerous concession that threatened the Protestant constitution of Britain. Winchilsea publicly accused Wellington of betraying his principles and the country. In a particularly inflammatory letter, published in the press, Winchilsea accused Wellington of "an insidious design for the infringement of our liberties and the introduction of Popery into every department of the State." This accusation struck at Wellington's honour and reputation. The Duel Duels were illegal but still occurred among the upper classes, governed by a strict code of honor. Wellington, feeling his honor had been impugned, challenged Winchilsea to a duel. The duel took place on March 21, 1829, at Battersea Fields, a common site for such encounters. The physician, John Hume, attended in case of injury and subsequently sent a detailed report to the Duchess of Wellington: “Lord Falmouth … gave his pistol to Lord Winchilsea and he and the Duke remained with them in their right hands, the arm being extended down by their sides. Lord Falmouth and Sir Henry then stepped back a few paces when Lord Falmouth said: ‘Sir Henry I leave it entirely to you to arrange the manner of firing’, upon which Sir Henry said: ‘Then, gentlemen, I shall ask you if you are ready and give the word fire, without any farther signal or preparation’ which in a few seconds after he did, saying: ‘Gentlemen, are you ready, fire !’ Witnesses included Sir Henry Hardinge and Lord FitzRoy Somerset for Wellington, and Mr. John Moore and Mr. Robert Standish for Winchilsea. The duelists faced each other with pistols at a distance of twelve paces. According to the accepted code of dueling, Wellington fired first, deliberately missing. Winchilsea, acknowledging the gesture and the gravity of the situation, fired his shot into the air, thus ending the duel without bloodshed. Several quotes from the participants and witnesses provide insight into the character and emotions surrounding this event: Wellington, upon challenging Winchilsea: "I consider myself deeply injured, and I call upon your lordship to apologize or give me satisfaction in the field." Winchilsea, responding to Wellington: "My Lord Duke, I am willing to give you satisfaction and meet you as you demand." Sir Henry Hardinge, a witness: "It was a tense moment, but honour was satisfied without a fatal outcome, a testament to both men's character." Aftermath and Significance The duel concluded with both men's honour intact and no bloodshed, but it had significant political repercussions. Wellington's decision to fight a duel over the issue of Catholic emancipation underscored his personal commitment to the cause and highlighted the intense political passions of the time. The successful passage of the Catholic Relief Act shortly thereafter marked a pivotal moment in British history, easing religious tensions and paving the way for greater religious equality. For Wellington, the duel reinforced his image as a man of principle and action, willing to defend his beliefs with his life. For Winchilsea, the duel demonstrated his deep-seated convictions, even as it highlighted the limits of opposition to the sweeping changes of the era.

Taken at Wandsworth Prison in London in December 1872, these photographs depict the individuals who were apprehended shortly before Christmas. Many of them were arrested for theft of food and clothing during the chilly holiday season. The captivating images depict Thomas Mackett, aged 24, receiving a one-month hard labour sentence for stealing 9lbs of beef on Christmas Eve. Similarly, Julia Killey, aged 30, was sentenced to 21 days of labor for stealing 2lbs of bacon on the same day. Another poignant case involves Henry Marsh, an 18-year-old who was given a six-week labor sentence for stealing a coat on December 23, 1872. Lastly, the unfortunate 17-year-old James Ealing was apprehended for stealing half a pint of milk and a tin can on Christmas Eve. Other heart-breaking examples include 18-year-old Henry Marsh, sentenced to six weeks of gruelling work for stealing a coat on 23rd December 1872. 17-year-old James Ealing was arrested for thieving a half pint of milk and a tin can on Christmas Eve. Meanwhile baby-faced John Sullivan, 17, clearly just wanted to stay warm over the winter when he was convicted for stealing a coat and lumps of coal on 16th December 1872. The teenager was given one month's hard labour for his petty crime. Other poignant shots show 22-year-old Mary Baxter who was incarcerated for robbing a tablecloth during the festive period. Ellen Smith, 52, was locked up on Christmas Day after she was given ten days hard labour for stealing an umbrella on 17th December. Meanwhile baby-faced John Sullivan, 17, clearly just wanted to stay warm over the winter when he was convicted for stealing a coat and lumps of coal on 16th December 1872. The teenager was given one month's hard labour for his petty crime. Other poignant shots show 22-year-old Mary Baxter who was incarcerated for robbing a tablecloth during the festive period. Ellen Smith, 52, was locked up on Christmas Day after she was given ten days hard labour for stealing an umbrella on 17th December. The crime seems understandable given that the December of 1872 was exceptionally wet – the wettest on record for England and Wales. The Victorians were very worried about crime and, following the development of the camera, police realised they could use the new technology to their advantage and took images of repeat offenders. As the use of cameras became more common taking mugshots became the norm until it was made compulsory for everyone to be photographed after they were arrested.

