Utterly interesting

In the summer of 1973, John Lennon and Yoko Ono's marriage faced turmoil. Ono proposed an unconventional solution: Lennon should engage in an affair with their assistant, May Pang. This decision led to Lennon's "Lost Weekend," an 18-month period during which the ex-Beatle lived with Pang in New York and Los Angeles. Despite personal upheaval, Lennon's creative output thrived. He completed three albums – 'Mind Games,' 'Walls and Bridges,' and 'Rock 'n' Roll' – and produced records for Ringo Starr and Harry Nilsson. Additionally, he participated in a spontaneous jam session, marking his final recording with Paul McCartney. However, Lennon's behavior was often erratic due to alcohol and drug use. Two weeks before the historic jam session, a drunken Lennon was ejected from the Troubadour nightclub. Starting in the summer of 1973, I've attempted to add some sort of chronological order to the events in Lennon's life between 1973 and 1975. Summer 1973: A Change Of Living Arrangements Lennon's 1972 album, 'Some Time in New York City,' produced with Ono, failed to meet expectations after the success of 'Imagine' in 1971. Acknowledging the strain on their careers, Ono sought a solution. Feeling the weight of public scrutiny and hate, she suggested Lennon explore a relationship with their assistant, May Pang. Ono believed Pang could provide the care and support Lennon needed. “I was very aware that we were ruining each other's careers and I was hated and John was hated because of me,” - Yoko Ono Ono told the Telegraph. “I needed a rest. I needed space. Can you imagine every day of getting this vibration from people of hate? You want to get out of that.” Pang, having worked with Lennon since 1970, shared insights into their relationship. She emphasized that Ono had given her permission, recognizing the need for Lennon to find solace outside their troubled marriage. “It was with her permission,” Pang told About.com. “She wanted him to go out. They were having problems. He was ready to go out with somebody whether it was me or anybody else.” - May Pang In October, Lennon and Pang travelled to Los Angeles to promote 'Mind Games' but opted to extend their stay. With Ono absent, Lennon's behaviour spiralled as he turned to heavy drinking. December 1973: Phil Spector Is Let Loose In Los Angeles, Lennon aspired to record an album featuring the rock classics that influenced him deeply. Wanting to focus solely on his vocals, Lennon entrusted full production control to Phil Spector. However, according to accounts from Pang and drummer Jim Keltner, Lennon's heavy drinking combined with Spector's unpredictable behaviour created a tumultuous atmosphere at A&M Studios. “The guys were all drinking – and John was being one of the guys,” said Pang. “Everyone was as blitzed as he. One of the bass players got into a car wreck. We got kicked out of A&M when someone threw a bottle of liquor down the console.” "John was exercising all his bad habits, as were we all, including Phil,” remembered Keltner. “The only problem with that was that Phil was the producer, and somebody had to be, you know, sane.” Spector enjoyed playing 'dress-up' he had costumes including a surgeon, a karate instructor and a cowboy, armed with a loaded revolver. One day Spector fired the gun into the studio's ceiling. “Nothing was getting done,” said Pang. “Then Phil’s gun went off.” Following the recording sessions, Spector vanished with the tapes for several months. Upon their recovery, Lennon merged these recordings with new tracks laid down in New York. The culmination of this effort resulted in the release of 'Rock 'n' Roll' in February 1975. March 13, 1974: Trouble at the Troubadour All the Beatles were great fans and friends of singer-songwriter Harry Nilsson. They’d collaborated on songs and films since 1968. When Lennon arrived in LA in 1973, he looked up Nilsson, a prodigious drinker who also did cocaine. “John loved Harry,” Pang related in ‘Lennon Revealed.’ “He loved his energy; he loved his writing. What he loved in Harry was the beauty of his friendship and relaxed personality. That’s what he saw. Harry drank, a lot. But Harry was the type of guy that if you go out drinking with him, he’d be sure at the end of the night that there would be a big brawl and that you are the one who’s in trouble, even though he started it. Harry would keep feeding John drinks until it was too late.” That’s what happened on March 13 at the Troubadour during a show by the Smothers Brothers. Lennon, drunk on Brandy Alexanders, disrupted the comedians’ act with relentless heckling. In the biography ‘Nilsson’ the Smothers’ manager Ken Fritz said, “I went over and asked Harry to try to shut up Lennon. Harry said, ‘I’m trying – don’t blame me!’ When Lennon continued, I told him to keep quiet. He swung and hit me in the jaw.” Lennon and Nilsson were hustled out of the Troubador, knocking over a few tables in the process. “It was horrendous,” Tom Smothers recalled in ‘Dangerously Funny.’ “They came in pretty ripped to see our show, and, as Harry later explained to me, he told John, ‘He needs some heckling to make this thing work.’ He didn't think I had an act. Well, they start heckling, and it was some of the worst language I've ever heard – and they had a real buzz on. Cognac and toot, I guess. And it was a mess.” March 28, 1974: Lennon's Last Jam Session With Paul McCartney The trouble caused in The Troubadour served as a wake-up call for Lennon and Nilsson. Shortly afterward, Lennon made the decision to produce Nilsson's upcoming album, 'Pussy Cats.' They opted for an unconventional approach, arranging for the album's musicians to reside together during the recording sessions. Lennon, Nilsson, along with Starr and Keith Moon, relocated to a beach house in Santa Monica for this purpose. However, sobriety remained elusive. Following the conclusion of the initial session at the Record Plant on March 28, an impromptu midnight jam ensued with unexpected guests Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney joining Lennon, Nilsson, and others. This spontaneous gathering resulted in the bootleg album 'A Toot and a Snore,' capturing Lennon's invitation to Wonder for a "toot" of cocaine. With Starr's departure, McCartney assumed the drumming duties while harmonising with Lennon's vocals. Lennon also accompanied Wonder on guitar as he played the electric piano. Despite the illustrious lineup, renditions of classics like 'Lucille' and 'Stand By Me' were marred by technical glitches, leading to a disappointing outcome. As the evening drew to a close, Lennon and McCartney agreed to meet again, unaware that this would mark their final studio collaboration as ex-Beatles. Early 1975: Reconciliation In a 1980 interview with Playboy, Lennon and Ono revealed how the "Lost Weekend" came to an end. “It slowly started to dawn on me that John was not the trouble at all,” said Ono. “John was a fine person. It was society that had become too much. We laugh about it now, but we started dating again. I wanted to be sure. I'm thankful to John's intelligence, that he was intelligent enough to know this was the only way that we could save our marriage, not because we didn't love each other but because it was getting too much for me." “And we learned that it's better for the family if we are both working for the family, she doing the business and me playing mother and wife,” added Lennon. “We reordered our priorities. The number one priority is her and the family. Everything else revolves around that.” In the same interview he described his lost weekend as follows; “It was god-awful, I drank too much. … I was out of control, and nobody was looking after me and I needed somebody to love me and there was nobody there to support me, and I just fell apart.” There are also positives from that period; Pang facilitated a reunion between Julian Lennon and his father, marking their first meeting in nearly four years. Following this, Julian began to spend more time with his father. Lennon gifted Julian a Gibson Les Paul copy guitar and a drum machine for Christmas in 1973, nurturing Julian's musical aspirations by teaching him chords and encouraging his interest in music. "Dad and I got on a great deal better then, we had a lot of fun, laughed a lot and had a great time in general when he was with May Pang. My memories of that time with Dad and May are very clear—they were the happiest time I can remember with them." - Julian Lennon John Lennon's 'Lost Weekend' remains a fascinating chapter in the life of the legendary musician. Marked by scandals, controversies, and a colourful cast of characters, this period of upheaval ultimately shaped Lennon's personal and artistic evolution. While fraught with challenges, the 'Lost Weekend' also underscored Lennon's resilience and creativity in the face of adversity, leaving an indelible mark on his legacy as a cultural icon. Lennon lamented this period publicly but not in private. Journalist Larry Kane, who befriended Lennon in 1964, wrote a comprehensive biography of Lennon which detailed the "Lost Weekend" period. In the interview with Kane, Lennon explained his feelings about his time with Pang; "You know Larry, I may have been the happiest I've ever been... I loved this woman, I made some beautiful music and I got so fucked up with booze and shit and whatever."

