Utterly interesting

By 1985, Metallica had already carved out a name for themselves as the most ambitious of the Bay Area thrash bands. They’d created a blueprint on Ride the Lightning , and now all they needed was to build upon it, with longer songs, sharper riffs, and the kind of unrelenting fury that could carry them to the next level. That blueprint became Master of Puppets , released on March 3, 1986, an album that would redefine metal forever. Writing the Album Work began in mid-1985, just as Metallica were riding the momentum of a successful album and world tour. They had the confidence of a world-class athlete before a big game, but writing wasn’t easy. In the span of just six to eight weeks, however, they managed to create some of the most intricate, multi-layered songs of their career. Today, Master of Puppets  is remembered as the record that pushed thrash metal into the mainstream. Songs like “Battery,” “Disposable Heroes,” and “Damage, Inc.” were pugnacious bursts of speed, while “Master of Puppets” and “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” delivered rhythmically complex epics. Elsewhere, “The Thing That Should Not Be” and “Leper Messiah” offered crushing mid-tempo riffs, and the instrumental “Orion” brought cinematic scope to thrash. Understanding how they achieved such balance requires looking back at Ride the Lightning . More than a bridge between Kill ’Em All  and Master of Puppets , it had given Metallica the courage to bend rules. Both albums shared a similar architecture: clean guitar intros exploding into thrash, sprawling tempo shifts, ominous slow numbers, and ambitious instrumentals that separated Metallica from every other band on the scene. By the time writing started, Metallica already knew what they wanted: a better, heavier, and more ambitious version of Ride the Lightning . “We more or less wanted to redo Ride the Lightning , just a lot better,” producer Flemming Rasmussen later told Rolling Stone . “I’ve always thought Metallica raised the bar every time they went in the studio. They challenged their own technical ability all the time, which is the only way you can get better.” That meant practice. Lars Ulrich took drum lessons to improve his timing, while Kirk Hammett reconnected with his old teacher, Joe Satriani, for extra pointers. At their shared house in El Cerrito, California, Hetfield and Ulrich began writing. The first song finished was “Battery,” quickly followed by “Disposable Heroes.” “That song has some of my favourite lyrics that James has written,” Ulrich said. “He nailed the whole wasted irrelevance of a soldier going off to war and life playing out before his birth. Musically, it’s got a lot of classic Metallica elements: fast parts, mid-tempo verses, halftime things and a lot of interesting progressive stuff that weaves itself in and out of the whole middle section.” Lyrics of Control and Corruption Lyrically, Master of Puppets  marked a step forward from the straightforward aggression of earlier songs like “Hit the Lights” or “Metal Militia.” Themes of control, manipulation, and corruption ran throughout the album. “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)” was inspired by Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest , a haunting take on mental imprisonment. “The Thing That Should Not Be” drew on H. P. Lovecraft, feeding Metallica’s ongoing fascination with horror and mythology. “Leper Messiah” took aim at televangelists, exposing the hypocrisy of those exploiting faith for money. The title track tackled drug addiction with some of Hetfield’s sharpest lines: “Pain, monopoly / Ritual misery / Chop your breakfast on a mirror.” “I just went to this party in San Francisco and there was a bunch of sick freaks shooting up, and it made me sick,” Hetfield later explained. “It’s not about any drug in general but people being controlled by drugs and not the other way around.” Recording in Copenhagen Metallica originally wanted Rush’s Geddy Lee to produce, but scheduling made it impossible. Instead, they returned to Flemming Rasmussen, who had guided Ride the Lightning . Ulrich and Rasmussen scouted Los Angeles studios, but couldn’t replicate the drum sound they’d achieved in Copenhagen. So back to Denmark they went, this time booking rooms at the Scandinavia Hotel rather than crashing on Rasmussen’s apartment floor. At Sweet Silence Studios, sessions ran from September 1 to late December 1985. The band worked nocturnal hours, recording from 7PM until dawn, then heading back to their hotel for breakfast. Before recording their own tracks, they warmed up with covers of Diamond Head’s “The Prince,” The Misfits’ “Green Hell,” and Fang’s “The Money Will Roll Right In.” Almost immediately, problems arose with Ulrich’s snare drum, which sounded “like a garbage can lid.” Management company QPrime, who also represented Def Leppard, arranged for Rick Allen’s Tama “Black Beauty” snare to be shipped to Copenhagen. By chance, Ulrich also found the exact same model in a local music store at a price unchanged since 1979. Problem solved. Hetfield’s pursuit of precision became legendary. He recorded at least six rhythm tracks per song, refusing to layer takes, instead playing each part over and over until it was flawless. “I’m always saying, ‘It’s not tight enough,’” Hetfield confessed in Birth School Metallica Death . “People think I’m nuts. It’s something that absolutely haunts me. After we recorded ‘Hit the Lights,’ this guy told me, ‘Oh, the rhythms aren’t very tight are they?’ Man. That was it! That started my lifelong quest. That was the Holy Grail for me – being tight.” While Hetfield obsessed in the studio, Burton and Hammett often had little to do. “We would stay up 24 hours at a time and just go out walking around Copenhagen kind of drunk, doing whatever we could to bide the time,” Hammett recalled to Rolling Stone . “I remember at one point, we found a beach on a map. So we went there but it was so cold and there was absolutely no wave action or anything. Cliff and I were just bundled up on this weird beach in Copenhagen saying, ‘God, this place is driving us crazy!’” On September 14, they took a break to perform at Germany’s Metal Hammer Festival, debuting “Disposable Heroes.” Over the following months, they finished writing “The Thing That Should Not Be” and “Orion,” the latter becoming Cliff Burton’s masterpiece. “For me, ‘Orion’ was Cliff Burton’s swan song,” Hammett later said. “It was a great piece of music, and he’d written the whole middle section. It kind of gave us a view into what direction he was heading. If he would have stayed with us, I think he would have gone further into [that] direction. Our sound would be different if he was still here.” By December 27, 1985, the band left Copenhagen with the tapes in hand. Engineer Michael Wagener mixed the album in Los Angeles. Release and Reception Master of Puppets  debuted modestly at No. 128 on the Billboard charts, selling 300,000 copies in its first three weeks. It eventually peaked at No. 29, boosted by Metallica’s role as the opening act on Ozzy Osbourne’s U.S. tour. “[Touring with Ozzy] was a huge break for us,” Ulrich later explained. “At the time, Ozzy was perceived as one of the most controversial metal stars in the US – he drew a really extreme type of crowd… Here we were as this even more extreme up-and-coming metal band that Ozzy was giving his seal of approval to by taking [us] out on tour with him.” The tour wasn’t without setbacks. On June 26, Hetfield broke his wrist skateboarding. Hammett rang up Anthrax’s Scott Ian to fill in, but Anthrax were about to enter the studio. Instead, Metal Church guitarist John Marshall — Hammett’s tech — stepped in on rhythm duties until Hetfield recovered. Despite such obstacles, the album stayed on the Billboard charts for 72 weeks. On November 4, 1986, Metallica received their first gold record. The Loss of Cliff Burton Tragedy struck on September 27, 1986. While traveling through Sweden, Metallica’s tour bus crashed in Kronoberg County. Cliff Burton, asleep in his bunk, was thrown from the vehicle and crushed. He was just 24 years old. Burton’s death devastated the band. His funeral was held on October 7, 1986, and after mourning, Metallica chose to carry on. Auditions followed, and by November 8, Jason Newsted had joined as bassist, playing his first show with the band in Reseda, California. Legacy and Lasting Power Commercially, Master of Puppets  became unstoppable. It went platinum in 1988, double in 1991, triple in 1994, quadruple in 1997, quintuple in 1998, and sextuple by 2003. For Hammett, the achievement was always about more than numbers: “I remember holding the album in my hands and thinking, ‘Wow, this is a fucking great album, even if it doesn’t sell anything. It doesn’t matter because it is such a great musical statement that we’ve just created. I really felt that it would pass the test of time. Which it has.” Even Ulrich, never shy of ambition, reflected proudly: “If you take the extremes of [the] album, which to my mind would be ‘Damage, Inc.’ and ‘Orion’ – the amount of ground we cover is so big, so vast, it really pisses me off that anybody would want to stick us with one label. Yes, we do a few thrash songs, but that’s not all we like to do.” Why Master of Puppets Still Matters Almost four decades later, Master of Puppets  remains Metallica’s defining statement. It captured the band at their creative peak, balancing raw thrash aggression with compositional ambition. It pushed heavy metal into the mainstream, earned critical acclaim, and influenced generations of bands. More importantly, it cemented Metallica as leaders not just of thrash but of heavy music as a whole. Burton’s fingerprints are all over it, Hetfield’s precision haunts it, and the band’s relentless pursuit of “better” drives every note. Master of Puppets isn’t just an album, it’s a cultural landmark. Sources Mick Wall, Enter Night: A Biography of Metallica  (2010) Paul Brannigan & Ian Winwood, Birth School Metallica Death: Volume 1 – The Biography  (2013) Joel McIver, Justice for All: The Truth About Metallica  (2004) Joe Berlinger & Bruce Sinofsky, Metallica: This Monster Lives  (2004) “Metallica’s Masterpiece: How They Made Master of Puppets ” – Rolling Stone https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/metallica-master-of-puppets-making-of-111513/ “Metallica’s Master of Puppets at 30” – Loudwire https://loudwire.com/metallica-master-of-puppets-anniversary/ “The Making of Master of Puppets” – Guitar World https://www.guitarworld.com/metallica-master-of-puppets-making RIAA Platinum Certifications Database – Metallica Master of Puppets https://www.riaa.com/gold-platinum/ “Cliff Burton: The Lost Legend” – Classic Rock Magazine https://www.loudersound.com/features/cliff-burton-metallicas-lost-legend

“For scientific discovery give me Scott; for speed and efficiency of travel give me Amundsen; but when disaster strikes and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for Shackleton.” - Sir Raymond Priestly, Antarctic Explorer and Geologist. It usually begins with an image. A photograph of a wooden ship tilted slightly in a sea of broken ice, its rigging taut against a pale Antarctic sky. A small figure stands nearby, dwarfed by the world around him. The ship looks both sturdy and impossibly fragile. The man looks purposeful, but also very small and very human. The ship is Endurance . The man is Ernest Shackleton. And the story is one of the most quietly remarkable sagas of survival ever recorded. People sometimes imagine the Imperial Trans Antarctic Expedition as a bold geographical triumph because it sits so comfortably alongside Amundsen’s South Pole victory and Scott’s stoic final march. Yet Shackleton’s expedition achieved none of its original geographical goals. There was no crossing of the Antarctic continent. There was no meeting of the Weddell Sea and Ross Sea parties. Instead, the expedition became a different kind of milestone. It became a demonstration of practical resilience, improvisation, companionship, and the day by day work of staying alive. The last breaths of the Heroic Age To understand how the expedition came to be, it helps to understand the mood of polar exploration in the early twentieth century. The so called Heroic Age of Antarctic exploration had begun in the 1890s, driven by scientific curiosity, national prestige, personal ambition, and the chance to fill empty spaces on maps. Expeditions by men like Carsten Borchgrevink, William Speirs Bruce, Otto Nordenskjöld, Robert Falcon Scott and Roald Amundsen pushed deeper and deeper into the Antarctic interior. By 1912 the South Pole had been reached. Scott’s tragic death returning from the Pole had moved the British public deeply. Amundsen’s victory had set a new standard of efficiency. Mawson’s ordeal in East Antarctica had shown the landscape’s danger. And through it all Shackleton had become one of the era’s defining figures. Shackleton’s 1907 to 1909 Nimrod  expedition had taken him and his men further south than anyone before. He turned back 97 miles from the Pole, reasoning that