John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd’s turn as “Joliet” Jake and Elwood Blues always walked a cheerful line between comedy and genuine musical devotion. Their origins were suitably odd. Back in 1976 on Saturday Night Live, the pair appeared in full bee costumes to perform Slim Harpo’s “I’m a King Bee,” a sketch that hinted at something more than just a throwaway gag. Aykroyd already nursed a deep, almost encyclopaedic love for blues and R&B, the sort of passion that inevitably spilled over to those around him. Before long, Belushi was stockpiling blues LPs like a man making up for lost time. The name itself came courtesy of SNL’s music director Howard Shore, who suggested “the Blues Brothers,” a title that stuck brilliantly. Their official debut arrived on 1978, with Belushi and Aykroyd performing on SNL backed by the show’s own musicians. Yet, when they decided to take the act on tour that summer, both men wanted a band steeped not merely in competence but in the real grammar of blues, soul and R&B. Keyboardist Paul Shaffer proved the key architect. He proposed blending a few trusted members of the SNL band with musicians who already had heavyweight reputations. It was Shaffer who came armed with the names, from Steve Cropper and Matt Murphy to Donald “Duck” Dunn. Belushi, armed with charm and sheer enthusiasm, phoned each prospective player himself, persuading them to join the project. By the summer of 1978, the Blues Brothers band was fully assembled and roaring. They not only brought the roof down while opening for Steve Martin at the Universal Amphitheatre in California, they recorded an album, Briefcase Full of Blues, which hit the shelves in November and promptly went to number one. The following year saw the filming of the now-iconic Blues Brothers movie, along with further live shows and recordings as the whole enterprise gathered cultural momentum. Belushi’s death in 1982, the result of long-standing struggles with drugs, didn’t bring an end to the band’s story. Various line-ups have continued to perform, record and reappear over the decades, most visibly in the 1998 sequel Blues Brothers 2000 (the less said about that the better). Members have come and gone, new faces have joined, and the sound has evolved, but the core musicians who played alongside Belushi remain central to the group’s early identity. In true Blues Brothers fashion, many of them also walked away with nicknames gifted by Belushi himself, small tokens from a performer whose mix of affection and mayhem helped define the band from the very beginning. Paul “The Shiv” Shaffer Paul “The Shiv” Shaffer The 'SNL' keyboardist didn’t merely suggest members for the Blues Brothers band. As the group’s musical director, he arranged the blues and soul covers to strike the right balance between the collective’s New York-based horn section and its Memphis/Chicago-based guitarists and bassist. Yet, for all his work putting the band together in 1978, Shaffer didn’t get to be in the John Landis-directed film because Belushi didn’t like that he was splitting his creative efforts between the Blues Brothers and Gilda Radner’s Broadway show. His role was filled by actor-musician Murphy Dunne in the movie. But, the Canadian musician returned to the fold for 1980’s 'Made in America' live album. After Belushi died, Shaffer became the musical director (and de facto sidekick) on both of David Letterman’s late-night talk shows, with his house band backing a who’s who of music stars from James Brown to Pete Townshend to Bruce Springsteen. For decades, Shaffer’s Letterman groups (known as the World’s Most Dangerous Band and/or the CBS Orchestra -- and containing a couple Blues Brothers alumni) also were the house band at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremonies. All the while, Shaffer has done studio work, recording with the likes of Ronnie Spector, Chicago, Paul Rodgers and Robert Plant’s Honeydrippers. Although Shaffer missed out on the first 'Blues Brothers,' he was able to appear in the 1998 sequel -- but as Marco and a member of the Louisiana Gator Boys, not a black-suited Blues Brother. However, during the film’s “Funky Nassau” sequence, he does ask Murph if he can cut in, which allows Shaffer to take his original spot in the band he helped create. Tom “Bones” Malone Tom “Bones” Malone Malone and Shaffer have been a musical team for many years, including time shared in the 'SNL' band and Letterman’s CBS Orchestra. The trombone player (hence the nickname) also played saxophone and trumpet with the Blues Brothers and was responsible for many of the band’s horn arrangements, both live and in the studio. It’s not clear if he held the same role in Murph and the MagicTones. Predating his SNL and Blues Brothers work, Malone played in big bands and worked with Blood, Sweat and Tears. In the ’70s, he teamed up with the Band for an album and tour, then played at 'The Last Waltz.' He’s been an in-demand session musician for his entire career, working with artists that range from his Blues Brothers movie castmates Aretha Franklin and B.B. King to jazz legends Miles Davis and Buddy Rich to pop singers Tina Turner and Carly Simon to rockers Meat Loaf and Lou Reed. Lou “Blue Lou” Marini Lou “Blue Lou” Marini Like Malone and Jordan, Marini was a New York-based sideman who was brought aboard the 'SNL' band in the NBC show’s early days. In addition to his saxophone playing with the Blues Brothers on 'SNL' and afterwards, Marini famously stepped out of a sarcophagus to play a solo during Steve Martin’s “King Tut.” Actually, that musical sketch was performed on the same night that Aykroyd and Belushi made their TV debut as the Blues Brothers. Before all that, Marini was a member of Blood, Sweat and Tears and played on jazz sessions, as well as Lou Reed and Frank Zappa albums that were recorded in New York. Around the same time that he was Christened “Blue Lou” by Aykroyd, Marini (along with 'SNL' bandmates Malone and Alan Rubin and future Blues Brothers players Steve Cropper and “Duck” Dunn) was part of Levon Helm’s short-lived follow-up to the Band, the RCO All-Stars. After becoming a Blues Brother -- appearing in both films and on every audio release -- the saxophonist’s high-profile work only increased, playing tenor sax on Aerosmith’s “Chiquita” and contributing to the horn section on records by Meat Loaf, B.B. King, the J. Geils Band and (his former Soul Food Cafe boss) Aretha Franklin. Since 2000, Marini has continued to reunite with his Brothers in blues while also appearing on albums by Steely Dan and James Taylor. He’s since become a jazz bandleader himself, releasing a run of solo albums, including 2004’s 'Lou’s Blues,' which included “Song for John.” Alan “Mr. Fabulous” Rubin Alan “Mr. Fabulous” Rubin According to his bandmates, Rubin got his Blues Brothers nickname from Belushi because of his brash, but humorous, sense of entitlement. The trumpet player certainly could back up the attitude, having been accepted to New York’s Juilliard School of Music when he was 17 (he quit before graduation to play lead with Robert Goulet’s band). He eventually made his way to the 'SNL' band and then joined the Blues Brothers. In any supergroup, there are bound to be disagreements and it seems that the Blues Brothers’ most significant clash was between Rubin (with his “East Coast” attitude) and Steve Cropper (and his Southern notion of manners). Alan’s cocky personality might have been too much for the Colonel sometimes, but it sparkled on screen. As the (former) maître d’ at the hoity-toity Chez Paul, Rubin is one of the better-acting band members in The Blues Brothers. In a band stocked with incredible musical resumes, Rubin’s is truly fabulous. Seemingly, he could play every genre of music, having served as a session man for classical, jazz, rock, blues, R&B and pop recordings, not to mention soundtrack work and live performances. Rubin was the trumpet player on Paul Simon’s smash “You Can Call Me Al” and backed Frank Sinatra. He trumpet work spanned the Rolling Stones, the 'Footloose' soundtrack and Duke Ellington. Rubin continued to record and perform with his fellow Blues Brothers until his death in 2011 from lung cancer. He was 68. Steve “The Colonel” Cropper Steve “The Colonel” Cropper Mr. Fabulous might claim the most varied