“Woody…is just a voice and a guitar. He sings the songs of the people and I suspect that is, in a way, the people….There is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But there is something more important for those who will listen. There is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression. I think we call this the American spirit.” – John Steinbeck Few American musicians have left a legacy as powerful, complicated, and contested as Woody Guthrie. His songs – “The Sinking of the Reuben James,” “Roll on Columbia, Roll on” “Union Maid” and “Pastures of Plenty”, became some of the most recognisable contributions to twentieth-century folk music. To many admirers, Guthrie was the father of the modern American folk song, a troubadour whose words carried the voices of labourers, farmers, and migrants who endured the Great Depression. Guthrie rose to prominence in an era when struggling blue-collar workers were gaining a romanticised place in the nation’s cultural imagination. The rise of radio and phonograph brought his voice into homes across America, but it was the hardship of the Dust Bowl and the political unrest of the 1930s that gave his music its edge. Yet Guthrie’s story is not a simple one of homespun virtue. His legacy reveals how a flawed, radical man became a mythologised figure of Americana. He was a poet, but also a wanderer, womaniser, absentee father, and outspoken communist. His anthem “This Land Is Your Land” — now sung in classrooms and political rallies — originally carried sharp verses challenging capitalism. The sanitisation of Guthrie tells us as much about American memory as it does about Guthrie himself. Guthrie's Birthplace, Okfuskee County, OK.1979. A Childhood of Fire and Loss Born in 1912 in Okemah, Oklahoma, Guthrie grew up in a middle-class family that unravelled through tragedy. His father, Charlie Guthrie, was a successful politician and real estate dealer, but poor investments ruined his fortunes. Woody’s mother, Nora, descended into mental illness later diagnosed as Huntington’s Chorea, a hereditary disease that would eventually devastate Woody himself. The Guthrie household was marked by trauma. Woody’s sister Clara died after setting herself on fire during an argument with Nora. Rumours swirled that Nora later set her husband ablaze, an injury he never fully recovered from. Eventually she was committed to an asylum. This instability marked Woody’s early years. He later recalled his youth to folk musicologist Alan Lomax while recording songs for the Library of Congress, painting a picture of a boy surrounded by both music and misfortune. The Road to Music In 1929, Guthrie resettled with his father and brother in Pampa, Texas. The oil boom briefly gave the town life, and it was here that Guthrie’s musical identity began to take shape. His uncle Jeff, a fiddler, let Woody accompany him at county dances. Guthrie also married young — the first of three marriages — but soon abandoned domestic life for adventure. By 1937, he was riding freight trains and hitching west. On the road he gathered folk songs from across the country and absorbed radical ideas from Wobblies, members of the Industrial Workers of the World. These encounters shaped his political and musical voice, fusing traditional balladry with biting social critique. Woody and Lefty Lou – Los Angeles Radio In Los Angeles, Guthrie found an unlikely stage. He began performing with Maxine Crissman, later known as Lefty Lou. The pair hosted a daily two-hour slot on KFVD, a progressive radio station run by Frank Burke. Their simple folk duets offered listeners a nostalgic connection to the songs of their parents and grandparents, a counterpoint to the jazz and swing dominating radio. For many Dust Bowl migrants who had landed in California, Woody and Lefty Lou’s programme was a reminder of home and identity. Guthrie’s popularity grew, but so did his awareness of the harsh realities faced by these very migrants. Firsthand Misery By the mid-1930s, some 50,000 migrants had entered California, lured by flyers promising steady work in fruit orchards. Instead they found themselves competing against thousands of others for meagre wages. Locals derided them as “Okies,” regardless of whether they came from Oklahoma or not. “No Okies” signs hung on storefronts, and paramilitary groups often crushed efforts to unionise farm labour. Migrants lived in desperate camps, forbidden by armed guards from eating fruit off the trees they harvested. Starvation and disease spread. John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath  captured this misery, and when the film adaptation was released Guthrie was asked to write a ballad about it. His 17-verse ode to Tom Joad remains one of his most haunting works. Songs for the Downtrodden The camps radicalised Guthrie. He saw families robbed of their dignity and began writing songs that gave them a voice. “Pretty Boy Floyd” became a Robin Hood ballad of sorts, celebrating an outlaw who stole from the rich. “The Jolly Banker” mocked bankers who foreclosed on farms. In the camps, he often heard the hymn “This World Is Not My Home.” It angered him. As his biographer Joe Klein explained, Guthrie believed it urged the poor to meekly await rewards in the afterlife rather than fight for justice in the present. Guthrie responded with “I Ain’t Got No Home”: I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-roaming around I’m just a wandering worker, I go from town to town And the police make it hard wherever I may go And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore. His songs became less about heaven and more about hunger, eviction, and resistance. The Almanac Singers and the War Years In 1940, Guthrie moved to New York and joined the Almanac Singers, alongside Pete Seeger, Millard Lampell, and Lee Hays. They cultivated a working-class image and played union halls and strikes, writing songs for labour causes. Initially, they opposed U.S. involvement in World War II, echoing the Communist Party line. But after Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, their stance shifted. Guthrie himself wrote “The Sinking of Reuben James” about an American destroyer sunk by German forces, while carrying a guitar stencilled with “This Machine Kills Fascists.” The Almanacs briefly tasted success when CBS used their “Round and Round Hitler’s Grave” for a war series. But their communist ties soon drew criticism. Offers dried up, and they became too controversial for mainstream outlets. Woody’s Political Identity “I ain’t a communist necessarily, but I’ve been in the red all my life,” Guthrie once declared. Whether or not he ever carried a Party card remains unclear, but his FBI file identified him as a communist and “Joe Stalin’s California mouthpiece.” Guthrie used humour, folk melodies, and storytelling to critique inequality. He described his politics not as communism but “commonism”: “Every single human being is looking for a better way… To own everything in Common, That’s what the Bible says. Common means all of us. This is pure old Commonism.” He disliked long political debates, preferring action and music. His philosophy was practical, rooted in empathy for ordinary workers. “This Land Is Your Land” – Protest or Anthem? Guthrie’s most famous song, “This Land Is Your Land,” began as a rebuttal to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” In 1940, Guthrie bristled at Berlin’s rosy patriotism, knowing the harsh realities of poverty. His original verses included biting critiques: Was a great high wall there that tried to stop me A sign was painted said: Private Property But on the back side it didn’t say nothing— God blessed America for me. One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple By the relief office I saw my people— As they stood hungry, I stood there wondering if God Blessed America for me. Guthrie in New York. Eric Schaal Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock Later recordings left these verses out, transforming the song into a simple patriotic anthem. Yet Guthrie continued to sing them, teaching them to his son Arlo, who has performed them ever since. Pete Seeger too preserved the verses, warning against “the danger of this song being misinterpreted.” Seeger even added his own line: Maybe you been working just as hard as you’re able And you just got crumbs from the rich man’s table Maybe you been wondering, is it truth or fable This land was made for you and me. Decline and Influence By the mid-1940s, Guthrie’s health was failing. As the war escalated, Woody enlisted with the merchant marines, at least partially to avoid the draft. Ironically, though, the army inducted Woody in May 1945, the very day Germany surrendered to the Allies. After a brief and uneventful peacetime stint in the military, the army released Woody from duty to return to his second wife in Brooklyn. Throughout the late 1940s and early 1950s, Woody noticeably deteriorated as the hereditary Huntington’s Chorea, now known as Huntington’s Disease, made itself shown. Woody spent the last decade of his life in hospitals in an increasingly incapacitated state, where he nevertheless inspired his many visiting fans, including a young Bob Dylan. The Shaping of a