to go on would risk his men’s lives. He wrote later with mild humour, “Better a live donkey than a dead lion.” Yet that expedition made him famous. His blend of courage and care for his men earned widespread admiration. His lectures filled halls. His name became familiar in both adventure writing and popular journalism. South Pole party on board the Nimrod: Frank Wild, Shackleton, Eric Marshall, Jameson Adams But fame sits uneasily on a man who prefers activity to celebration. By 1912, Shackleton was increasingly restless. Friends noticed that he struggled to settle into ordinary civilian life. He had several business ventures, none entirely successful. He was good at inspiring men and far less good at sitting still. If the South Pole was gone, he wanted something else. A transcontinental crossing of Antarctica seemed the logical next step. He described it as “the one great main object of Antarctic journeyings”. Planning an expedition in a changing world Shackleton began planning long before he had the money. Fundraising was always an awkward task for him. He disliked the idea of appealing to the public. Instead, he sought wealthy patrons, government support and corporate partnership. The British government offered ten thousand pounds on the condition that he could raise the same amount privately. Slowly, contributions appeared. The industrialist James Key Caird gave twenty four thousand pounds. Dudley Docker offered ten thousand. Janet Stancomb Wills provided a generous sum. With money in hand, Shackleton purchased two ships. The primary vessel was a Norwegian built barquentine originally named Polaris . Shackleton bought her for fourteen thousand pounds and renamed her Endurance , after the family motto “By endurance we conquer”. It was a name that would prove prophetically apt. He also purchased Aurora , a ship previously used by Douglas Mawson, to serve the Ross Sea party. The Endurance The plan was split between two teams. The Weddell Sea party, led by Shackleton, would land near Vahsel Bay and make the transcontinental march via the Pole. The Ross Sea party would land in McMurdo Sound, set up a base and lay supply depots across the Ross Ice Shelf and up the Beardmore Glacier. The depots were essential. Without them, the crossing party would not have enough food or fuel to survive the journey. The coordination required between the two teams and two oceans was complex. Yet Shackleton believed it could be done. Recruiting the men The recruitment process has become legendary, thanks to a widely repeated story that Shackleton placed an advertisement reading: “Men wanted for hazardous journey. Low wages, bitter cold, safe return doubtful.” While no original advert has ever been found, the story reflects the tone of the venture. Men from across Britain, Ireland, Australia and New Zealand applied. More than five thousand applications were received. Some applicants had polar experience. Others simply dreamed of adventure. Shackleton selected a mixture of experienced hands and sturdy personalities. Frank Wild, his trusted second in command, had been with him on two earlier expeditions. Frank Worsley, a skilled navigator from New Zealand, became captain. Tom Crean, the quietly heroic Irish seaman from Scott’s expeditions, joined as second officer. There were scientists, engineers, carpenters, cooks, sailors and a pair of surgeons. Frank Hurley, the Australian photographer known for his striking images, joined later in Buenos Aires. His photographs would go on to define much of how the world visualised the expedition. Hurley had a talent for capturing the deep calm of Antarctic light, the relationships between men and dogs, and the surreal geometry of pressure ridges. Photographer Frank Hurley. (left) Third Officer Alfred Cheetham adjusts the signal flags of the Endurance. Others joined through chance. William Bakewell signed on in Argentina. His friend, Perce Blackborow, was too young and inexperience to be accepted, so he hid aboard the ship as a stowaway. Shackleton discovered him only after Endurance  had sailed. Far from being angered, Shackleton assigned him useful duties. Blackborow would later become one of the most notable survivors of Elephant Island, despite suffering severe frostbite. Sailing into the Weddell Sea Endurance  left South Georgia on 5 December 1914. Experienced whalers warned Shackleton that the ice lay unusually far north that year. Shackleton listened but pushed on. His goal was Vahsel Bay, and the season was ticking. Within two days the ship encountered pack ice. Navigating through it was like threading a needle. The leads of open water were narrow and unpredictable. Sometimes the ship made steady progress. Sometimes she crawled. Sometimes she halted entirely. Men used long poles to push aside smaller floes and chisels to widen passages. By mid January 1915 the ship was within sight of the continent. They spotted possible landing sites. They passed the location where Wilhelm Filchner had attempted to establish a base two years earlier. Shackleton chose not to land prematurely. He wanted to reach Vahsel Bay, the ideal starting point. On 18 January the ice closed around Endurance . The grip felt firm but temporary. Shackleton hoped for a shift in the pack. He expected that the ice would loosen come spring. But the ice did not loosen. Instead, it tightened. The ship drifted with the pack. The men found themselves living aboard a vessel trapped in ice, hundreds of miles from open water. Crew attempt to clear a path through the ice for Endurance. Shackleton accepted the situation sooner than he admitted to the men. He converted the ship into a winter station. Dogs were housed in snow kennels. Scientists set up observational routines. The crew settled into life in a ship that was no longer a ship, but a wooden island drifting in silence. Life in a frozen world The long Antarctic winter created a strange mix of monotony and tension. Days passed slowly. The temperature fell. The sunlight dimmed and finally vanished. Men marked time by meals, dog feeding, scientific observations and small rituals designed to keep the mind steady. Leonard Hussey’s banjo became a cultural anchor. Hurley held occasional shows of his photographs. They read books, wrote letters, and took walks on the ice when the weather allowed. At first the drift was slow. By April the ship had moved only a small distance north. But the character of the ice was changing. Pressure ridges formed. Cracks groaned in the night. The ship’s timbers creaked under the strain. On some days great blocks of ice rose out of the sea, pushed up by forces the men could feel but not see. Shackleton compared them to stones squeezed between finger and thumb. As the months passed the situation went from discomfort to danger. The ice floes shifted unpredictably. On several occasions the pressure was so intense that the ship twisted and shuddered. The men heard loud reports, like distant gunfire, as timber gave way. The ship began taking on water. The carpenter, McNish, attempted structural reinforcement but it was not enough. John Vincent, Boatswain, mends a net on the Endurance. On 27 October 1915 Shackleton gave the order to abandon ship. Men hauled stores, tents, sledges, and the three lifeboats onto the ice. Hurley went back into the damaged hull to salvage his photographic plates. He chose about one hundred and smashed the rest. His diary mentions the bittersweet feeling of destroying work he loved. Three weeks later, on 21 November, Endurance  slipped beneath the ice. Ocean Camp and the march that failed The men established Ocean Camp on a stable floe. Shackleton believed initially that they could march to Paulet Island, where they knew a food depot existed from earlier expeditions. The distance was considerable but not impossible. They loaded sledges with tents, food, cooking equipment and one of the lifeboats. The march lasted only a few days. The ice was too chaotic. Pressure ridges made progress agonisingly slow. Men sank to their knees. The sledges stuck. The floes moved unpredictably beneath them. Shackleton halted the march and returned to Ocean Camp. Food became central to every decision. Seal meat and penguin meat supplemented the tinned provisions. The dogs, once valued companions, required more food than the men could spare. Shackleton ordered them shot. This was one of the hardest moments of the entire journey. Men wept openly. Hurley wrote in his diary that the silence after the dogs were killed felt heavier than any storm. Patience Camp: waiting for the ice to break By late December Shackleton attempted a second march. It failed for the same reasons as the first. After seven days they had marched for only a handful of miles. Shackleton gathered the men and said plainly: “It would take us over three hundred days to reach land.” The men established a long term camp which they named Patience Camp. Its name was apt. They waited while the floe drifted. They watched distant mountains pass. They monitored cracks. They hunted seals when possible. They repaired equipment. They rationed food. The cold pressed through their clothes. Men gave up unnecessary conversation. They slept, woke, ate and waited. Here, outside their tent on the ice, Hurley on the left and Shackleton on the right. By March 1916 the floe had drifted near the latitude of Elephant Island, but still too far east to reach it by foot. Shackleton’s plan became clear: when the floe finally broke, they would launch the lifeboats and try to reach one of the islands by sea. The break came on 8 April. The floe split suddenly. The men scrambled to load the boats. The sea ahead was a fractured landscape of ice and water. They launched the three lifeboats on 9 April and began one of the most difficult journeys of the entire saga. The boat journey to Elephant Island The three boats battled through drift ice. They camped on floes when possible, only to wake and find their temporary shelters breaking apart. Temperatures fell. Spray turned to ice. Frost formed on beards and clothes. Men bailed constantly. The strain was physical and mental. Crew members haul one of the lifeboats across the ice after the loss of Endurance. Shackleton considered several potential destinations. At first he aimed for Hope Bay. Then Deception Island. But as men weakened, as frostbite set in, as weather worsened, he focused on the nearest land: Elephant Island. On 14 April they sighted the south east coast. It offered no safe landing. Vertical cliffs met the sea. The next day they reached a narrow beach. The sand felt strange under their feet after so long on ice. Wild later found a better location seven miles west. They moved there and established a more secure camp. It was the first solid land they had stood on in nearly a year and a half. Elephant Island and the necessity of the James Caird voyage Elephant Island had no whaling stations. No shipping routes. No possibility of random rescue. Shackleton knew this. If the men were to survive, he had to fetch help. He selected the James Caird, the strongest of the boats. McNish rebuilt it. He raised the sides, added a deck made from canvas and wood, reinforced the keel, and adapted the craft for long ocean travel. How he managed this with minimal tools remains remarkable. Shackleton chose five companions: Worsley, Crean, McNish, Vincent and McCarthy. Wild would command the twenty two men remaining behind. Hurley helped photograph the departure. The James Caird launched on 24 April 1916. Launching the James Caird from the shore of Elephant Island, 24 April 1916 The 800 mile crossing to South Georgia The voyage took fourteen days. It crossed the stormiest waters on Earth. The boat was continually soaked. Ice built up on deck. Worsley’s navigation depended on the rare moments when clouds thinned enough to reveal the sun. Shackleton described waves rising higher than buildings. One night the rudder froze. Another night Vincent collapsed. There were days when the boat was tossed so hard that bailing became a continuous necessity. They slept in shifts, curled against each other for warmth. On 8 May South Georgia appeared through a break in the weather. They landed on 10 May at King Haakon Bay. Crew wave farewell as the James Caird sets off for South Georgia Island in search of rescue. The interior crossing of South Georgia Vincent and McNish were too weak to travel. Shackleton, Worsley and Crean set off on foot on 19 May. They had no map. They guessed the route. They crossed mountains and valleys. They stumbled through snowfields and nearly invisible crevasses. At one point they slid down a snowy slope, guided only by instinct. After thirty six hours of continuous travel they heard the whistle of the whaling station at Stromness. Their ordeal was nearly over. The station manager Simon McDonald wrote years later that the three men looked “more like a handful of scarecrows than anything else”. Their faces were blackened by smoke and salt. Their clothing was patched. Their beards were full of ice. Four rescue attempts Shackleton rescued the three men left with the James Caird, then made plans to rescue the men