resume in the Blues Brothers band, but none of the members is more important to the history of popular music than Steve Cropper. The man who Belushi nicknamed “The Colonel” was landing hit singles before “Joliet Jake” was a teenager. Cropper is a triple threat -- an influential guitar player, a solid songwriter and a smart producer. As a member of Booker T. and the M.G.’s, he backed just about all of the soul greats who recorded at Stax Records in the ’60s -- including Otis Redding, Carla Thomas, and Sam and Dave. He co-wrote Wilson Pickett’s “In the Midnight Hour,” Eddie Floyd’s “Knock on Wood” and Redding’s “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay.” Sam and Dave call him out by name (“Play it, Steve,” an aside Belushi would perpetuate) in “Soul Man.” Collaborating with those singers and playing in the M.G.’s, Cropper was one of the architects of the Memphis soul sound. After leaving Stax, Steve discovered that his playing and producing were revered by rockers who loved his work on those R&B classics. Because the Beatles were huge Stax fans, he ended up playing on Ringo Starr and John Lennon solo records. He produced the Jeff Beck Group and John Prine, and recorded with Rod Stewart, Levon Helm, Leon Russell and Big Star. And that was all before joining the Blues Brothers -- which must have taken more than a little convincing. But Paul Shaffer knew that a big part of Aykroyd and Belushi’s act was tied not just to the blues, but to the dynamic R&B interplay of duos such as Sam and Dave, so why not at least try to get one of the guys who backed them? It turned out that the band was able to lure more than one of the guys. Cropper came along with M.G.’s bassist “Duck” Dunn to help form the original backing group. When Steve Jordan couldn’t do the movie, it’s no wonder that Cropper and Dunn brought former Stax drummer Willie Hall (and latter-day M.G.) into the fold. Since the Blues Brothers’ heyday, Cropper has remained active in the music industry, delivering solo albums, playing live (on his own, and backing superstars) and producing artists who hail from multiple genres. The legendary guitarist died in December 2025. Donald “Duck” Dunn Donald “Duck” Dunn Unlike Cropper, “Duck” Dunn wasn’t a founding member of Booker T. and the M.G.’s -- that’s not his bass playing on the original version of “Green Onions,” for instance. But he joined soon enough (1964) to help define Stax Records’ indelible groove -- that is his bass playing on Johnnie Taylor’s “Who’s Making Love,” Albert King’s “Born Under a Bad Sign” and Otis Redding’s “I Can’t Turn You Loose,” which would later serve as the Blues Brothers’ intro tune. As one of the most respected and influential bass players in music history, Dunn parlayed his Stax work into becoming an all-star session bassist -- backing Elvis Presley, Tom Petty, Stevie Nicks, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and many more. His nickname, “Duck,” predates his time with the Blues Brothers (his father gave it to him while watching cartoons with his young son), but between “Duck” Dunn and Matt “Guitar” Murphy, Belushi and Aykroyd felt that everyone in the band should get a colourful nickname. Duck’s name might have been colourful, but the pipe-smoking bassist’s presence was reserved and his sense of humour was very droll. As such, he was only too pleased to deliver the line in 'The Blues Brothers': “We had a band powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline.” After the Brothers’ original run, Dunn continued to work as a recording musician and live performer, often reuniting with either his Booker T. and the M.G.’s bandmates (such as at their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction) or with his Blues Brothers brethren (on tour, on record and on film). Either way, he was most-often working in tandem with Cropper in a musical partnership that went back nearly five decades, and a friendship that dated to their Memphis childhood. Dunn went out the way he lived. He died in 2012 after a show in Tokyo, part of a tour with his old buddy Cropper. The legendary bassist was 70. Matt “Guitar” Murphy Matt “Guitar” Murphy If Cropper and Dunn