Legacy Even before Guthrie’s death in 1967, mythmaking was underway. The 1956 benefit concert for his family at New York’s Pythian Hall was later remembered as the rebirth of folk music. It also marked Guthrie’s canonisation. The FBI’s “communist mouthpiece” became, in later decades, a celebrated cultural figure. In 1966, the Department of the Interior named a power substation after him. In 1998, the U.S. Postal Service issued a commemorative stamp. Critics like Irwin Silber remarked: “They’re taking a revolutionary, and turning him into a conservationist.” Arlo Guthrie called it “a stunning defeat” for a man who hated respectability. “Commonism” Woody was critical of the vast inequality of wealth in American society, but at the same time had an unswerving faith that the American people would ultimately do the right thing (once telling a newspaper, “I can safely say that Americans will let you get awful hungry but they never quite let you starve.”) Woody’s outlook was as much fueled by disdain for the impersonal forces of Wall Street as it was a profound empathy for the struggling common man. Woody summarized his sociopolitical philosophy as “commonism.” In his words: “Every single human being is looking for a better way…when there shall be no want among you, because you’ll own everything in Common. When the Rich will give their goods unto the poor. I believe in this Way…This is the Christian Way and it is already on a big part of the earth and it will come. To own everything in Common, That’s what the Bible says. Common means all of us. This is pure old Commonism.” Whitewashed Legacy Why was Woody’s legacy whitewashed? Woody embraced communism at its peak in the United States, but as the nuclear tension of the Cold War made the communist threat that much more immediate to Americans, prompting purges of communist influence from the government and entertainment sectors, it was likely harder to reconcile Woody’s leftist leanings with his role as an American cultural hero. As Yale cultural historian Michael Denning has written, “Cold War repression had left a cultural amnesia,” minimizing the real intellectual and cultural influence the Popular Front, and communist singers like Woody, had on American society. Eric Schaal Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock Woody Guthrie’s Complicated Spirit Guthrie was deeply imperfect, a womaniser, absentee father, hygiene avoider, and erotic letter-writer. But his genius as a songwriter is undeniable. He wrote an estimated 1,000 songs, transforming the struggles of ordinary Americans into enduring folk anthems. His music gave voice to the voiceless. He mocked the wealthy, comforted the poor, and challenged listeners to confront injustice. As Steinbeck wrote, “There is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But… there is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression.” That is Woody Guthrie’s true legacy, not the sanitised folk hero of postage stamps, but the troubadour who sang America’s pain and resilience. Sources Joe Klein, Woody Guthrie: A Life  (1980) Will Kaufman, Woody Guthrie, American Radical  (2011) Alan Lomax recordings at the Library of Congress – https://www.loc.gov/collections/alan-lomax/ Michael Denning, The Cultural Front  (1997) “The Life and Legacy of Woody Guthrie” – Smithsonian Folkways – https://folkways.si.edu/woody-guthrie Irwin Silber, radical music commentary archives – https://www.marxists.org/history/etol/newspape/folk_music.htm

When people think of Holocaust history, their minds often go straight to ghettos, concentration camps, and stories of resistance. Yet there are quieter, less well-known chapters—stories of survival that unfolded in unexpected places. One such story took place in Abergele, a small town in North Wales, where a group of Jewish children fleeing Nazi Germany ended up living in a castle perched above the Irish Sea. It was November 1938, just days after Kristallnacht, the “Night of Broken Glass”, when Jewish homes, businesses, and synagogues across Germany and Austria were attacked in a coordinated wave of violence. The terror convinced many Jewish families that escape was the only hope for survival. Parents faced unthinkable decisions: stay together and risk everything, or send their children abroad alone in the desperate hope of saving their lives. The children in the castle The Kindertransport Rescue On 15 November 1938, a delegation of prominent British Jewish leaders met with Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, pleading for Britain to open its doors to Jewish children in immediate danger. A week later, Home Secretary Sir Samuel Hoare announced that Britain would offer temporary refuge to unaccompanied children under 17, provided the Jewish community itself covered the costs of their care. This initiative became known as the Kindertransport, a rescue mission that would eventually save nearly 10,000 children from Nazi persecution between 1938 and 1940. Most of these children travelled to Britain on trains and ferries, often clutching a single suitcase or rucksack. For many, it was the last time they ever saw their parents. The castle as it was during the time the children stayed there. Gwrych Castle Opens Its Doors Among the British organisers was Arieh Handler, a Zionist leader searching for safe spaces where Orthodox Jewish children could live and prepare for agricultural work in Palestine through the hachsharah (training) movement. He was unexpectedly offered a remarkable solution when Lord Dundonald, the aristocratic owner of Gwrych Castle, donated the property rent-free for the refugee children. Gwrych Castle, an early 19th-century Gothic revival mansion, sat on a vast 500-acre estate overlooking the sea. Its dramatic façade stretched for more than 2,000 yards and featured 18 towers, a sweeping 52-step marble staircase, and over 128 rooms. Once a symbol of wealth and power, it would now become a sanctuary for children with nowhere else to go. The wedding celebrations of Arieh Handler and Henny Prilutsky at the castle in December 1940 Between late 1939 and 1941, more than 200 Jewish refugee children aged 15–16 lived at Gwrych. The group included 60 members of Bachad (a religious Zionist youth movement), 129 from Youth Aliyah, and 43 children evacuated from Llandough Castle in South Wales after it was damaged in bombing raids. Life in the Castle Arriving at the castle was not quite the fairytale the children might have imagined. One survivor later recalled: “We arrived at the castle late at night. There was no electricity, only paraffin lamps. There was no hot water, no showers, just bathtubs. Hot water came several weeks later and was rationed. We slept on straw for the first few nights until the Quakers in Abergele supplied us with furniture and other items.” Daily life was structured but challenging. With Handler as their organiser and his brother Julius serving as the group’s doctor, the children were divided into groups and cared for by volunteer counsellors. Education was improvised, often combining religious instruction with agricultural training, since many hoped to emigrate to Palestine after the war. The castle’s sheer size made it both awe-inspiring and difficult to manage. Maintaining warmth in the draughty halls during Welsh winters was a constant struggle. Yet for many of the children, the hardships were softened by the knowledge that they were safe. Integration with the Welsh Community The surrounding community of Abergele played a surprisingly important role in easing the children’s transition. Several local farms hired the boys to help with agricultural work, collecting them in the mornings and returning them by afternoon. These experiences provided both employment and a sense of belonging in a land so far from home. Not all encounters were so simple. One boy described a pivotal early incident: “Three weeks after our arrival, three boys and I went for a walk in Abergele browsing shop windows. As a policeman approached us, two of the boys fled. After the policeman caught them, he asked, ‘Why are you boys running away?’ I spoke fluent English and replied, ‘If a policeman approaches Jewish children in Germany, it means trouble.’ The policeman nearly cried. He said, ‘Tell them this is not Germany. Here a policeman is your friend. When you’re in trouble, you don’t run away from a policeman. You look for one.’” Moved by this story, local police officers visited the castle to speak to the children directly, reassuring them that they could feel safe in Britain. They even brought tea, coffee, and cakes—gestures that left lasting impressions on the young refugees. Jewish teenagers are seen digging a drainage ditch on the Gwrych estate during their time at the castle Letters Home and Lingering Worry Communication with their families in Germany was heartbreakingly limited. Each child was allowed to send one letter per month of no more than 25 words, arranged through the Red Cross at a cost of 2 ½ shillings. Choosing which words to send was agonising, how could a teenager compress love, longing, and fear into just 25 words? For many, the letters stopped altogether as their parents were deported or murdered in the Holocaust. The sense of loss weighed heavily within the castle’s walls, even as the children tried to build new lives. The End of the Castle Years In 1941, the British government requisitioned Gwrych Castle for military purposes. The children were relocated, some to Youth Aliyah centres elsewhere in Britain, others to farms in Northern Ireland. One boy, Glanz, later recounted his path after leaving the castle. Between 1942 and 1944, he worked in a factory manufacturing machine guns. Eventually, he joined the U.S. Army as a censor of German mail, which took him back to Munich, the very heart of the regime he had fled as a child. A group of teenage girls in the dining room at Gwrych, where they remained until 1941 Legacy and Memory The story of Gwrych Castle’s Kindertransport children is a reminder of how extraordinary places can play unexpected roles in history. A castle once designed to showcase aristocratic grandeur became a lifeline for hundreds of teenagers, allowing them to survive the Holocaust and go on to build new lives. Today, Gwrych Castle is better known as the filming location for shows like I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here!  But behind the TV glamour lies a history of resilience and refuge. For the children who once slept on straw in its draughty halls, the castle was not just stone and marble—it was survival. As one survivor later reflected, “We were safe, and that was everything.” Sources Fast, Vera K. Children’s Exodus: A History of the Kindertransport . London: I.B. Tauris, 2011. Harris, Mark Jonathan. Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport . Bloomsbury Publishing, 2000. Gwrych Castle Preservation Trust – “Gwrych Castle and the Kindertransport.” https://www.gwrychcastle.co.uk/ Bauer, Yehuda. Out of the Ashes: The Impact of American Jews on Post-Holocaust European Jewry . Pergamon Press, 1989. Cesarani, David. The Kindertransport: Rescue or Ruin?  (Jewish Historical Studies, 1993). Abergele Local History Society – Archive on Kindertransport children at Gwrych. https://abergelepost.com/ United States Holocaust Memorial Museum – Kindertransport overview. https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/ Oral testimony of Arieh Handler and survivors quoted in Bachad archives, available via The Wiener Holocaust Library, London. https://wienerholocaustlibrary.org/

The Mona Lisa, or La Gioconda , is arguably “the best known, the most visited, the most written about, the most sung about, the most parodied work of art in the world.” This half-length portrait of Lisa Gherardini, created by the Italian Renaissance artist Leonardo da Vinci, is not only a one of the most famous paintings in the world, but it also has a rich and sometimes tragic history of misfortune. The most notorious of these incidents occurred on 21 August 1911, when the painting was stolen from its place in the Louvre. This shocking event would captivate the world and bring to light a cast of characters including the legendary artist Pablo Picasso. The Disappearance of the Mona Lisa On the morning of 22 August 1911, a French painter named Louis Béroud arrived at the Louvre to work on a piece he was preparing entitled Mona Lisa au Louvre . Béroud, like countless others before him, assumed he would be able to gaze upon da Vinci’s painting. To his shock, the painting was missing. Assuming it had been removed for photography—a common practice for museum advertising—Béroud questioned the guards. After being told it was indeed being photographed, Béroud continued with his own work, only to return several hours later and find the Mona Lisa still absent. The alarm was raised, and it quickly became apparent that da Vinci's masterpiece had not simply been moved—it had been stolen. The empty space on the wall, where four iron pegs once held the Mona Lisa , marked the site of one of the greatest art thefts of the 20th century. The Louvre promptly closed for a week, and an intensive investigation was launched. At the time of the theft, the Louvre was not the high-security museum it is today. With no alarm system and only 200 guards to patrol over 400 rooms, the museum was vulnerable to theft. The police, unsure of where to start, began by focusing on those with known criminal histories. Their initial suspicion fell on Géry Piéret, a known thief with a record of stealing artefacts from the Louvre. When Piéret could not be located, investigators turned their attention to his employer, the poet Guillaume Apollinaire. Picasso and Apollinaire: Victims of Suspicion Apollinaire, a notable figure in the Parisian art scene and an influential precursor to the Surrealist movement, had publicly declared that the Louvre should be burnt to the ground—comments that now came back to haunt him. Apollinaire was promptly arrested, and under intense scrutiny, he named his friend, the Spanish painter Pablo Picasso, as someone who might be involved. Picasso was thrust into the investigation due to an unfortunate prior association. Some years earlier, Picasso had unwittingly purchased stolen artefacts—two Iberian stone heads—from Piéret, who had stolen them from the Louvre. Although Picasso had no knowledge of their illicit origins, this connection was enough to make him a suspect in the Mona Lisa  theft. The artist, renowned for his avant-garde contributions to modern art, found himself humiliated and terrified of being implicated in the scandal. After several weeks of intense questioning, both Apollinaire and Picasso were eventually cleared of any wrongdoing. The real culprit remained elusive, until, after two years of mystery and speculation, the truth finally emerged. The Real Thief: Vincenzo Peruggia The man behind the theft was Vincenzo Peruggia, an Italian national who had worked at the Louvre. Peruggia’s crime was a masterstroke of simplicity and cunning. He had hidden inside the museum overnight, concealing himself in a broom cupboard. Then, during the early morning hours, he simply walked out of the Louvre with the Mona Lisa hidden under his coat. It was almost too incredible to believe that such a famed artwork could be stolen in broad daylight without raising suspicion. Peruggia’s motive, he claimed, was patriotic. Believing that Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece belonged in an Italian museum, Peruggia intended to return it to Italy. He considered it a travesty that the painting had left Italy, despite the fact that da Vinci had sold the piece to the French King Francis I  upon moving to France to serve as a court painter. Some investigations suggested that Peruggia’s motives may not have been entirely nationalistic—he was reportedly in league with an art dealer who planned to sell forgeries of the painting, and the disappearance of the real Mona Lisa  would only drive up their value. For over two years, Peruggia kept the Mona Lisa  hidden in his modest Paris apartment. His eventual downfall came when he attempted to sell the painting to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. The gallery’s directors immediately recognised the masterpiece and contacted the police. After a brief period of public exhibition in Italy, the Mona Lisa  was returned to the Louvre on 4 January 1914. Peruggia, though sentenced to six months in prison, was celebrated as a patriot in Italy, where many lauded him for his intentions. The Impact of the Theft Ironically, the theft of the Mona Lisa  brought it a level of fame it had not previously enjoyed. Although it had always been a celebrated work within art circles, its disappearance and the international scandal that ensued turned it into a global phenomenon. The Mona Lisa  became a household name, immortalised not only as a symbol of artistic brilliance but also as a cultural icon. Subsequent Attacks and Attempts at Theft Though the Mona Lisa  was safely returned to the Louvre, its tumultuous history did not end there. In the decades following the 1911 theft, the painting suffered several attacks. In 1956, the painting was damaged twice. First, a vandal threw acid at the painting, causing damage to the lower portion of the artwork, including a part near Mona Lisa's left elbow. Later that year, on 30 December, a rock was thrown at the painting, further damaging the left elbow area. Fortunately, the damage was quickly restored, preserving the integrity of the masterpiece. Another serious incident occurred in 1974, when the painting was on display at a special exhibition at the Tokyo National Museum. A woman, frustrated by the museum's policies regarding disabled access, sprayed red paint at the painting. Luckily, by this time, the Mona Lisa  was protected by bulletproof glass, and the attack caused no harm. In 2009, a Russian woman—angry that her application for French citizenship had been denied—threw a teacup at the painting, which she had purchased from the Louvre’s gift shop. Again, the protective glass encasing the Mona Lisa  prevented any damage. Other Theft Attempts Throughout the years, there have been various unsuccessful attempts to steal the Mona Lisa  once again. None, however, have succeeded since Peruggia’s brazen heist in 1911. The painting now remains one of the most heavily guarded and secured artworks in the world, its history of theft and vandalism only adding to its mythos.