on Elephant Island. The first three attempts failed due to ice. A fourth attempt, using the Chilean tug Yelcho , succeeded. Captain Luis Pardo steered through difficult waters. Fog lifted at the right moment. The camp was sighted. The men were rescued on 30 August 1916. Not one life from Shackleton’s party was lost. Life on Elephant Island While Shackleton journeyed for help, the men on Elephant Island endured a winter in a shelter built from two overturned boats. They called it the Snuggery. The interior smelled of smoke, damp clothes and penguin fat. The ceiling was low. Men could not stand upright. They cooked on a blubber stove that covered everything with soot. The Elephant Island party. Back row: Greenstreet, McIlroy, Marston, Wordie, James, Holness, Hudson, Stephenson, McLeod, Clark, Orde-Lees, Kerr, Macklin Front row: Green, Wild, How, Cheetham, Hussey, Rickinson, Bakewell. Wild was endlessly calm. He kept routines. He told stories. He organised hunting. When asked how soon Shackleton would return, he replied most mornings, “Pack your things, boys. Boss may come today.” His optimism helped hold the men together. Blackborow’s frostbite worsened. The surgeons amputated his toes in candlelight. The operation took about fifty five minutes. They had only a small amount of chloroform left. The procedure was successful. As winter deepened, the men grew quiet. They slept often. They ate simply. They told stories to pass the time. The blubber stove hissed and smoked. When Shackleton finally arrived, some men initially believed they were hallucinating. The Ross Sea party: a quieter but equally heroic tragedy On the opposite side of Antarctica the Ross Sea party faced its own ordeal. They had arrived late. They began depot laying prematurely. Then Aurora  was blown out to sea in a storm and drifted for nearly ten months. This left the men without proper clothing, fuel or equipment. They salvaged what they could from Scott’s old hut at Cape Evans. They laid depots faithfully, despite growing illness. Several men developed scurvy. Spencer Smith died. Later Mackintosh and Hayward disappeared while crossing unstable ice. When Aurora  returned in January 1917, only seven survivors remained. Their efforts, though overshadowed in popular history, were essential to the expedition’s original plan. The return home, the war and the last chapter of Shackleton’s life When the expedition returned, Europe was in the midst of the First World War. Many members enlisted immediately. Some were killed. Others were wounded. Shackleton undertook wartime administrative work in northern Russia. He later planned one final Antarctic expedition aboard Quest  and brought several Endurance  veterans with him. He died suddenly in South Georgia in January 1922. His men buried him there, facing the sea. Shackleton's grave. Grytviken Cemetery, Grytviken On 27 November 2011, the ashes of Frank Wild were interred on the right-hand side of Shackleton's gravesite in Grytviken. The inscription on the rough-hewn granite block set to mark the spot reads: "Frank Wild 1873‍–‍1939, Shackleton's right-hand man." Sources • “Endurance22: The Discovery of Shackleton’s Lost Ship” Endurance22 Official Expedition Site https://endurance22.org • “Shackleton’s Endurance Found in Antarctic Depths” National Geographic https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/article/explorers-found-lost-ship-shackleton-endurance • “Endurance: The Extraordinary Discovery of Shackleton’s Shipwreck” National Geographic Documentary Films https://films.nationalgeographic.com/endurance • “Centenary of Shackleton’s Antarctic Rescue by the Chilean Navy” Navy History Australia https://navyhistory.au/centenary-of-shackletons-antarctic-rescue-by-the-chilean-navy • “Shackleton and the Endurance: Expedition Overview and Crew Accounts” CoolAntarctica https://www.coolantarctica.com/Antarctica%20fact%20file/History/Shackleton-Endurance-Trans-Antarctic_expedition3.php • “South: Shackleton’s Own Narrative of the Ross Sea Party” CoolAntarctica (Full text chapters) https://www.coolantarctica.com/Antarctica%20fact%20file/History/south/south_shackleton_chapter13.php • “Ross Sea Party: Hut Point and Survival on the Ice” New Zealand Antarctic Heritage Trust https://nzaht.org/conserve/famous-discoveries/ross-sea-party-tent/

It's been well documented that AC/DC are the greatest band in the history of the galaxy, I've seen them a fair few times live and I can attest to their god-like status. (I even named my firstborn son after their lead guitarist) This is Bon's story though, the hell-raising singer that was with the band until his tragic death in 1980. Ronald Belford “Bon” Scott was born on July 9, 1946, in Forfar, Scotland, and grew up in the nearby town of Kirriemuir. His parents, Charles Belford "Chick" Scott and Isabelle Cunningham "Isa" Mitchell ran the family bakery in Kirriemuir's Bank Street. In 1952, when Bon was six years old, the Scott family emigrated to Australia as part of the Australian government’s immigration drive, known as the “Ten Pound Poms” scheme. They settled in Melbourne before moving to Fremantle, Western Australia. The cultural shift was significant “My new schoolmates threatened to kick the sh*t out of me when they heard my Scottish accent,” Scott said. “I had one week to learn to speak like them if I wanted to remain intact… It made me all the more determined to speak my own way. That’s how I got my name, you know. The Bonny Scot, see?” Bon's teenage years were marked by a dislike for school, he stopped going at 15, frustrated with the rigid educational system. He subsequently worked as a farmhand and a crayfisherman, and was later a trainee weighing-machine mechanic. In 1963 he spent a short time in Fremantle Prison's assessment centre and nine months at the Riverbank Juvenile Institution, relating to charges of giving a false name and address to the police, having escaped legal custody, having unlawful carnal knowledge, and stealing petrol. He attempted to join the Australian Army, but was rejected and deemed "socially maladjusted" Bon’s passion for music was ignited during his teenage years. Initially, he was a drummer and played in local bands. His first significant band was The Spektors, formed in 1964, where he started as the drummer but gradually began to take on lead vocal duties. His charismatic stage presence and distinctive raspy voice quickly set him apart. In 1966, they merged with another local band, the Winstons, and formed The Valentines, in which Scott was co-lead singer with Vince Lovegrove. In 1970, after gaining a place on the National Top 30 with their single "Juliette", The Valentines disbanded due to artistic differences after a much-publicised drug scandal. Bon on backing vocals with The Valentines Following the disbandment of The Valentines in 1970, Bon joined Fraternity, a progressive rock band. Fraternity’s music was more sophisticated, and they enjoyed moderate success, even touring the UK. Despite their efforts, they struggled to achieve significant commercial success, and Bon was becoming restless. In 1974, Bon Scott’s life took a dramatic turn. After a drunken argument with members of Fraternity, Bon angrily threw a bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor and stormed out. In a fit of rage, he took off on his motorcycle. The ride ended in disaster when he suffered a serious crash, leaving him in a coma for several days. This near-fatal accident was a wake-up call for Bon and marked a pivotal moment in his life, leading to his next and most famous musical endeavour. Later in 1974, whilst recovering from his accident, former bandmate Vince Lovegrove and his wife gave Scott odd jobs, such as putting up posters and painting the office for their booking/management agency. Shortly after, Lovegrove introduced him to AC/DC who were on the lookout for a new lead singer. "There was a young, dinky little glam band from Sydney that we both loved called AC/DC ... Before another AC/DC visit, George Young phoned me and said the band was looking for a new singer. I immediately told him that the best guy for the job was Bon. George responded by saying Bon's accident would not allow him to perform, and that maybe he was too old (9 years older than Angus at the time). Nevertheless, I had a meeting with Malcolm and Angus, and suggested Bon as their new singer. They asked me to bring him out to the Pooraka Hotel that night, and to come backstage after the show. When he watched the band, Bon was impressed, and he immediately wanted to join them, but thought they may be a bit too inexperienced and too young. After the show, backstage, Bon expressed his doubts about them being "able to rock". The two Young brothers told Bon he was "too old to rock". The upshot was that they had a jam session that night in the home of Bon's former mentor, Bruce Howe, and at the end of the session, at dawn, it was obvious that AC/DC had found a new singer. And Bon had found a new band." At that time, AC/DC’s lead singer was Dave Evans, but the band was looking for a replacement. Bon, with his raw vocal style and undeniable charisma, was a perfect fit. The chemistry between Bon and the Young brothers was instant. His first gig with AC/DC was on October 24, 1974, and he quickly became the band’s frontman. Bon’s gritty voice, rebellious persona, and magnetic stage presence complemented the band’s raw, high-energy sound, and they soon began to make a name for themselves in the rock music scene. With Bon as their lead singer, AC/DC released a series of albums that became rock classics. “High Voltage” (1975), “T.N.T.” (1975), “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” (1976), “Let There Be Rock” (1977), “Powerage” (1978), and “Highway to Hell” (1979) solidified their status as one of the leading hard rock bands of the era. However, Bon’s success came with a dark side. He had a well-documented problem with alcohol and drugs. His hard-drinking lifestyle was part of his rock star image, but it took a toll on his health and personal life. Despite his struggles, Bon was known to enjoy life on the road with AC/DC in the early days, his lyrics often reflected his experiences, combining humour and pathos, capturing the spirit of his life in the band.. On February the 19th 1980, Scott met a few friends at the Music Machine club in London. There, he drank heavily before climbing into his friend Alistair Kinnear’s rented Renault 5 car. His friends figured he just needed to sleep it off. However, the following morning when they discovered him still inside the car, he was slouched in the back seat amidst vomit covering the interior of the vehicle. It was consequently speculated that the vomit had travelled into his lungs, choking Scott to death. But the idea that a seasoned drinker like Scott would die after a few drinks seemed unlikely to many. As his biographer Jesse Fink wrote in a later account of his death, “He was a prodigious drinker. The idea that seven double whiskeys would put him in the ground seems a strange notion.” It's plausible that drugs might have played a role in his death. Scott was known to use drugs like heroin and the people he was with that final night were known heroin dealers. Fink wrote: “When he got to London the in thing was snorting smack that was flooding London at the time, and it was brown heroin and very strong. All the characters linked to Bon in the last 24 hours of his life were allegedly associated with heroin. Heroin was a recurring theme in his death,” Scott had reportedly already overdosed twice on heroin by the time of his death. Combined with alcohol, a third overdose could have killed him. The chronology of events on 19 February, Kinnear's account of what happened, and when exactly Scott was found dead was disputed in Bon: The Last Highway. In the book Zena Kakoulli, a heroin user and wife of Only Ones vocalist Peter Perrett, admitted to Fink she was with Scott and Kinnear: "I was there when he died, as I spent the night at Alistair's flat... I went back with Alistair and [Bon] to Alistair's flat. It was very late when we got back and I remember it being very cold. [My husband] Peter [Perrett] did not go with us that night." Regardless of the reason for his death, AC/DC had to move forward and carry on. Brian Johnson took over from Bon. The band continued to thrive, particularly with the launch of their album Back in Black, which came out only five months after Scott passed away. Some speculate that Scott had written much of what’s featured on the album. An ex-girlfriend of his claims to have seen his journals and notebooks with lyrics to You Shook Me All Night Long prior to his death. It certainly does have Bon Scott wordplay right through the middle of the song. It's been suggested that he deserved credit for the album posthumously and not his replacement, Brian Johnson. For the funeral arrangements, Scott's body was embalmed and later it was cremated, his ashes were laid to rest by his family at Fremantle Cemetery in Fremantle. Following Scott's passing, the remaining members of AC/DC briefly contemplated disbanding. Ultimately, they decided to carry on as Scott would have wished, and with the support of the Scott family, the band recruited Brian Johnson as their new vocalist. Scott had previously spoken highly of Johnson and his band Geordie to his friends, comparing the other vocalist to Little Richard and remarking (according to Angus Young) along the lines that Scott had found "a guy that knows what rock and roll is all about"