were there to help the Blues Brothers tip their black fedoras to the legacy of Stax Records, Matt “Guitar” Murphy was brought aboard to electrify the group’s take on Chicago blues. Born in Mississippi, the Blues Hall of Fame member moved to Chicago before he was 20 and began playing his namesake instrument with Howlin’ Wolf not long after. Murphy recorded and performed with titans of the blues, R&B and rock ’n’ roll. His credits from the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s speak to his blazing talent: Little Junior Parker, Ike Turner, Sonny Boy Williamson II, Memphis Slim, Chuck Berry, Koko Taylor, Willie Dixon, Etta James, Buddy Guy, James Cotton. When the man joined the Blues Brothers in 1978, Aykroyd and Belushi got the real deal. They surely knew they were working with an amazing player capable of stinging solos, but the comedians probably didn’t realize that they also had hired a man with enough presence to hold his own in scenes with Aretha Franklin. The fictionalized version of Matt “Guitar” Murphy is the on-again/off again love interest for the less-than-understanding Queen of Soul in both Blues Brothers movies. Having collaborated with legends and earned a new profile with the Blues Brothers, Murphy finally began a solo career in the ’90s, releasing four blues albums -- some of them featuring the Blues Brothers horn section. After a long career, Murphy died as the result of a heart attack in 2018. He was 88. Murphy “Murph” Dunne Murphy “Murph” Dunne With one Murphy and a Dunn already in the Blues Brothers band by ’79, why not add Murphy Dunne? When Paul Shaffer wasn’t able to be in the 1980 film, the group brought on the Chicago native who was both an actor and a musician. With his years on 'SNL,' Shaffer had proven he could handle comedy as well as keyboards (which wasn’t the case for every band member, although they all do OK in 'The Blues Brothers'). Dunne had done the same elsewhere, with projects that blended music and comedy such as the Conception Corporation and Lenny and the Squigtones (featuring Michael McKean and David L. Lander from 'Laverne and Shirley,' along with a pre-'Spinal Tap' Christopher Guest on guitar). Plus, unlike many of his bandmates, “Murph” had acted in movies before 'The Blues Brothers,' including Mel Brooks’ 'High Anxiety,' 'Oh, God!' and 'Tunnel Vision' (featuring fellow 'Blues Brothers' actor John Candy). Dunne stayed in the band for the post-movie tour (sharing keyboard duties with Shaffer) and appeared on the 'Made in America' live LP, but hasn’t been part of as many of the post-Belushi reunions (save for 'Blues Brothers 2000'). But the one-time leader of the MagicTones hasn’t been hanging out at the Armada Room, he’s been acting in Hollywood. From the ’80s through the present, Dunne has guested on a number of hit TV shows, including 'Simon & Simon,' 'Murphy Brown,' 'Night Court,' 'Frasier' and 'Mad About You.' He’s most recently been seen on 'Justified,' 'Pretty Little Liars' and 'Baskets.' Willie “Too Big” Hall Willie “Too Big” Hall Like “Murph,” Willie Hall joined the Blues Brothers for the 1980 feature film, becoming the band’s drummer after Steve Jordan opted to tour Japan. And Hall wasn’t new to filling in. On 1977’s Booker T. and the M.G.’s reunion record, 'Universal Language,' he became the band’s drummer after founding percussionist Al Jackson Jr. had been murdered in 1975. Recommended by M.G.’s bandmates Cropper and Dunn, Hall was an obvious choice for an act so heavily indebted to the Stax Records sound. He had drummed for the label from the late ’60s until the late ’70s, backing artists including Johnnie Taylor, Rufus Thomas and the Staple Singers. But his most notable collaborator was Isaac Hayes and Hall’s biggest claim to fame was having drummed on the “Theme from 'Shaft'.” But Hall isn’t strictly an R&B drummer. He’s toured and recorded with artists that span rock (Bonnie Raitt, Roger McGuinn), disco (KC and the Sunshine Band) and country (Earl Scruggs, Billy Joe Shaver). In more recent years, the Memphis native has worked with soul revivalists the Bo-Keys and contributed to 2008’s 'Soul Men' soundtrack, with his late pal Hayes.