This is a gorgeous example of French presentation from the 1920s, the fragrance "L’Orange Variée" by Les Parfums de Marcy is presented in a unique packaging design. The perfume comes in a container with eight individual glass sections, resembling orange segments nestled within a painted enamel peel. The segments are positioned upside down, cleverly concealing their corks. During the 1920s, novelty perfume bottles were all the rage, but designs resembling citrus fruits were a rarity. The intricacy of these bottles makes finding intact specimens exceedingly rare today. Collectors often spend years assembling complete sets, scavenging parts from various sources The above example sold at auction for $3198 in 2019, but had an estimated $200-400 The scents included were: Chypre, Amber, Heliotrope, Rose, Jessamine, Mayflower, Violet.

When you imagine pirates, you probably think of treasure maps, rum, and the Jolly Roger fluttering above the deck. But behind the cutlasses and cannon smoke lay a social world that was surprisingly complex. One of the most intriguing customs of the Golden Age of Piracy was matelotage  — a form of partnership between two men that could be financial, romantic, or somewhere in between. Far from just being about buried treasure and plunder, pirate life also included contracts of companionship, shared inheritance, and, in some cases, intimacy that blurred the lines between friendship, brotherhood, and marriage. Historians find many similarities between modern same-sex marriage and 17th century matelotage. What Was Matelotage? The word matelotage  comes from the French matelot , meaning sailor or seaman. It’s also the root of the familiar “matey,” making it quite literally “sailor-talk.” Historians trace matelotage back to the 1600s, when pirates began creating their own rules and customs in the Caribbean. At its simplest, matelotage was a financial agreement. Life at sea was brutal and often short. Pirates needed a way to ensure their possessions, wages, or share of plunder went to someone they trusted if they died. According to economist Peter T. Leeson in The Invisible Hook , the agreement typically meant one sailor could inherit the other’s wealth, while some was left “to the dead man’s friends or to his wife.” Édouard Corbière’s 1832 novel Le Négrier , although fictional, described matelotage vividly: “This amatelotage of sailors among themselves, this hammock camaraderie, establishes a type of solidarity and commonality of interests and of goods between each man and his matelot.” So while the origin was practical, it often grew into something far deeper. The Surviving Pirate Contract of 1699 One of the most compelling pieces of evidence is an actual matelotage agreement from 1699 between Francis Reed and John Beavis, drawn up at Port Dolphin. It reads in part: “Be it knowen … that Francis Reed and John Beavis are entered in Consortship together … And in Case that any sudden accident … should happen to the forsd Francis Reed … what gold, Silver, or any other thing whatsoever shall … fall to ye forsd John Beavis …” This surviving contract shows matelotage wasn’t just gossip or speculation. Pirates wrote down their partnerships in legally recognisable terms, contracts that carried weight among crews who prized fairness and clarity. Romance, Sex, and Favouritism at Sea But matelotage wasn’t always just about money. Pirate ships were overwhelmingly male spaces, and men at sea sometimes formed close — even romantic — relationships. Professor Barry Richard Burg, in his book Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition , argued that matelotage was: “An institutionalized linking of buccaneer and another male — most often a youth — in a relationship with clearly homosexual characteristics.” These bonds could echo the patron-youth arrangements of ancient Greece. A younger sailor might trade intimacy for security or a share of plunder. George Shelvocke, an English privateer commander, notoriously promoted a cabin boy to first mate at breakneck speed. The rest of the crew grumbled: “The boy gave us all a kind of emulation, wondering what rare qualifications Shelvocke could discover in a fellow, who but a few days before rinsed our glasses and filled us our wine.” Clearly, romantic or sexual matelotage could bring privileges as well as companionship An early map showing the island of Tortuga, off the coast of what is Haiti today. Passion, Jealousy, and Violence Matelotage bonds were not taken lightly. Pirates defended their partners fiercely, and sometimes those passions boiled over. Captain Bartholomew Roberts, one of the most famous pirates of the early 1700s, once killed a crewman after a quarrel. The dead man’s matelot, Jones, exploded in anger, publicly berating Roberts. Roberts stabbed Jones too, but this time Jones retaliated, throwing the captain over a cannon and beating him senseless. For daring to strike his superior, Jones was flogged — two lashes from every man on the ship. The incident shows how entangled love, loyalty, and discipline could become in the tense world of pirate society. How Widespread Was Matelotage? Evidence suggests matelotage was not uncommon. A register in the Calendar of State Papers: Colonial Series  records that John Swann was a “great consort of [Captain] Culliford’s, who lives with him.” The wording is ambiguous but hints at a relationship beyond simple economics. The explorer and pirate William Dampier’s crew were rumoured to have practised matelotage, and even Captain Robert Culliford — who famously betrayed Captain Kidd — was associated with it. In Roberts’ own case, Welsh sources link him to a crewmate nicknamed “Miss Nanny” (John Waldon), which some historians read as evidence of a romantic companion. While speculative, it adds to the picture of emotional intimacy among pirates. Debate Among Historians Not all scholars agree that matelotage was primarily sexual. Hans Turley and others warn against reading too much into terms like “consort,” which could simply mean business partner. They argue that many modern interpretations risk projecting contemporary understandings of sexuality onto ambiguous historical sources. So was matelotage gay marriage at sea — or just an insurance policy? The truth probably lies somewhere in between. As one modern commentator summarised: “Some pirates were married to women and  entered matelotage, complicating any neat ‘gay marriage in disguise’ narrative.” ( theamm.org ) Land vs Sea Attitudes On land, homosexuality could lead to prison or even execution. In Tortuga, Governor Jean Le Vasseur asked France to send 2,000 prostitutes in 1645, hoping to reduce the prevalence of matelotage. Instead, many pirates married the women and then shared them with their matelots, blending the custom into new forms. It seems matelotage wasn’t easily eradicated — it fulfilled deep needs for loyalty, security, and companionship that pirates couldn’t find ashore. Matelotage as a “Queer Contract” Recent scholarship reframes matelotage as part of a broader history of contractual intimacy. A 2025 paper in Atlantic Studies  suggests that matelotage should be seen as a “queer contract,” where two men formalised obligations of care and inheritance that rivalled those of traditional marriage. Seen this way, matelotage wasn’t an oddity but one expression of how humans have long built intimate partnerships outside official structures. Pirates in Popular Culture Modern culture has run with the idea of queer pirates. Shows like Black Sails  depicted Captain Flint as bisexual, and Our Flag Means Death  gave audiences a tender (and hilarious) romance between Stede Bonnet and Blackbeard. These portrayals don’t always match the historical evidence, but they reflect the enduring fascination with matelotage and the sense that pirate life allowed for freedoms denied on land. Why Did Pirates Value Matelotage? Ultimately, matelotage gave pirates what they craved most: security in an insecure world. Whether romantic, platonic, or financial, having a matelot meant someone to inherit your share, nurse you when sick, fight alongside you, and stand by you in mutiny or battle. For men who lived by the sword, it was a form of trust that transcended the law of nations. Conclusion Matelotage was part will, part marriage, part love affair, and completely pirate. It shows that behind the plundering and violence, pirates created their own forms of loyalty and intimacy. Some were business-like, others were deeply affectionate, and a few were scandalously sexual. We may never know how common matelotage truly was, but its very existence complicates our view of pirates as lonely rogues. Instead, it reveals them as men who, even while outside the law, sought the same bonds of companionship, love, and protection as everyone else. Sources Peter T. Leeson, The Invisible Hook: The Hidden Economics of Pirates Barry Richard Burg, Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition Hans Turley, Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Piracy, Sexuality, and Masculine Identity Édouard Corbière, Le Négrier  (1832) Calendar of State Papers: Colonial Series Atlantic Studies (2025), “Bound to a mast: matelotage and the queer contract” The AMM Blog: “Matelotage: Gay Marriage Among Pirates or Just a Business Partnership?” ( theamm.org ) University of Reading History Blog, “Pirate Legends, Matelotage, and Mavericks” (2023) Swansea LGBTQ Cymru, “17th-Century Pirates and Queer History”