In the history of American photography, the name Karl Moon stands out for his captivating portrayal of Native American life. Born in 1879, Moon embarked on a journey that would immortalize the cultures, traditions, and faces of indigenous peoples across the American West. His work not only captured moments in time but also served as a bridge between worlds, bringing the rich tapestry of Native American life to a wider audience. Raised in Wilmington, Ohio, Carl (originally Karl) Everton Moon loved reading stories about Native Americans as a boy. He followed his Western aspirations to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he set up a studio in 1904 and began photographing, painting, and travelling among Pueblo tribe members he befriended. Moon's photographic career blossomed in the early 20th century, coinciding with a period of rapid change for Native American communities. During this time, the United States government was implementing policies aimed at assimilating indigenous peoples into mainstream American society, often at the expense of their cultural heritage. Moon's lens offered a counter-narrative, preserving the dignity and authenticity of Native American life. “Photographing the American Indian in his natural state was the principal aim of Carl Moon,” wrote Tom Driebe, author of In Search of the Wild Indian: Photographs & Life Works by Carl and Grace Moon. “He tried to show the Indian as he lived before civilization hampered his freedom ... and changed his picturesque customs and mode of dress.” Moon knew he was working against the clock of forced acculturation. “About the only thing we have thus far overlooked taking from the Indian,” he wrote, “is his right to perform his religious rites with their accompanying dances in his own way.” One of Moon's notable ventures was his collaboration with the Navajo Nation in the early 1900s. His photographs captured the everyday activities, ceremonies, and landscapes of the Navajo people, providing a window into their world. Among his subjects were prominent Navajo leaders such as Hoskininni, a respected medicine man, and Hastiin Klah, a renowned Navajo singer and weaver. Moon's images of Navajo hogans, sheepherding scenes, and traditional ceremonies offer a glimpse into a way of life that has endured for centuries. In 1907 Moon moved to Arizona and for seven years gathered paintings and photographs for the Fred Harvey Company at the Grand Canyon; there, he also served as the official photographer for the Santa Fe Railroad and studied painting with visiting artists, including Thomas Moran, Louis Akin, and Frank Sauerwein. Moon married artist Grace Purdie in 1911, and the two travelled the Southwest documenting Native culture. In 1914, the couple settled in Pasadena, California, and embarked on a series of 22 illustrated children’s books about American Indians. In addition to the Navajo, Moon ventured into other tribal territories, including the Apache, Hopi, and Pueblo communities. His photographs of Apache warriors, Hopi kachina dancers, and Pueblo pottery makers captured the diversity and resilience of Native American cultures. Moon had a keen eye for detail, often highlighting the intricate craftsmanship of indigenous artifacts and the rugged beauty of the Southwestern landscape. Moon's work was not without controversy, however. Some critics have accused him of romanticising Native American life and perpetuating stereotypes. Indeed, his photographs often portrayed indigenous peoples through the lens of the "noble savage" archetype prevalent in early 20th-century America. Despite these criticisms, Moon's photographs remain valuable historical documents that offer insight into a pivotal period in Native American history. In 1923, Moon approached railroad magnate and art collector Henry E. Huntington with the proposition of selling 300 photographic prints and 24 oil paintings, “an addition that Moon felt would ‘give the student of the future the true colouring of the Indian and his surroundings,’ ” says Jennifer A. Watts, curator of photographs at The Huntington Library in San Marino, California. Moon died in 1948 in San Francisco; his art lives on at The Huntington, where the collection is being arranged, described, and digitized. “The Moon photographs are not only an important visual resource for scholars and students of tribal peoples at the turn of the 20th century,” Watts says, “but sensitive, beautifully rendered portraits that reveal the artist’s deep admiration for the peoples he photographed.”

There are places in London where the past seems to cling to the stones, whispering reminders of the city’s more brutal chapters. Newgate is one of those places. Even today, as the traffic rolls past the Central Criminal Court on Old Bailey, it takes little effort to imagine the weight of history beneath the pavement. For centuries, Newgate was a name spoken with dread. It meant trial, despair, and for many, death. Yet woven through its grim reputation are stories of folklore, survival, rebellion, and a haunting said to have stalked the prisoners through the darkest nights. The Birth of a Prison That Became a Legend Newgate began in 1188 during the reign of Henry II as a small cluster of holding cells built above the “New Gate” in the old London City Walls. The idea was straightforward: a place to keep prisoners while they waited for trial before the Royal Judges. The reality, however, swiftly descended into something far more frightening. Over time the jail grew into a sprawling, disease ridden complex where the poorest languished in filth and the wealthiest bribed their way into slightly less miserable quarters. Newgate at the turn of the century. Its location did little to improve the mood. The building stood near Smithfield, a place of livestock markets, public burnings, and hangings. Smoke, blood, shouting crowds and the constant smell of slaughter must have made Newgate feel like a purgatory between the world of the living and the world of the condemned. Robbers, pickpockets, debtors, and those guilty of even the mildest wrongdoing could find themselves inside. Famous prisoners added a kind of dark glamour. Ben Jonson spent time in Newgate, as did the adventurer and writer Casanova. Yet nothing softened the place. Newgate remained a symbol of despair throughout the medieval and early modern periods. Drawing of the Black Dog of Newgate, 1638 A Famine, a Scholar, and a Cannibal Curse During the reign of Henry III, England was struck by a severe famine. Food shortages hit the poorest first and hardest, and nowhere were conditions more desperate than behind the walls of Newgate. Rumours circulated of inmates driven to extremes. One popular tale tells of a scholar imprisoned for witchcraft who was thrown into the jail among starving men. Desperation led the inmates to overpower and kill him, and then, horrifyingly, to eat him. Had the story ended there, it would be grim enough, but legend rarely settles for simplicity. According to 13th century lore, the scholar’s death unleashed something unnatural. A monstrous coal black dog, said to be a demonic manifestation of the scholar himself, appeared inside the prison. It stalked the corridors, slipped through locked doors, and picked off the cannibalistic inmates one by one. Terrified, a few prisoners managed to flee, yet the dog followed them into the streets of London. The story claims that none escaped its vengeance. Though impossible to verify, tales of the Black Dog of Newgate circulated for centuries, retold in alehouses and printed in chapbooks. A 1638 illustration even shows the spectral animal looming over panicked prisoners. Whether supernatural warning or commentary on the savagery of prison life, the story reflects something very real about Newgate’s reputation. It was a place where hope was thin, suffering abundant, and fear a daily companion. Crime, Poverty and a City on the Edge For many Londoners surviving on the margins, petty crime was less a moral failing and more a consequence of poverty. Stealing bread, failing to repay debts, or taking a chance on picking a pocket might mean the difference between starving and staying alive. The line between survival and criminality was easily crossed. Perhaps this is why figures like the celebrated thief Jack Sheppard captured the public imagination. Born into poverty, trained as a carpenter, and tempted by the relative glamour of criminal life, Sheppard became a folk hero. His escapes from custody were astonishing feats of ingenuity and courage and offered the public the thrill of seeing an underdog outwit those in power. Jack Sheppard: Newgate’s Most Notorious Escape Artist Sheppard escaped from prison four times, twice from Newgate itself, and each time his legend grew. His first escape from Newgate reads almost like a comic adventure. By loosening an iron bar in the window, he squeezed through the gap, lowered himself with a knotted sheet and fled the prison disguised in women’s clothing. Londoners loved it. A cell and the galleries at Newgate in 1896 His second escape was even more daring. Locked in a cell considered escape proof, Sheppard scaled the chimney into the room above, broke through six locked doors, and reached the prison chapel. From there he found a route to the roof. Using only a blanket to help him cross to a neighbouring building, he slipped into a private residence, crept down the stairs, and walked calmly out the back door. The neighbours slept on, unaware that an infamous outlaw had just passed through their hallway. Jack Sheppard in Newgate Prison Daniel Defoe, who had spent time in Newgate himself, was so impressed by Sheppard’s feats that he wrote an account celebrating his resourcefulness. Yet Sheppard’s luck eventually ran out. In 1724 he was caught once more and this time did not escape his fate. On 16/11/1724 he was taken to Tyburn where crowds gathered to see the end of a folk hero. His body danced on the rope, but the story of his daring courage lived on. The Bloody Code and Newgate as a Theatre of Death As the eighteenth century progressed, the British legal system hardened. The so called Bloody Code listed more than two hundred offences punishable by death. Stealing a sheep or cutting down a tree in an aristocrat’s garden could result in hanging. Transportation to the colonies became a common alternative, but many still climbed the scaffold. When public executions were moved to Newgate, the prison became a grim theatre. A large wooden platform was erected outside what is now Old Bailey. Crowds filled the surrounding streets. Some accounts estimate thousands packed into the area on execution mornings. Those with money secured the best views. The Magpie and Stump pub, directly opposite the prison, offered upstairs rooms where patrons could enjoy breakfast while watching the condemned walk the final steps along Dead Man’s Walk. As prisoners received a final measure of rum, spectators raised glasses of brandy or claret. This macabre fusion of entertainment and punishment remained part of London’s social calendar well into the nineteenth century. Public hanging outside Newgate, early 1800s From Public Spectacle to Private Ritual By the 1860s attitudes had begun to shift. Public executions were considered unseemly, even barbaric, and London saw its final outdoor hanging at Newgate in 1868. After that all executions took place inside the prison walls, invisible to the crowds that once gasped and cheered. The Magpie and Stump still stands today. Though the spectacle has long ended, the upstairs rooms still attract curious visitors. Instead of spectators awaiting the fall of a rope, the pub now hosts detectives, lawyers and journalists awaiting verdicts from the courtrooms across the street. The roar of the old crowds has simply been replaced by the chatter of television crews. Newgate’s End and What Remains In 1904 Newgate Prison was demolished. Seven centuries of misery vanished in clouds of brick dust. Yet London rarely erases its past entirely. Walk along Newgate Street today and you will see the stones of the old prison embedded into the walls of the Central Criminal Court. They sit quietly, holding stories no renovation could ever fully silence. Across the road stands the church of St Sepulchre, long associated with the rituals of death carried out at Newgate. Inside, displayed in a glass case, is the Newgate execution bell. It was rung in the small hours before a hanging, echoing through the prison as a bleak reminder that someone’s final sunrise was approaching. As one contemporary wrote, it was “a warning that ended for all in a permanent sleep.” Even without the cells and chains, the spirit of Newgate lingers. Its stories of famine, haunting, courage, injustice, and desperate survival continue to fascinate. London is often celebrated for its grand architecture and sweeping history, yet it is places like Newgate that reveal the city’s darker undercurrents. The stones may be gone, but the memories they held remain stubbornly alive. Sources: 1. “The History of Newgate Prison” – by Raymond Wright ISBN: 9780711020909A detailed historical account covering Newgate from medieval beginnings to its demolition. 