The Cato Street Conspiracy of 1820 is a remarkable yet often overlooked event in British history. This audacious plot to assassinate the entire British Cabinet and overthrow the government offers a fascinating glimpse into the political turbulence of the early 19th century. The early 19th century was a period of significant social and economic upheaval in Britain. The end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815 brought about a severe economic depression. Soldiers returning from the war found few job opportunities, and the working class faced harsh conditions, high unemployment, and low wages. This period also saw the implementation of the Corn Laws, which imposed high tariffs on imported grain, leading to increased food prices and widespread discontent among the populace. Amidst this backdrop, radical political ideas began to gain traction. Inspired by the French Revolution and the American War of Independence, many British reformers and radicals sought to challenge the existing political system, which was seen as corrupt and unrepresentative. The government's harsh response to protests, such as the Peterloo Massacre in 1819, further fueled the desire for change among the disaffected. The Cato Street Conspiracy was named after the street in London where the conspirators met. The leader of the plot was Arthur Thistlewood, a radical who had been involved in several previous revolutionary activities. Thistlewood and his associates were part of the Spencean Philanthropists, a radical group advocating for the abolition of private property and the establishment of communal land ownership, based on the ideas of Thomas Spence. The conspirators concluded that orderly demonstrations were not enough and that the government needed to be overthrown by force. Among them was Arthur Thistlewood, a 44-year-old Lincolnshire farmer’s son, who had drifted to London and become involved in previous violent protests. He had already led a mob attempting to seize the Bank of England in 1816, but was acquitted at his trial for treason after the chief prosecution witness was exposed as an agent provocateur. After that he had tried to emigrate to the US but lacked the money for his fare. Despite being monitored by the government, he persisted in his scheming. He had initially discarded a plan to detonate a bomb over the heads of Members of Parliament in the Commons chamber in 1819 due to its impracticality. The passing of King George III in January 1820 seemed to present him with a new opportunity. He anticipated that troops would be relocated from London to Windsor to protect the newly crowned and unpopular King George IV. His trusted ally was George Edwards, who made plaster statuettes and formerly ran a shop in Eton High Street selling models of the school’s hated headmaster, John Keate, to the pupils for target practice. Edwards showed Thistlewood a newspaper that said the entire cabinet would be meeting for dinner at the government minister Lord Harrowby’s house in Grosvenor Square. Thistlewood seized the chance: he and his followers would invade the house and decapitate the ministers with cutlasses, sticking their heads on pikes on London Bridge. He called it “the West End job”. They would capture cannon from the artillery ground at Finsbury, take over the Bank of England and distribute its coinage, burning the paper currency as valueless. “Your tyrants are destroyed,” their manifesto would proclaim. All land would be held in common, redistributed from the aristocracy, and they believed a grateful working class would rise in support of their provisional government. Thistlewood hoped that at least 50 followers would turn up to help when they gathered in a loft above a dilapidated stable in Cato Street off Edgware Road. But on the night only 20 men arrived. Alarmed at how few of them there were, some attempted to back out, but others started to distribute swords, clubs and muskets provided by Edwards. Desperately, Thistlewood told them: “For God’s sake, do not think of dropping the business now.” Outside in the street, Bow Street Runners were gathering, and a detachment of the Coldstream Guards was stationed nearby. The authorities knew all about the plan because Thistlewood’s trusted sidekick, Edwards, was in the pay of the government. Another of those in the loft, a milkman named Thomas Hiden, was also a spy and had warned Harrowby, the president of the council, of the plot. The cabinet had no intention of meeting that evening. The Bow Street Runners broke into the stables and clambered up a ladder into the hayloft, where they were met with chaos as some plotters grappled with them and others attempted to flee in the darkness. Thistlewood ran one of the officers through with a sword before clambering out through a window. Many of the men were captured outside and others were rounded up after a list of names and addresses was found on one of the captives, William Davidson, from Jamaica where his father had been attorney general. Thistlewood unwisely took Edwards’s advice to hide in lodgings in Moorfields, where he was arrested the following morning. Several conspirators decided to testify against the others, some were sent to Australia, and Thistlewood, Ings, Davidson, and two others faced trial. Despite being literate, all five men were struggling and desperate. Edwards managed to escape the country and did not testify, eventually passing away in South Africa in 1843. Five men from the initial 11 sentenced to death for their roles in the Cato Street Conspiracy had this sentence carried out. These men were, Arthur Thistlewood, Richard Tidd, James Ings, William Davidson, and John Thomas Brunt. How each man conducted himself in their last moments is an essential component in understanding the character of the men involved in the conspiracy, and as such play a principal role in the wider history of the Cato Street Conspiracy. The May 1st execution of these men highlighted the barbaric nature of a legal system that these men sought to overthrow. On the gallows, in front of a jeering crowd, Arthur Thistlewood recited the words from his Old Bailey speech: Thistlewood was convinced that the future would exonerate him of the charges levied against him, much as it has throughout the course of history to revolutionary figures. He remained steadfast in his beliefs, principally in his Deist faith; he refused repeatedly the