You know that moment when life throws you a curveball and it lands right in the sweet spot. Brian Johnson was 32, back in his parents’ house in Gateshead, fitting vinyl roofs and windshields to pay the mortgage, convinced the dream had sailed. Then the phone rang. A woman with a German accent said a band wanted him to audition in London. He asked for the name. She would not tell him. Initials then. A small pause. A C and D C. He put down his pie in a Pimlico cafe and walked into history. This is the story of a comeback that should not have happened and yet somehow did. A singer who thought he was past his sell by date joining a band that had lost its talisman. New songs hammered together in grief and grit. A tropical storm that gifted the opening lines to one of the heaviest album intros ever recorded. And a tolling bell that needed a whole lot more ingenuity than anyone expected. By July 1980 AC/DC released Back In Black and Brian Johnson went from beer money gigs to the biggest selling rock album on earth. As Malcolm Young would later put it with beautiful bluntness, "We meant it. It is real. It is coming from within. The emotion on that record will be around forever." Brian Johnson in his pre-AC/DC band Geordie From Geordie to Geordie two and the feeling that time had passed In the early seventies Johnson fronted Geordie, a glam tinged Newcastle band signed to EMI with a proper Top 10 single in 1973, All Because Of You. He had the cheeky working class swagger of a pub born showman and a voice like the Tyne ferry foghorn. Then the hits dried up. The record deal went. The band ground on through working mens clubs before finally calling it a day. He remembered it without varnish. "I was completely broke. I had two kids and a mortgage and a fourteen year old Beetle. I was skint." He did what practical people do. He scraped together enough to start a small car trim outfit because he had always been nuts about cars. For pocket money he reformed a no illusions bar band that he called Geordie Two. The set had a streak of comedy because the lads were funny and the show needed to land in clubs. But they could rock. The finale was often a then cult track by an Australian outfit called AC/DC. Whole Lotta Rosie never failed to lift the roof. Brian loved belting it out. He still loved the stage. He just did not believe lightning would strike twice. February 1980 the unimaginable and a band at a crossroads Until the morning of 20 February 1980 AC/DC looked unstoppable. Highway To Hell had broken them wide in America. Touch Too Much had just delivered a first UK Top 30 single. Then Bon Scott was found in London after a heavy night out and pronounced dead. The coroner recorded death by misadventure. He was 33. The shock was total. The band briefly considered stopping. Bon’s father gave them simple permission at the funeral in Fremantle. Carry on. He would have wanted it. So they did. Back in London the Young brothers did the only therapy that ever worked for them. They picked up guitars. Two sketches existed from before Bon died, one a stop start riff Malcolm had worked on during soundcheck, another a rough demo of a boozy idea with Bon bashing the drums. They wrote. They grieved. Then they faced the dread practical question. Who could sing these songs without trying to be Bon. Angus was clear. Bon was unique. They did not want a Bon imitator. They wanted something a little different. The recommendation that would not die and a jingle that paid for the train Johnson’s name had floated around AC/DC long before the call reached him. Bon had seen Geordie years earlier and told Angus he had witnessed the best Little Richard style howler he had ever seen. The story gets better in the way real stories do. The reason Brian had been rolling and screaming onstage that night was not just showmanship. He had appendicitis and was in agony. After Bon died a fan in Cleveland mailed management a Geordie record with a note. You have to listen to this guy. Producer Robert John Mutt Lange also mentioned Brian to the Youngs. When a name keeps popping up in a hard nosed camp like AC/DC it does not happen by accident. Even so the invite nearly came to nothing. Brian was wary. He had been burned once by the music business and had a shop floor full of jobs. He only said yes because a friend asked him to come down to London the same day for a paid advert session. Three hundred and fifty pounds for a Hoover jingle was serious money. He would do the ad. If there was time he would nip over to Pimlico and have a sing. Vanilla Studios Pimlico brown ale and Nutbush City Limits He nearly did not go in. He sat in a small cafe staring at a pie he could not eat because the crust was like iron and fear had seized his appetite. Then he crossed the road and opened the studio door. The first thing Malcolm Young did was hand him a bottle of Newcastle Brown with the line You must be thirsty. It broke the ice. When they asked what he wanted to try first, he picked Nutbush City Limits rather than the expected Smoke On The Water. Breath of fresh air, the band said. Then they hit Whole Lotta Rosie and something crackled in the room. Drummer Phil Rudd later said they knew they had their man. Brian went home to Gateshead none the wiser. A second try out followed. Another quiet train home. Then the call came on his dads birthday. Malcolm on the line. We have an album to do. We leave in a couple of weeks. Are you set. Brian being Brian asked him to ring back in ten minutes in case someone was taking the mick. Mal rang back on the dot with the same no fuss sentence. Are you coming or what. On 1 April 1980 AC DC announced their new singer. If you think the April date was awkward you are right. His own brother thought it was a prank. Compass Point Nassau five weeks of pressure and lightning in a bottle The new look band flew to the Bahamas to record at Compass Point in late April with Mutt Lange. The set up was spartan. The schedule was unforgiving. The weather was biblical. Johnson has told the story many times of sitting on his bed in a breeze block room trying to write lyrics fast enough to keep up. Mutt poked his head around the door to check he was all right. Then the sky went black. A tropical storm roared in. Listen. Thunder. Write that down. Rolling thunder pouring rain arriving like a hurricane. Hells Bells wrote itself as Brian described it, more or less a weather report. Other songs came with the same mix of instinct and intent. That stop start riff of Malcolms became Back In Black, the title track and the album’s mission statement. Have A Drink On Me was a toast to Bon from the band that still loved him. You Shook Me All Night Long gave Johnson his first AC/DC single and cemented his perfectly rude way with a double entendre. She told me to come but I was already there. He admits he wondered if he had gone too far. Nobody else in the room thought so. By the end of week five nine songs were in the can. One more was needed. Malcolm tossed a title into the