2. “The London Hanged: Crime and Civil Society in the Eighteenth Century” – by Peter Linebaugh ISBN: 9781859846384Provides social context for Newgate, public executions, and the Bloody Code. 3. “Jack Sheppard: A Tale of London” – by William Ainsworth (originally 1839) ISBN: 9780140439048A fictionalised but extensively researched narrative reflecting contemporary views of Sheppard’s life. 4. “The History of the Remarkable Life of John Sheppard” – by Daniel Defoe ISBN: 9781534975691Originally published anonymously in 1724. Often attributed to Defoe and one of the earliest biographies of Sheppard. 5. “Crime and Society in England 1750 to 1900” – by Clive Emsley ISBN: 9780582473513Covers the penal system, the Bloody Code, and the shift away from public execution. 6. “Tyburn: London’s Fatal Tree” – by Alan Brooke and David Brandon ISBN: 9780750946226A deep exploration of London’s execution culture, including Newgate’s role. 7. “London: The Biography” – by Peter Ackroyd ISBN: 9780099422587Includes rich narrative material on Newgate, Smithfield, and medieval London life. 8. “Legends of the Black Dog” – by Eleanor Parker (chapter in broader folklore studies) ISBN: 9780859895335 Provides context for spectral black dog tales, including the Newgate variation. 9. “Public Punishment and the Urban Crowd in Eighteenth Century London” – Journal of British Studies Author: V. A. C. GatrellJSTOR stable reference number available in most university libraries.Analysis of execution rituals, crowd behaviour, and Newgate’s theatre of death. 10. “Jack Sheppard and the Art of Escape” – The Historical Journal Author: Lincoln FallerExplores Sheppard’s real escapes, public reception, and cultural impact. 11. “Folklore of Urban Fear: The Black Dog of Newgate” – Folklore Journal Author: Owen DaviesAcademic evaluation of black dog legends and their association with prisons. 12. Museum of London Collection – Newgate Prison Artifacts Catalogue Reference: M.1927.2Includes stones, keys, and restraints recovered from the prison site. 13. St Sepulchre’s Church – Newgate Execution Bell Catalogue Reference: Parish Record SPSEP/CH/45Documented in the parish archives relating to its use before executions. 14. The National Archives – Criminal Court Records and Newgate Calendars Record Group: HO 26 and HO 27Contains registers of prisoners awaiting execution or transportation. 15. British Museum – “The Black Dog of Newgate” 1638 Woodcut Catalogue Reference: BM 1868,0328.1230A surviving early print depicting the legendary spectral dog. 16. London Metropolitan Archives – Plans and Demolition Papers for Newgate Prison Collection Code: CLA/047/EMIncludes architectural drawings and documentation from the 1904 demolition. 17. Old Bailey Court Records – Newgate Associated Trials Reference: The Old Bailey Proceedings, 1674 to 1913, microfilm collectionHeld in the London Metropolitan Archives reading room. 18. Guildhall Library – Newgate Prison Calendars and Execution Broadsides Catalogue Reference: BROADSIDES PRISON 01

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

At approximately 8 p.m. on March 20, 1974, Princess Anne and her husband, married for just four months, were en route to Buckingham Palace following a charity film screening. Seated in the back of a maroon Rolls-Royce limousine adorned with royal insignia, Anne's lady-in-waiting accompanied the couple, while Inspector James Wallace Beaton, a member of Scotland Yard's special operations branch responsible for royal protection, occupied the passenger seat as their bodyguard. Along the Mall, a thoroughfare connecting London's Trafalgar Square and Buckingham Palace, their journey was abruptly halted as a white Ford Escort overtook them, compelling their chauffeur to stop roughly 200 yards from the palace. A bearded man with light red hair emerged from the Escort brandishing two handguns, advancing towards the rear of the limousine. Assuming the man to be a disgruntled driver, Inspector Beaton, aged 31, exited the vehicle to confront him. From a distance of six feet, the assailant fired a shot, striking the officer in his right shoulder. Beaton would later speak to The Times newspaper about what was going through his mind as he tried to protect the princess and got shot. “I thought it was somebody who wanted to be a pain in the neck,” the former officer recalled when Ball stopped the car. “There was no hint of what was to happen.” After being hit by gunfire, Beaton said: “I felt tired and very drunk, although I hadn’t been drinking. I just wanted to lie down.” “I had nothing. There was no backup vehicle,” Beaton told The Times per Express. “The training was non-existent; but then again, [we thought] nothing was going to happen. They are highly specialised now, highly trained.” It might seem improbable that locating a member of the royal family could be as straightforward as obstructing their limousine with one's own vehicle, yet Ball defied expectations by pinpointing the princess's whereabouts with precision. Familiar with Princess Anne's route from previous sightings, he deemed her an "easy target" and simply dialed the Buckingham Palace press office to ascertain her location. The palace had also widely publicized Princess Anne's attendance at the charity event, and her limousine prominently displayed the royal insignia, facilitating Ball's pursuit. Perceiving Princess Anne as vulnerable, Ball likely noted that she and her husband travelled with only one bodyguard, further fuelling his confidence in targeting her for abduction. In his scheme to seize Anne, Ian Ball set his sights on the day's celebrity royal figure. Having married a commoner, Mark Phillips, a British army Captain, the 23-year-old princess had captured public attention. Their union, forged through equestrian circles where Phillips had distinguished himself with an Olympic gold medal, culminated in a lavish wedding ceremony that included 2000 guests and extensive media coverage. During the attempted kidnapping, only one member of SO14 was tasked with protecting Princess Anne, a practice akin to Queen Elizabeth's unofficial trips, where she typically had just one bodyguard in tow. Although Ball was unaware of the specific route the limousine would take that night, the palace's promotion of Princess Anne's event appearance could have potentially facilitated tracking the maroon Rolls-Royce as it escorted her from the theatre. At 26 years old, Ball, grappling with mental illness, had rented a car using the alias John Williams. Inside, authorities discovered two sets of handcuffs, Valium tranquilizers, and a ransom letter addressed to the Queen. In the letter, Ball, in a disjointed manner, criticized the royal family and demanded a £2 million ransom, to be paid in £5 sterling notes. He outlined a convoluted plan for the exchange, insisting that the money be placed in 20 unlocked suitcases and transported on a plane bound for Switzerland. Ball stipulated that Queen Elizabeth II herself must be present on the plane to validate the authenticity of her signatures on the necessary paperwork. While most of London’s Metropolitan police officers were unarmed, those tasked with protecting the royal family were equipped with automatic weapons. Inspector Beaton attempted to fire at Ian Ball, but his injured shoulder impaired his aim, and his gun jammed after a single shot. Turning his attention to the rear door behind the driver’s seat, Ball forcefully shook it, with Princess Anne seated on the opposite side. “Open up, or I'll shoot!” he bellowed. Despite the princess and Captain Phillips struggling to keep the door shut, Princess Anne’s lady-in-waiting managed to crawl out from the passenger side door. Seizing the moment, Beaton swiftly reentered the limousine, positioning himself between the couple and their assailant. Ball fired into the car, but Beaton deflected the bullet with his hand. Undeterred, Ball fired a third shot, forcing Beaton out of the vehicle and onto the ground with a wound. Chauffeur Alexander Callendar, one of the Queen’s drivers, emerged to confront the gunman, only to be shot in the chest, causing him to fall back into the car. Ball then forcibly opened the back door, grabbing hold of Anne’s forearm as Phillips clung to her waist. “Please, come out,” pleaded Ball to Anne. “You must come.” As Anne and Ball grappled, her dress tore, splitting down the back. Despite the chaos, Anne remained composed, recalling later that she engaged in what she described as "a very irritating conversation" with her would-be abductor. Repeatedly asserting her refusal to leave the car, Anne responded to one of Ball's pleas with a blunt retort, saying, "Bloody likely." Captain Phillips admitted to feeling fear during the ordeal, particularly when police officers began to arrive, creating a sense of being trapped. The arrival of help seemed tantalizingly close yet frustratingly distant, as constables hesitated to approach an armed man in such close proximity to the princess. Police Constable Michael Hills, just 22 years old, was the first to respond. Initially assuming the commotion stemmed from a car accident, he approached Ball and attempted to intervene, only to be shot in the stomach. Despite his injury, Hills managed to radio for assistance before collapsing. Ronald Russell, an executive on his way home from work, witnessed the scene and approached on foot after observing Ball confronting Officer Hills. Russell later recalled thinking “He needs sorting”. A 6’4” former boxer, Russell waded into the shooter for hurting a policeman. Russell later said "As a 6ft 4in, ex-heavyweight boxer, I decided I was well-placed to defuse the situation. I wanted to prevent this fellow from getting into any more trouble. So I stopped my car and walked towards him. I saw Ball reaching into the back seat of the limousine, his hand on the forearm of the young woman inside – only then did I recognize her as the Queen’s daughter." Another motorist, a chauffeur named Glenmore Martin, positioned his vehicle in front of the white Ford to prevent Ball from fleeing. Martin also attempted to distract Ball, but when the gunman aimed at him, Martin turned his attention to aiding Officer Hills on the roadside. Meanwhile, journalist John Brian McConnell from the Daily Mail arrived at the scene. Recognising the royal insignia on the limousine, he realised a member of the royal family was in peril. “Don’t be silly, old boy,” he said to Ball. “Put the gun down.” Ball shot him. As McConnell collapsed onto the pavement, he became the third man to bleed onto the road. With McConnell down, Ball refocused his attention on his struggle with Princess Anne. Seizing the opportunity, Ronald Russell approached from behind and delivered a powerful punch to the back of Ball's head. As the former boxer diverted the gunman's attention, Anne reached for the door handle on the opposite side of the backseat. With determination, she opened the door and pushed herself backward, freeing herself from the car. “I thought that if I was out of the car that he might move,” she said.Her instincts proved correct. As Ball dashed around the car toward the princess, she swiftly retreated back inside with Phillips, firmly closing the door behind her. In the heat of the moment, Ronald Russell delivered a forceful punch to Ball's face. With additional police officers now arriving on the scene, the unfolding events were being witnessed by more onlookers. Princess Anne noticed their presence made Ian Ball nervous. “Go on,” she said. “Now’s your chance.” He took off running. Upon hearing Officer Hills' distress call, Peter Edmonds, serving as a temporary detective constable, swiftly responded. Arriving at the scene in his own vehicle, Edmonds witnessed a man fleeing with a gun through St. James Park. Without hesitation, Edmonds pursued Ball, employing a tactic of throwing his coat over Ball's head, which allowed him to successfully tackle and apprehend him. During the arrest, authorities discovered over £300 in £10 notes in Ball's possession. Subsequently, investigations revealed that earlier in the month, Ball had rented a property on a secluded road in Hampshire, situated just five miles away from Sandhurst Military Academy, which coincidentally was also the residence of Princess Anne and Captain Phillips. Home Secretary Roy Jenkins commissioned an investigative report for the Prime Minister and emphasised to the press the need for the investigation to remain confidential. Both Scotland Yard and Buckingham Palace declined to provide comments on specific details. Journalists started to come up with their own theories regarding how an unemployed man grappling with mental illness could orchestrate and nearly