offers of the Ordinary of Newgate Horace Cotton to pray, like the majority of the men presented to the scaffold that day. Thistlewood refused a hood, and was reportedly sucking on an orange until the moment when the trapdoor beneath him swung open, killing him in short order. Richard Tidd walked onto the scaffolding to cheers from the crowd. Tidd’s legs had given way while walking on the scaffolding, causing him to stagger across the stage, almost like a dance. The crowd cheered, to which Tidd acknowledged by ceremoniously bowing to the four sides of the scaffolds, at this point filled with onlookers. Much like Thistlewood, Tidd refused a hood and sucked on an orange until dropped from the gallows. James Ings was in a manic state by the time he was escorted to the gallows. He had donned his bloodied butchers apron and asked that his other clothes be returned to his wife so that the executioner could not benefit from them; it was custom at this time for the executioner to possess and sell the clothes of the condemned after their sentence was carried out. When Ings walked onto the scaffold, he gave three cheers and a little dance, clearly expecting a reply from the crows assembled before Newgate Prison. This call was scantily returned. While awaiting his death, Ings sung the seditious (in the view of the government) song ‘Whilst Happy in My Native Land,’ that called upon Britons to defend their natural rights found in the Magna Carta. In the song, the one of the key lines from its chorus is “Give me Death or Liberty.” Such sentiments can be seen throughout the time period, most famously by the American Patrick Henry on the eve of the American Revolution. Despite his good intentions, Ings was chastised by Thistlewood for having a poor voice. Former Spencean Philanthropist and soon to be radical MP for Westminster John Cam Hobhouse, who was watching the execution from the crowd had this to say about the event; “Ings, perhaps, was too obstreperous in singing ‘Death of Liberty,’ I am not surprised that Thistlewood told Ings to be quiet ‘so we can die without all this noise.’ Ings never could hold a tune.” Tidd’s last words were something similar, saying “Don’t Ings. There is no use in all this noise. We can die without making a noise!” William Davidson was the only conspirator to renounce his recent conversion to deism and make use of the services of the Ordinary of Newcastle Prison Horace Cotton. He held Rev’d Cottons hand on his way up the scaffold, and wore a hood/handkerchief much like Ings. He spent his final moments deep in prayer and had the final words “Lord God I pray for the prosperity of King George IV although not his ministers.” John Thomas Brunt was the last of the conspirators to be called onto the scaffold. He clearly saw this as a slight against his person, and had this to say; “What, am I to be the last? Why is this? They can have my blood but once and why am I to be kept till last? But I suppose they’re afraid I shall say something to the people because I spoke my mind on the trial. However I don’t care.” Similar to Tidd and Thistlewood, Brunt refused to wear a hood. As the noose was placed around his neck, he took a pinch of snuff, a smokeless tobacco inhaled through the nasal cavity which delivers a fast hit of nicotine to the individual. His last words expressed anger at the sight of soldiers guarding the gallows: “What soldiers! What do they do here? I see nothing but a military Government will do for this country, unless there as good many as we are. I see a good many of my friends about. Following the hanging of these five men, their bodies were left for approximately half an hour before they were cut down. The next phase of their sentence began, with the decapitation of their bodies, to be done by an anonymous but highly skilled individual. This man knew the best way to decapitate men, and begun with a deep cut across the front of the neck, angling the knife under the jaw to the foramen magnum, where the skull opens to allow the spinal cord to interact with the brain. The man would continue this angle of cut all around the neck of the deceased. When this was done, this man took hold of the head and violently twisted it in both directions, separating the head from the neck without needing to saw through fibrous ligaments that remained uncut by his blade. After each head was cut off, the decapitator would display it to the crowd, stating the name of the deceased as well as his sentence and crimes. When Brunt’s turn came, the man dropped the head, spurring cries from the gathered audience of “Yah! Butterfingers!” The authorities were reportedly worried that the crowd would be agitated to the point of violence during the execution of the Conspiracists. Carpenters were called in to erect barriers to prevent the public from getting to close to the scaffolds, and units of soldiers were brought up in anticipation of violence. These were stationed out of sight of the crowd, but ready for action. In addition to the two troops of Life Guards, 8 artillery pieces were present to control the movement of the crowd, should things turn bloody. The force composition is similar to that which oversaw the Peterloo Massacre just years before. Large banners were prepared to be unfurled with orders to disperse. Thankfully, the crowd did not turn bloody. The crowd booed and jeered the heads of the conspirators as they were presented. Following the decapitation of the conspirators, the streets were flooded with celebration, complete with music and masks. Clearly, the worst fears of the government did not come true, and the popular support the conspiracists thought would materialize never did. The Cato Street Conspiracy had a profound impact on British politics and society. It exposed the extent of discontent and the lengths to which some were willing to go to achieve political change. The government's use of spies and informers highlighted the repressive measures employed to maintain order. In the broader context, the conspiracy underscored the need for political reform. Although the immediate effect was a crackdown on radical activities, it eventually contributed to the growing movement for parliamentary reform. The Reform Act of 1832, which expanded the franchise and reformed the electoral system, can be seen as a response to the pressures for change that events like the Cato Street Conspiracy highlighted.