air. Rock And Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution. Johnson laughed out loud at the rhymes he would need to find for that mouthful, then walked into the booth, took a drag, and delivered the preacher style spoken intro in one take. He assumed it was a throwaway. It became a fan favourite and a defiantly on brand closing argument. The bell that would not ring and the pigeons that ruined the take The album’s most famous sound effect might be the most expensive single note in rock. Mixing at Electric Lady in New York, Malcolm decided the opening to Hells Bells needed a literal bell, a heavy ominous toll to set the tone. Engineer Tony Platt flew to England to record a church bell in Loughborough. Every time the clapper struck, dozens of pigeons burst from the tower, their wings wrecking the recording. Plan B. Commission a foundry in Leicestershire to cast a custom bell and record that instead. The solution worked. The bell on the record tolls with a weight that still sends a low level shiver through the floorboards and it famously strikes 13 as the song fades in. The cover that said it all and a release that rewrote the odds Atlantic Records had concerns about a pure black sleeve. The band held the line. The cover was a memorial to Bon and a statement of intent. No frills. No gloss. Just the name, the title and a field of mourning black. Back In Black arrived in late July 1980, the United States release dated 25 July with the United Kingdom following a few days later. It went straight to Number 1 in Britain within two weeks and settled in for an epic run in America, racking up a thirteen month stay in the Billboard Top 10 through 1980 and 1981. In time it would sell more than fifty million copies worldwide. Only Thriller has sold more. The album did more than rescue a great band at its most vulnerable moment. It made AC/DC a global force on a scale even Highway To Hell had only teased. It also transformed Brian Johnson overnight from a Geordie grafter to an arena sized frontman. When the tour finally came home to Australia in early 1981, Bon’s mother Isa told him, "Our Bon would have been proud of you son." It was the blessing that mattered most. Human scale memories the Chevy Blazer and the neighbour with the Cortina For all the mythology, the personal stories are the ones that stick. Back in Newcastle after the whirlwind, Brian treated himself to a Chevy Blazer in black and white because of course he did. The neighbour who always smirked at his old bangers had a new Cortina every four years and could not resist a dig. That is a big daft thing. You jealous mate. Johnson laughed. It was daft and glorious and his. In a way the car said it all. The lad from Dunston who had plastered the rust on a Beetle to keep the job going now owned a slice of American excess because he had found his voice again. Another domestic footnote arrived years later when his daughter rang to say she had finally listened to the album properly and was proud of her dad. Her favourite tracks. Shoot To Thrill and Let Me Put My Love Into You. How old are you now pet. Thirty six. You are older than I was when I made it. That exchange captures the oddity of being a rock icon who still sees himself as a dad and a bloke who likes engines. The genius of Back In Black is that both truths coexist. Why Back In Black still hits like a freight train Part of the answer is craft. The riffs are chiseled from granite. The grooves swing just enough to move your hips without ever losing the iron fist. Mutt Lange drilled performances until they clicked in the pocket. The Young brothers wrote with economy and intent. And Johnson’s rasp cuts through like a racing V8. But beyond craft is feeling. These songs were written by men who had just lost a friend and were determined to honour him by going harder and cleaner than ever before. When you hear the title track kick in after that bell you hear defiance, grief, humour and the basic human refusal to fold. Even the lyrics that seem like wink and nudge laddishness work as catharsis. The bawdy lines on You Shook Me All Night Long are not clever poetry. They are a new singer proving to himself and to the world that the band still lives in the most primal rock sense. Have A Drink On Me is not a nihilist invitation. It is a wake. And Hells Bells is not devil theatre. It is weather, weight and warning. It is the sky turning black in Nassau and a room full of musicians deciding that the only way through was straight ahead with the volume up. The respectful distance between two frontmen One tricky question sits underneath every Back In Black conversation. How do you follow a singer as beloved and unique as Bon Scott without simply copying him. The answer Johnson found was to be absolutely himself. That meant the classic shouter vocabulary of Little Richard and old rhythm and blues, the grit of the North East, and a generous comic streak. It also meant standing in front of songs shaped by the man he replaced, and refusing to pretend the past had not happened. The album’s title and tone give the truest possible salute. The band does not wallow. It celebrates the life they had with their mate by making the hardest swinging record of their career. A phone call that changed everything and a lesson for anyone who thinks the door has closed It is tempting to say there are not many second chances in rock but that is only half true. Second chances usually come disguised as work. Johnson did not get his because fate sprinkled fairy dust. He drove south in a borrowed Toyota, fixed a puncture by the roadside, sang a jingle to pay the bills, drank a bottle handed to him by a stranger who would become family, and then sang his heart out on Nutbush and Rosie because that is what he knew how to do. When the second audition clashed with a shop full of customer cars, he still went. Then he wrote and wrote until the lines came. The band did the same. Two brothers who had grown up grafting on the Australian pub circuit relied on muscle memory in the middle of grief. They wrote riffs. They wrote choruses. They sat in the storm. They argued for a black sleeve. They sent a patient engineer on a mad bell chase that involved panicked pigeons and a Leicestershire foundry. And they made a record that sounds both effortless and heavy because it was neither. The legacy in plain English Back In Black remains the biggest selling rock album of all time and the second biggest selling album of any genre. It took AC/DC from cult heroes to permanent stadium headliners. It also installed Brian Johnson as a frontman who could lead with warmth and steel. The more you learn about its chaotic birth the more miraculous it seems. And yet everyone involved tells it without mystique. The lads did the work. The weather helped a bit. The bell was a nightmare. Then the songs did what great songs do. They outlived the moment that made them. Or as Brian himself likes to say with a grin, I do not think I could have done it unless it was those particular four boys. If it had been four other gentlemen it could not have happened. This is a special band. They do something to you. Sources https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Back_in_Black https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bon_Scott https://www.loudersound.com/features/ac-dc-the-epic-inside-story-of-back-in-black-by-brian-johnson https://www.guitarworld.com/features/the-inside-story-of-acdcs-back-in-black https://www.loudersound.com/news/brian-johnson-on-the-tropical-storm-that-inspired-acdc-classic-hells-bells https://americansongwriter.com/behind-the-meaning-of-you-shook-me-all-night-long-by-ac-dc/ https://www.acdc.com/brian-johnson-interview-in-1983/ https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/articles/features/the_story_behind_the_recording_of_the_bell_on_acdcs_hells_bells-158872