execute a kidnapping attempt on his own. An office clerk disclosed to a reporter that police had tracked a typewriter rented by Ball, purportedly used to craft the ransom letter. Media outlets reported that one chilling line from the letter threatened, "Anne will be shot dead." In the aftermath of the kidnapping attempt, a group identifying as the Marxist-Leninist Activist Revolutionary Movement claimed responsibility in a letter sent to The Times of London. However, Scotland Yard swiftly dismissed any connection between this group and Ian Ball. Some observers noted a striking resemblance in the ransom letter's content, wherein Ball allegedly pledged to donate the Queen's ransom to the National Health Service, to a previous incident. Just one month prior, the Symbionese Liberation Army had kidnapped Patricia Hearst, demanding a sizable food donation to feed the hungry in exchange for her release. At one point detectives believed he could have been a member of the Irish Republican Army, but Ball quickly debunked that theory, insisting that he worked completely alone, telling police: I have got no friends. I'm a loner. I put a lot of thought and work into it. I can't expect people like you to understand or accept that I did it and planned it alone. Do you think I am part of the IRA or something? If there had been anyone else, they would have helped me at the scene. The public was later informed of Ball's mental illness and his status as an unemployed laborer and minor criminal, a revelation that left journalists grappling for a narrative. The notion of such an individual orchestrating the kidnapping of British royalty was unprecedented and, for many, hard to believe. "There is presently no indication that this was anything other than an isolated act by an individual," Jenkins informed the House of Commons, a sentiment echoed by the agreement to keep the investigation's findings confidential. While Secretary Jenkins announced an increase in royal protection to the press, he refrained from divulging specifics. Buckingham Palace issued a statement asserting that the royal family had no intention of living in "bullet-proof cages." Notably, Princess Anne, who valued her privacy, continued to do so even after narrowly escaping harm. Discussing it later, the Princess said, "There was only one man, if there had been more than one it might have been a different story." The princess acknowledged in an interview that one's "greatest danger" is perhaps "the lone nutcases" that "have just got enough" resources to put a crime together. "If anybody was serious on wiping one out, it would be very easy to do." When Ian Ball appeared in court on April 4, Ball gave a statement on what motivated his crime: "I would like to say that I did it because I wished to draw attention to the lack of facilities for treating mental illness under the National Health Service." Princess Anne talks about the attempted kidnap on Parky Ian Ball admitted guilt to attempted murder and kidnapping charges. He received a life sentence in a mental health facility, where he was confined, at least in part, at Broadmoor, a high-security psychiatric hospital. Despite Ball's sentencing, the public remained largely uninformed about him, possessing only minimal details such as his birth date, birthplace, and eyewitness descriptions of his appearance and behavior. In 1983, Ball wrote a letter to a Member of Parliament alleging that the attempted kidnapping was a fabrication and that he was framed. Scotland Yard's investigation remained sealed until January 1, 2005, when the National Archives released the documents as part of the "thirty-year rule," which mandates the disclosure of cabinet papers three decades after their filing. Less than a decade after the failed kidnapping, the press once again criticised Scotland Yard for its failure to protect the royal family. In July 1982, an unemployed man managed to scale the palace walls and sneak into Queen Elizabeth's bedroom. The intruder engaged in a conversation with the Queen for ten minutes before she was able to call for assistance. The following year, Scotland Yard restructured the Royalty Protection Branch, appointing James Wallace Beaton as its superintendent. The day after the incident, Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips resumed their routine activities at their home on the grounds of Sandhurst. Phillips instructed cadets on the rifle range, while Anne tended to her horses. In September, Queen Elizabeth II awarded the George Cross, Britain's highest civilian award for courage, to Inspector Beaton. She presented the George Medal, the second-highest civilian honour for bravery, to Police Constable Hills and Ronald Russell, along with Queen's Gallantry medals to Police Constable Edmonds, John Brian McConnell, and Alexander Callender. Glenmore Martin received the Queen's Commendation for Brave Conduct. Although Scotland Yard declines to disclose specific details regarding SO14, an internal police budget from 2010 revealed an expenditure of approximately £113.5 million on royal security. By 2012, this figure reportedly decreased to £50 million. Under the revised budget, Scotland Yard reduced funding allocated to safeguarding "non-working royals," including Prince Andrew's daughters, Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice, except for official family events. Concerned for his daughters' safety, Prince Andrew opted to privately hire security for them, mirroring his mother's concern for Princess Anne's safety 40 years prior. Ronald Russell later recalled what Queen Elizabeth said as she awarded him his George Cross medal: “The medal is from the Queen of England, the thank you is from Anne’s mother.”

In the chronicles of great explorers, the name Matthew Henson is often overlooked, relegated to a place far removed from the prominence it truly deserves. Henson’s life is one of remarkable courage, perseverance, and tenacity—qualities that would be impressive in any individual, but are even more astounding when one considers the racial prejudices of his time. As a black man born in the United States in the 19th century, Henson faced not only the unforgiving Arctic wilderness but also the relentless social barriers imposed by a world that often denied his very humanity. The Early Years: A Life Shaped by Hardship Matthew Alexander Henson was born in 1866 in Charles County, Maryland, to parents who had been enslaved. The scars of the Civil War had only begun to fade, and the Reconstruction era still held the promise of a new beginning for African Americans. But for many, including Henson, life remained a struggle. Orphaned at the tender age of eleven, Henson was sent to live with an uncle, but his restless spirit soon led him to the seas. At the age of twelve, he became a cabin boy aboard the Katie Hines , a merchant ship under the command of Captain Childs. This was where the first seeds of adventure were planted. Captain Childs, an enlightened man for the times, took an interest in young Henson, educating him in the skills of navigation, seamanship, and the art of survival at sea. “He was my first great benefactor,” Henson would later recall. “I owe him everything.” Under Childs’ tutelage, Henson travelled the world, experiencing lands and cultures far beyond the imagination of most of his countrymen. These voyages not only shaped his identity but also instilled in him the determination that would later carry him to the ends of the earth. A Fateful Meeting: Robert Peary and the Arctic Quest Henson’s life changed forever in 1887 when he met Robert Edwin Peary, a civil engineer and naval officer who harboured ambitions of becoming a great Arctic explorer. The two men formed a bond that would endure for decades and would ultimately place them in the annals of exploration history. Peary recognised in Henson a kindred spirit—someone who shared his thirst for adventure and who had the rare skillset needed for Arctic exploration. In 1891, Henson accompanied Peary on his first expedition to Greenland. While Peary was ostensibly the leader, it was Henson who often became the indispensable man of the team. His abilities as a craftsman, dog-handler, and navigator were invaluable to the success of the expeditions. Henson not only learnt the language and customs of the Inuit people but earned their respect through his willingness to live among them as an equal. His natural affinity for the Inuit, coupled with his ability to build sturdy sledges and handle dogs with skill, made him an invaluable asset to Peary’s Arctic campaigns. One striking anecdote from these early expeditions speaks volumes about Henson’s adaptability and courage. During one of the harsh winters in Greenland, Henson fell through the ice into freezing water. Without hesitation, he managed to pull himself out, though not without injury. He later remarked with stoic understatement, “It was cold—very cold—but I could not allow myself the luxury of fear.” Such was the mettle of the man. The Race to the North Pole Henson’s crowning achievement came in 1909 during Peary’s most famous expedition—the attempt to reach the North Pole. This was no ordinary journey; it was a bitter race against time, the elements, and rival explorers. Peary’s previous attempts to reach the Pole had failed, and the stakes were higher than ever. By this point, Henson had become Peary’s most trusted companion, described by the explorer as “the best man I have with me.” The expedition began in 1908, with Peary, Henson, and a small team making the final push across the ice in March of the following year. The conditions were brutal, with temperatures plummeting to -40°C, and the endless Arctic night closing in. It was during this final stage that Henson proved to be instrumental. Not only was he the most proficient at managing the dog teams, but he also took on much of the physical labour, breaking trail through the thick snow and ensuring the survival of the expedition members. On 6th April 1909, Matthew Henson and Robert Peary stood at what they believed to be the North Pole. However, it was Henson who likely arrived first. In his own words, Henson recounted the moment in his understated manner: “I was in the lead that had overshot the mark a couple of miles. We went back, then I could see that my footprints were the first at the spot.” Despite Henson’s critical role in the expedition, it was Peary who received the bulk of the acclaim, celebrated as the first man to reach the North Pole. Henson, by contrast, was largely ignored by the mainstream press and scientific community, his race undoubtedly playing a significant part in this injustice. In his autobiography, A Negro Explorer at the North Pole , Henson reflected on this disparity with a sense of quiet dignity: “The stars shone in the same sky for all of us.” Recognition and Legacy For much of his life, Matthew Henson remained in the shadows of Peary’s fame, yet his contributions did not go entirely unrecognised. The Inuit, with whom Henson had lived and worked closely, bestowed upon him great honour, naming him “Miy Paluk”—a term of deep respect and affection. His peers in the exploration community also acknowledged his talents, though he never received the same institutional recognition as Peary. As we reflect on Matthew Henson’s extraordinary life, we are reminded of his quiet yet profound words: “It is up to us to prove ourselves; the white man has no faith in the ability of the black man to rise to real manhood and take a place alongside of him.” Prove himself, Henson did—on the frozen expanses of the Arctic and in the pages of history. After years of living in relative obscurity despite his achievements, Henson passed away on 9th March 1955, at the age of 88, in New York City. He was survived by his wife, Lucy, and was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. It wasn’t until 1988 that the significance of his accomplishments was fully recognised, and his remains were moved to Arlington National Cemetery, where they now rest with full honours near his lifelong companion, Robert Peary. Though he died in quiet dignity, far from the limelight of fame, Henson’s legacy has since been rightfully enshrined in history—his story shining as one of tenacity, bravery, and an unyielding spirit that broke barriers both literal and societal. A Pioneer Who Broke More Than One Ice Barrier Matthew Henson’s legacy is one of both geographical discovery and social defiance. As one of the first men to reach the North Pole, he secured his place in history, but as a black man who overcame extraordinary odds, his story carries an even deeper resonance. He broke barriers that were not only physical but societal, achieving feats that many considered impossible for someone of his race at the time. In 2000, Henson’s contribution to Arctic exploration was commemorated with the issuance of a US postal stamp, a small but symbolic recognition of his enduring legacy. More importantly, his story continues to inspire new generations of explorers and adventurers, showing that courage, determination, and skill transcend the artificial divisions of race and class.