This is a timely insight from a 1959 interview with the philosopher Bertrand Russell about what he would say to a distant future generation of humans: “I should like to say two things, one intellectual and one moral. The intellectual thing I should want to say is this: When you are studying any matter, or considering any philosophy, ask yourself only what are the facts and what is the truth that the facts bear out. Never let yourself be diverted either by what you wish to believe, or by what you think would have beneficent social effects if it were believed. But look only, and solely, at what are the facts. That is the intellectual thing that I should wish to say. The moral thing I should wish to say… I should say love is wise, hatred is foolish. In this world which is getting more closely and closely interconnected we have to learn to tolerate each other, we have to learn to put up with the fact that some people say things that we don’t like. We can only live together in that way and if we are to live together and not die together we must learn a kind of charity and a kind of tolerance which is absolutely vital to the continuation of human life on this planet.” This aligns nicely with my favourite quote from Russell: “The good life is one inspired by love and guided by knowledge.” Pursue truth. Spread love. Simple, right?

"You can't hold a man down without staying down with him." — Booker T. Washington In 1999, ABC aired a documentary featuring a collection of recordings from the 1930s and 1940s by John Henry Faulk. These recordings captured the stories of former slaves, which had been stored and neglected in the Library of Congress since 1941. John Henry Faulk: "I remember sitting out on a wagon tongue with this old black man - completely illiterate - down here near Navasota a plantation there and I was telling him what a different kind of white man I was. I really … I really a getting, come educated on blacks and their problems, except we called 'em coloured folks. I said, 'You know, you might not realise it but I'm not like the coloured - the white folks you run into down here. I believe in giving you the right to go to school, to good schools. Now, I know you don't want to go with white people - I don't believe in going overboard on this thing - but I believe coloured people ought to be given good schools. And I believe you ought to be given the right to go into whatever you qualify to go into, and I believe you ought to be given the right to vote.' And uh, I remember him looking at me, very sadly and kind of sweetly, and condescendingly and saying, 'You know, you still got the disease, honey. I know you think you're cured, but you're not cured. You talking now you sitting there talking and I know it's nice and I know you a good man. Talking about giving me this, and giving me that right. You talking about giving me something that I was born with just like you was born with it. You can't give me the right to be a human being. I was born with that right. Now you can keep me from having that if you've got all the policemen and all the jobs on your side, you can deprive me of it, but you can't give it to me, cause I was born with it just like you was.' My God it had a profound effect on me. I was furious with him. You try to be kind to these people, you see. 'You give them an inch and they'll take an ell.' But the more I reflected on it, the more profound the effect. I realised this was where it really was. You couldn't give them something that they were born with just like I was born with. Entitled to it the same way I was entitled with it." A section of the documentary can be watched below. President Abraham Lincoln signed the District of Columbia Emancipation Act on April 16, 1862, freeing the district’s 3,100 slaves. The legislation was hint of slavery’s coming death in the United States — only 8 1/2 months later Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation. “Tisn’t he who has stood and looked on, that can tell you what slavery is–’tis he who has endured,” John Little, a fugitive slave who had escaped to Canada said in reflection of the realities of slavery in 1855. From 1936-1938 as part of the Federal Writers’ Project of the Works Progress Administration (WPA), 2,300 first-person accounts of slavery were recorded and 500 black-and-white photographs of former slaves were collected. The first-person stories and photographs were assembled in 1941 into a 17-volume collection that is available online today courtesy of the Manuscript and Prints and Photographs Divisions of the Library of Congress. Here’s a look at some of the photographs from “Born in Slavery: Slave Narratives from the Federal Writers’ Project, 1936-1938” and portraits of former slaves taken by the photographers of the Farm Security Administration. Of course it's absolutely worth remembering modern slavery DOES exist, and it should make you mad as hell. A21 is a great organisation fighting it.