Nelson on the deck of HMS Victory after being shot by a sniper. Life in the British Navy during the 18th century was far from comfortable. The food was often infested with maggots, living quarters were cramped, and discipline was brutally strict—lashings with the cat-o’-nine-tails were a constant threat. Winston Churchill would later sum up the experience with his famous quip: “nothing but rum, sodomy and the lash.” It’s no wonder few men volunteered. Most found themselves aboard through press-ganging—a practice where men, often merchant sailors, apprentices, or labourers, were forcibly recruited into service. The British Government, locked in conflict with Napoleonic France from 1793 to 1815, claimed the right to seize seafaring men for the Navy, enforcing this policy with vigour in coastal towns. Those unlucky enough to be press-ganged weren’t just signing up for grim conditions—they were going to war. The Royal Navy’s fleet included 136 ships-of-the-line, each boasting at least 50 guns. Once enlisted, these men could soon find themselves in the thick of battle, surrounded by chaos, gun smoke, and the deafening roar of cannon fire. Naval historian Dr Sam Willis describes these engagements as sheer bedlam. Visibility would be reduced to just a few feet due to the thick gunsmoke, and any semblance of order could quickly disintegrate. Wind, tide, and even luck played as much of a role as strategy. A single well-aimed shot could cripple a warship by taking out its rigging, while the sudden loss of officers or crew could grind a vessel’s operations to a halt. Nothing ever went exactly to plan. Despite these dangers, some men willingly chose this life. One such person was a frail twelve-year-old boy that stepped into this unpredictable world, with a determination to make something of himself. He was the sixth of eleven children born to the wife of a clergyman in Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk. His name was Horatio Nelson, and he would become one of Britain’s greatest military leaders and a national hero. Early Naval Career Nelson began his naval career as a midshipman aboard HMS Raisonable, a 64-gun warship captured from the French. By the age of 14, he had already sailed to the West Indies, the Northwest Passage, and the North Sea. His talent was recognised early, and at just 20, he was promoted to post-captain, taking command of the frigate HMS Hinchingbroke in 1779. During the American War of Independence, he served in the Caribbean, where he learned valuable lessons in naval warfare and leadership. He took part in the unsuccessful assault on San Juan in 1780 and later commanded the frigate HMS Boreas, enforcing the unpopular Navigation Acts in the West Indies. His strict enforcement of trade regulations made him deeply unpopular among merchants, but it proved his unwavering dedication to duty. Horatio Nelson's Road to Fame By the 1790s, Britain was again at war with France, and Nelson was given command of a series of ships. He distinguished himself at the Siege of Bastia in 1794, where he played a crucial role in capturing Corsica. However, during the campaign, he was wounded and lost the sight in his right eye. Three years later, during an attack on Santa Cruz de Tenerife in 1797, he suffered another severe injury. Attempting to lead a landing force, he was shot in the right arm and had to undergo an amputation without anaesthesia. Despite this, Nelson's determination remained unshaken. He was back in action within months. The Battle of the Nile (1798) One of his most spectacular victories came in 1798 at the Battle of Aboukir Bay, also known as the Battle of the Nile. Commanding 14 ships, Nelson took on a French fleet of 17, utterly destroying it. The battle was a masterclass in tactics—he attacked at night, using unorthodox methods to trap and annihilate the French. His victory effectively stranded Napoleon’s army in Egypt and reasserted British naval dominance in the Mediterranean. Historians credit this triumph to his tactical ingenuity and his ability to share his battle strategies with his captains—the men he called his “band of brothers.” The Battle of Copenhagen (1801) Nelson’s reputation for boldness was further cemented at the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801. The British fleet was sent to neutralise the Danish navy, which was aligned with Napoleon. During the battle, Nelson’s superior, Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, signalled for the fleet to retreat. Nelson, however, refused. Holding his telescope to his blind eye, he turned to his flag captain, Thomas Foley, and famously said: “You know, Foley, I only have one eye—I have the right to be blind sometimes.” He then declared, “I really do not see the signal!” and continued the fight. His defiance paid off. The British won a decisive victory, and Nelson was promoted to Vice Admiral. The Battle of Trafalgar (1805) His final and most famous battle came in 1805 at Trafalgar. Napoleon, seeking to invade Britain, needed control of the seas. To achieve this, the Franco-Spanish fleet set sail with 33 ships carrying 2,600 guns and 30,000 men. Nelson’s fleet, though outnumbered, consisted of 27 ships with 2,150 guns and 17,000 men. The actual coat worn by admiral Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar in 1805 with the hole in the shoulder caused by the musket ball that killed him. Before the battle commenced, Nelson sent a message that would go down in history: “England expects that every man will do his duty.” His fleet did just that. In a stunning display of tactical brilliance, the Royal Navy captured or sank 22 enemy ships without losing a single one of their own. Trafalgar shattered Napoleon’s hopes of naval dominance. But Nelson paid the ultimate price. As he paced the deck of HMS Victory, a French sniper fired from the rigging of the Redoutable, hitting him in the shoulder and spine. Mortally wounded, he was carried below deck. His last words, spoken hours later, were “Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty.” He was just 47. Legacy and National Mourning The entire nation mourned. His funeral procession in London saw streets lined with thousands of weeping spectators. He was buried with full honours in St Paul’s Cathedral, where his sarcophagus still rests today. Nelson's funeral at St Paul's Today, Nelson’s legacy endures. In Trafalgar Square, Nelson’s Column—erected in 1840—stands 170 feet (51.8m) tall, crowned with his statue. His victories shaped Britain’s naval supremacy for the next century, and his leadership continues to be studied by military historians worldwide. Horatio Nelson was more than just a brilliant strategist; he was a leader who inspired fierce loyalty and devotion. Through triumph and hardship, he left an indelible mark on British history, securing his place as one of the nation’s greatest heroes.

By the early 1970s, Johnny Nash was a rising star, particularly in the UK, where his smooth reggae-influenced hit “I Can See Clearly Now”  was becoming a massive success. Nash had been pivotal in bringing reggae to a wider international audience, especially after spending time in Jamaica, where he worked with local artists, including a then-unknown Bob Marley. At that time, Marley was still relatively unknown outside Jamaica, and although he had begun gaining recognition with The Wailers, his journey to international superstardom was still in its early stages. Nash and Marley had become friends in Jamaica, where Nash was deeply inspired by the sounds of reggae. Nash’s move to bring Bob Marley and his bandmates to the UK was motivated by his desire to help his friend find success in Europe, and this partnership led to a peculiar sequence of events, culminating in the gig at Peckham Manor School. The Journey to Peckham In 1972, Marley travelled to London with Johnny Nash and his manager, Danny Sims. Nash had secured a record deal with CBS, and Marley was hoping for similar luck. Nash had promised Marley an opportunity to record some of his songs for CBS, but the deal never quite materialised as expected. Despite the setbacks, Marley continued to write, tour, and collaborate with Nash. While Nash was in the process of promoting his music in London, an opportunity arose for the two to perform at a local school in Peckham. This wasn’t a major concert venue, but a simple school hall. The idea was to provide a free and intimate show for the schoolchildren, many of whom had no idea they were about to witness two future music legends. The Peckham Performance The gig was low-key. Marley and Nash, both at different stages of their careers, arrived at the school with little fanfare. For Marley, this was just another chance to perform, not knowing that in a few short years, he would become a global icon, known for his revolutionary music and message of peace, unity, and justice. Nash, already more established, was happy to share the stage with his Jamaican friend. According to attendees, the performance was nothing short of remarkable. The two performed a mix of reggae and pop tunes, with Marley contributing some of his lesser-known tracks, while Nash performed some of his hits, including “Stir It Up” —a song penned by Marley himself. One witness recalled the event years later: “It was unreal. We had Bob Marley and Johnny Nash right there in our school hall. Marley played the guitar, and Nash’s voice was so smooth. It felt like we were witnessing something special, but we didn’t fully understand just how legendary it would become.” This impromptu gig served as a brief but unforgettable experience for the lucky students and staff present that day. Many would later reflect on the moment as a rare opportunity to see two stars at a time when Marley’s fame had not yet reached its peak. Keith Baugh talks about his role in the making of a legend and how he found himself taking these iconic photographs. ----------------------------------------- Photos and words by Keith Baugh In March 1972, Bob Marley and Johnny Nash performed a free gig at a secondary school in south London (above) after a chance encounter with an art teacher in a central London nightclub. Ex-NUT member Keith Baugh tells Max Watson about his role in the making of a legend and how he found himself taking these iconic photographs. 'Towards the end of March 1972 I visited the Bag O’Nails nightclub off London’s Carnaby Street with my friend Martin who worked for CBS recording studios.' During the evening a couple of very cool dudes sauntered over and joined us at our table. Martin introduced me to the American singer Johnny Nash, who had just recorded an album at CBS, and then to Bob Marley who leaned over with a big smile and quietly said: “I just the songwriter.” One of the album tracks recorded by Johnny was the Bob Marley song Stir It Up, which had been released as a single a couple of weeks earlier. The record was not selling well and both Johnny and Bob were clearly frustrated that the disc had not broken into the top 40, which would have automatically meant national radio and TV exposure. Martin talked over publicity options with plans for interviews on local radio stations involving travel to far-flung parts of the UK, which didn’t seem to go down so well with the two musicians. It was at that moment I broke into the conversation and said: “Why don’t you guys come down to the school in Peckham where I teach and do an acoustic performance for the students? The school has a large games hall and you would have a target audience of a few hundred record-buying teenagers.” Johnny said: “Yeah! that sounds cool.” Bob smiled and said: “Nice.” By the following day I had completely forgotten about the suggestion. Two stools, no amps, no microphones Three days later I had a telephone call saying that the gig was definitely on for Thursday morning and Martin would drive Johnny and Bob to Peckham Manor School by 10am. I was asked to confirm that the school would agree to this. They would require a low stage with two stools, along with seating for as many students as possible. There would be two guitars, no amplifiers and no microphones. It was going to be a stripped-back acoustic gig. The following morning I outlined plans to the head teacher who liked the idea of ‘famous’ CBS recording musicians visiting the school and approved students being off-timetable after morning break. It was all systems go and I kept my fingers crossed, hoping they would turn up. Sure enough, they pulled into the school car park on time. As we walked to the games hall we passed a group of kids playing football. Bob smiled and, obviously aware of London’s football tribes, said: “Them all support Millwall? I support Tottenham Hotspur.” “Probably best to keep that to yourself,” I replied and we laughed. A little later in the games hall coffee bar I chatted with Bob and Johnny as they tuned their acoustic guitars. Bob told me that he had written more than 400 songs. These included some of his most famous compositions soon to become huge international hits, including Sun is Shining, One Love, Don’t Rock My Boat, Kaya and Trenchtown Rock. I remember asking Bob if he rated Bob Dylan as a songwriter and he said: “Me like his songs about women,” and laughed. I mentioned Dylan’s Just Like a Woman, and he said: “Yeah, that’s the one.” Johnny Nash’s ‘crystal clear voice’ Johnny and Bob entered the cavernous games hall space to a tumultuous explosion of clapping, foot stomping and cheering that took a good few minutes to subside. Johnny introduced the first song, Hold Me Tight, saying it had got to number five in the UK and USA singles charts. A mesmerising and loping reggae beat emerged from the two guitars with Bob throwing in some exquisite lead guitar high up the neck and then Johnny Nash’s crystal clear voice filling the hall with the lyrics: “I don’t want to hear it, No more fussin’ and fightin’ baby.” The song ended with raucous applause and Johnny followed with another hit song Cupid, his voice filling every corner of the vast space. Bob Marley then looked over at Johnny and with a broad smile said this next song, Trenchtown Rock, was a number one hit for Bob Marley and the Wailers in Jamaica last year. There was huge applause, then Marley’s signature ‘chick-ee chick-ee’ reggae guitar set the groove followed by those unforgettable lyrics: “One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain.” The students were encouraged to join in with the final chorus. Although a fabulous story, many would quite rightly question the authenticity of the event. Fortunately, I had with me my old, battered 35mm Practica camera with 15 remaining frames of a Tri-X black-and-white film. Guessing the light settings I got to take shots of the performance, a couple of unseen shots in the coffee bar and my favourite – this panoramic photograph of Bob and Johnny playing football in the playground. Bob smiled and, obviously aware of London’s football tribes, said: “Them all support Millwall?” Johnny then turned up the pressure with a sublime performance of his soon-to-be worldwide hit I Can See Clearly Now. The head whispered in my ear: “What a voice and what great role models these young men are for our students.” Four more songs, including a shared vocal on Guava Jelly, took us up to a Q&A session. The first question was: “What was it like to be in a recording studio?” Johnny replied that it was humbling to work with so many talented musicians, that you had to be focussed and well prepared and could not afford to waste time. Bob smiled and said that he preferred recording in Jamaican studios because the sun was always shining and between recording songs you could go outside and play football. Of course the next question was aimed at Bob: “Which football team do you support?” After a long pause he gave a considered answer that pleased everyone: “Jamaica!” Johnny was asked: “What car do you drive when you are in America?” The reply was, always a Cadillac. Finally, Bob was asked why he wore a hat indoors. He laughed and took off his striped beanie, letting his baby dreadlocks spring out. He said it was part of his religion and talked for a while about Rastafarian philosophy. The audience, however, wanted more music. On to the final two songs. The first was the Marley song Reggae on Broadway, with the two singers sharing alternate verses. Everyone was invited to join in on the chorus and once more the games hall was filled with clapping and stomping and a joyous sound of two to three hundred voices. A smiling Johnny Nash introduced the final song, the newly released single Stir It Up, with a request that the students encourage their brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends to go out and buy the record and help get it into the top 40. Then once more Bob’s ‘chick-ee’ guitar introduction led into an extended and sublime version of the song. Bob and Johnny spent 15 minutes signing photographs and then after coffee and donuts we walked through the playground. Irresistible draw of playground footy Bob saw a group of students playing football and could not resist getting involved (pictured below). The ball was passed to the singer and, with guitar in hand and the broadest smile, he demonstrated some exquisite ball control skills. After one of the most memorable mornings for everyone who witnessed the performance, the two musicians headed for the car and drove back to central London.

During their 1982 tour, Van Halen made a unique request in their tour riders: a bowl of M&M's, but with all the brown ones taken out, to be provided in the dressing room at each venue. This demand was widely viewed as an extravagant whim, with many believing that the band was pushing boundaries and testing the limits of what they could request from concert organisers. But the seemingly ludicrous request was actually a shrewd business move. (I was reminded of it while reading Ian Parker's excellent profile of New York Times food critic Pete Wells in the New Yorker; he mentions the Van Halen M&M episode in passing.) The band's concert rider indeed had a clause saying there could be no brown M&Ms in the backstage area, or the promoter would forfeit the entire show at full price. As lead singer David Lee Roth explained in a 2012 interview, the bowl of M&Ms was an indicator of whether the concert promoter had actually read the band's complicated contract. Diamond Dave explains more in his biography - "Van Halen was the first band to take huge productions into tertiary, third-level markets. We’d pull up with nine eighteen-wheeler trucks, full of gear, where the standard was three trucks, max. And there were many, many technical errors — whether it was the girders couldn’t support the weight, or the flooring would sink in, or the doors weren’t big enough to move the gear through. The contract rider read like a version of the Chinese Yellow Pages because there was so much equipment, and so many human beings to make it function. So just as a little test, in the technical aspect of the rider, it would say “Article 148: There will be fifteen amperage voltage sockets at twenty-foot spaces, evenly, providing nineteen amperes …” This kind of thing. And article number 126, in the middle of nowhere, was: “There will be no brown M&M’s in the backstage area, upon pain of forfeiture of the show, with full compensation.” So, when I would walk backstage, if I saw a brown M&M in that bowl … well, line-check the entire production. Guaranteed you’re going to arrive at a technical error. They didn’t read the contract. Guaranteed you’d run into a problem. Sometimes it would threaten to just destroy the whole show. Something like, literally, life-threatening." The lesson on the significance of contracts, by Van Halen, concludes here.

Today is 3 October, and on this date in 1283, Dafydd ap Gruffydd met an infamously grisly end at the hands of the English crown. He wasn’t just any nobleman. He was a Prince of Wales in the truest sense, one born into the ancient royal line of Gwynedd, a Welshman fighting for Welsh independence long before we had inherited titles and investiture ceremonies at Caernarfon Castle. His death wasn’t just an execution; it was a political theatre piece. And its brutality marked the first time “high treason” would become a formal crime under English law. So who was this man who ended up hanged, drawn, and quartered, the first nobleman in England to be punished in that now-notorious manner? The Roots of a Rebellion Dafydd was one of four sons of Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, himself a member of the powerful Aberffraw dynasty in Gwynedd. His brothers were Owain, Llywelyn, and Rhodri—names that, even now, echo through Welsh history. Gruffydd, their father, met a tragic fate. In 1241, he was handed over to King Henry III of England by his own brother, also named Dafydd. The English King stashed him away in the Tower of London. After three years of captivity, Gruffydd attempted to escape by knotting together bed linen to fashion a rope. It snapped mid-descent. He fell and died, becoming a sad symbol of how Wales was increasingly squeezed by English ambition. With Gruffydd gone and their uncle dying just two years later, power in Gwynedd passed to the four brothers. And like many siblings in medieval power struggles, they quickly turned on each other. A Family Affair (With Swords) Llywelyn, the most capable of the four, outmanoeuvred his brothers in a classic medieval power grab. He defeated a joint force of Owain and Dafydd in 1246 and gradually tightened his grip on the north. But political rivalry wasn’t the only pressure. England was stirring again. By the 1270s, Edward I (yes, the one with the long shins—“Edward Longshanks”—and the cinematic villain in Braveheart ) had taken the throne and was far less patient with Welsh independence than his father had been. By 1282, tensions boiled over. It was Dafydd—now reconciled with Llywelyn—who sparked the revolt by attacking Hawarden Castle on Palm Sunday. Llywelyn threw in his lot with him, but it was a doomed alliance. By December, Llywelyn was dead, ambushed and killed at the Battle of Orewin Bridge. His head would later be sent to London and displayed above the Tower’s gate. Of the four brothers, only Dafydd remained in any position to lead. Owain had become disillusioned and quietly slipped from the political scene. Rhodri had sold his inheritance and titles and was effectively out of the picture. So, by default more than design, Dafydd ap Gruffydd became the last free Prince of Wales. Caught, Tried and Sentenced The revolt failed spectacularly. Dafydd retreated into the hills with a dwindling band of supporters, but the English military machine was relentless. He was eventually captured near Bera Mawr in June 1283, along with his wife, children, and supporters. Edward I decided to make an example of him. On 30 September, Dafydd was tried in a specially convened Parliament at Shrewsbury Castle. His crimes were manifold, but the one that would be written into legal precedent was high treason —the crime of betraying the king to whom you owed allegiance. This was new territory. Rebellion had always been harshly dealt with, but never before had a nobleman been executed in this fashion. It marked a turning point in the codification of political dissent. Hanged, Drawn and Quartered The execution of Dafydd ap Gruffydd on 3 October 1283 was not only a judicial sentence but a calculated spectacle of horror, crafted to leave an indelible mark on all who witnessed or heard of it. It was the first recorded instance of a nobleman being executed by the method that would later become infamous for traitors, hanged, drawn, and quartered. In Dafydd’s case, the sentence was ritualistic, theatrical, and designed to send a clear and brutal message: resistance to English rule would be met with the most grotesque punishment imaginable. The procession began in Shrewsbury, where Dafydd was dragged through the town’s streets behind a horse, his body bouncing and scraping along the dirt and cobbled roads. This was a deliberate act of degradation, symbolising the stripping away of his nobility and honour. In medieval law, treason was not only a crime against the monarch but a spiritual offence against the natural order. Dragging the condemned was therefore part of the public humiliation, a prelude to the greater violence to come. He was then hanged by the neck, but only partially. The executioners took great care not to kill him. The goal was to inflict pain, not to grant the release of death. As he dangled, gasping and semi-conscious, he was cut down, laid out, and subjected to the next phase. Still alive, Dafydd was disembowelled—his stomach sliced open, and his entrails slowly pulled out. The chroniclers report that his intestines were burned before his eyes while he remained alive, adding a layer of psychological torment to the intense physical pain. His genitalia were also likely removed, a symbolic act intended to extinguish his bloodline and humiliate him as a man and leader. Seventeenth century print of the execution, by hanging, drawing, and quartering of the members of the Gunpowder plot Only then was he beheaded, ending his suffering. His body was then hacked into four parts. This process, known as quartering, served a dual purpose. It not only further dishonoured the dead but allowed the authorities to send physical reminders of English supremacy across the realm. Each of the four quarters of Dafydd’s body was dispatched to different locations across England and Wales. This was not random: it was a political map etched in flesh. These remains were placed in prominent public spaces—castles, market squares, bridges—where they could fester in the open air, reminding locals what fate awaited those who defied Edward I. His head was impaled on a spike and displayed at the Tower of London, alongside that of his older brother Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, who had been killed the year before. The symbolism was stark and unmistakable: the last native princes of Wales had fallen, and their legacy was extinguished. One of Dafydd’s limbs was sent to Bristol, a city of strategic and symbolic importance in western England. It is also likely no coincidence that this was near to where his surviving sons, Llywelyn and Owain, were imprisoned for the remainder of their lives. They were young boys at the time, taken into custody and confined to Bristol Castle, their lineage used to bolster the spectacle of total English domination. They would die in obscurity, their father’s public obliteration setting the tone for their own quiet erasure. The man tasked with carrying out this appalling sentence was one Geoffrey of Shrewsbury. His name appears in the records as the executor of the Crown’s will. For his role in the execution, he was paid 20 shillings—a sum that would be roughly equivalent to £5,000 in today’s money. It was a substantial fee, commensurate with the scale and gruesomeness of the job. In the medieval economy, executioners were not just men with axes; they were state instruments, chosen for their precision, resilience, and ability to conduct spectacles of terror without flinching. A Legal First While others had met similar ends before Dafydd, such as a nameless would-be assassin of Henry III and Walter Scoteney, a poisoner, Dafydd was the first to be punished in this way under the specific legal charge of treason . From this point onward, the act of rebelling against the English crown took on new legal and symbolic significance. And the method of execution would only get more elaborate. Later victims of the same punishment would have their genitals cut off and burned, their hearts removed and brandished before they died. It remained on the statute books until the 19th century, with the final official sentence of hanging, drawing and quartering handed down (though not carried out) in 1839. It wasn’t fully abolished until 1870. The End of an Era Dafydd ap Gruffydd's execution marked the end of native rule in Wales. With his death, the English crown consolidated its control, and in 1301, Edward I bestowed the title Prince of Wales  upon his son, beginning the now centuries-old tradition of English royalty holding a Welsh title that once meant something altogether different. So today, if someone mentions the Prince of Wales, spare a thought for the man who once held that title with real sovereignty, whose fate shaped the future of Welsh-English relations, and whose final moments were as unforgettable as they were grotesque. Sources: Davies, John. A History of Wales , Penguin Books, 2007 Prestwich, Michael. Edward I , Yale University Press, 1997 Carr, A.D. Medieval Wales , Macmillan, 1995 www.bbc.co.uk/history www.nationalarchives.gov.uk