There have been many great 'adventurers'. People who have through force of will or luck or the ability to bullshit really REALLY well, have carved their names into the pages of history. Little people who do extraordinary things. One of my favourites is the illiterate Irish farmer who managed, without any support, to create for himself his own kingdom in India. Known as the "Jehazi Sahib" he briefly created a whole new state, with himself as a rajah, in the wild and dangerous era that fell upon India just before the British took over. His story is a window into a time and place long ignored by many historians. And above all it's a hell of a tale. (Only known portrait of George Thomas) The tale of George Thomas... George was born into utter poverty and shiteness. He never spent a day of his life in school, never learned to read or write, and his only true skill seemed be gaining a great love/mastery of horses from his father, a humble tenant farmer. He was born near Roscrea, County Tipperary, and lost both his parents by the age of 20. No skills, no education, no experience doing anything but manual labour- let's be honest, his prospects were pretty grim. This is the 1770's in Ireland here folks. Trust me, it's a properly fucking awful place. We know about 1776 or so George woke up one morning, looked at the backbreaking work he had for the day and went fuck that. He was a huge chunk of a man. His whole life had been spent lifting shit, and this had made him ripped to shit. So, he travelled south to the port of Youghal, in County Cork, where he got employment as a dock worker. But in 1779 his crap life decides to double down and get even crappier. George was drunk one evening and ended up on the wrong end of a press-gang. And NOW he was part of the Royal Navy. Where you don't enlist so much as get kidnapped and have to serve or get screwed. Discipline was kept with brutal efficiency and the job was worse than being on the farm. George found himself a crew man on a Man o'War captained by one Admiral Hughes; this Hughes guy was taking his ship and a decent sized flotilla and were sailing to India. For several months George survived the awful conditions onboard a Royal Navy ship, and the second he arrived at the port of Madras? He deserted. He literally jumped ship. Here was an Irish lad whose most exotic travel destination had previously been County Cork. And now he was in Madras in 1781. The sights, sounds, smells must have seen utterly alien to him. Would have been a huge relief for him to run into another Irish man. And not just that- a man from Tipperary called Kelly. This guy was actually running a bar there and George literally stumbled upon him and asked his fellow countryman for aid. Kelly gave him immediate shelter and then helped smuggle him out, away from the Royal Navy looking to recapture this deserter. It was Kelly who directed George to travel south to the Mysore region of India. Here were a group of locals called the Polygars. The Polygars were a leftover remains of previous state- feudal lords who spent a lot of their time raiding each other and other neighbours. Rough and ready and spikey, Polygars were mostly decent folks but were endlessly fighting. And they, like everyone in India at the time, were on the lookout for European soldiers, as these white guys had turned up over the last few decades and had shown above all things- they were brilliant at war. India at the time was a place where mercenaries could make a fortune. George Thomas didn't speak a fucking word of the local dialect, but he was a huge lad, and he basically bullshitted his way into a position of military advisor to one of the local rulers. And it helped that he knew how to handle a horse. Very quickly he finally found something he was good at. Violence. Over the next few years George spent his life in almost constant battle. Big fights and small fights were constant and real life combat is a great teacher. You either get good real fast. Or you die. George got good and actually became a decent cavalry commander. After a few years doing shit like this and with a bit of a reputation? He travelled north, and sought out Ali Khan, the Nizam of Hyderabad (left). Khan had a LARGE army- and a proper one with infantry units, artillery and a brace of European officers helping install some harsh European war discipline into the ranks. George was hired as a cavalry commander and was now able to begin a new life, all respectable and secure. While he served with the forces of the Nazim, learning from French and British mercenaries who treated him as a peer, George found himself sent to control a very wayward bunch of soldiers. The Pindaris were basically mounted outlaws; as the Mughal empire fell apart, they had gone from light shock cavalry units in the Muslim armies, to little more than mobile raiders and bandits. George was given the unlikely job of trying to tame a bunch of them for Ali Khan's army. After all the years he spent with the Polygars, he and the Pindaris got on like a house on fire. To them, he was this white skinned foreigner; huge of build; natural on horseback and utterly insane/seemingly without fear most of the time. To him? They became his 'Irish Pindaris'. Again after a few years George gave up this contract and travelled north. But this time the Pindaris cavalrymen came with him. They headed north towards Delhi, looking for mercenary work and in 1887 he found himself in Sandhara. And it was here he met a woman. One HELL of a woman. Begum Samru: the Iron Queen of Sandhara. Right this lady needs her own entry as she is fucking ferocious. And her story is even more impressive than George's. She was born Farzana Zeb un-Nissa, and she also came from a piss poor background, most likely born in Kashmir. Farzana was about 13 or so when she got a job as a nautch and soon caught the eye of a 45-year-old German mercenary called Water Reinhardt Sombre. Sombre led a large mercenary army which was in the service of fading Mughal Empire. By all accounts he was an untrustworthy swine, who swapped sides endlessly, with a reputation for cruelty. He rather liked the look of the dancing girl and she instantly saw a chance to improve her station. And while she was a small petite wee thing (four and half feet tall barefoot), she was tough, and extremely smart. She not only beguiled him, she complimented him. Quickly she supplied the brains to Sombre's army, and he and his European and Indian commanders quickly learned that this young woman knew what the fuck she was talking about. While she held no rank and she wasn't even married to him, Ferzana became second in command to Sombre. He spent years travelling around northern India, was heavily involved in the vicious internal politics of the place and she was his guide and his main advisor. He eventually became a governor of a region called Sandhara. Nine years later Sombre died and aged only 24 or so, this pint-sized powerhouse actually managed to become commander of this large ramshackle mercenary force, gaining the respect of Indian warriors and European mercenaries alike. She took the title Begum Samru and took over running Sandhara. She was brilliant at it. Seriously the woman was a genius. She became so rich that even today there is legal action taking place about the fortune she left behind. She was one hardcore lady. She was aged about 40 when George turned up to take the position as head of her artillery. She had a thing for European men and she obviously still had it... as she and George quickly became an item. She was self-created as he was; she was catholic (she had converted a few years earlier- making her one of only two Catholic rulers in Indian history) and he was a huge slab of Irish adventurer. George had become quite fluent in Hindustani by now, and she taught him Persian as well (oddly enough while he never learned to read and write English, he did learn to read/write those two languages) and they became quite the team. They were not a 'sit around and be pretty' type couple. This was a union based upon their self discovered an affinity for war. She had an army and together they led it into the field several times to defend the Shah. While mercenaries, they served the Mughal Empire with honour and their forces made a real difference as the empire faced endless rebellions. Indeed at the siege of Gokalgarh, the Begum Somru led her mercenary forces into the battle personally and at a crucial moment when the Shah seemed on the verge of capture, George led a desperate cavalry charge; he and his Pindaris plunged into the thick of the fighting, rescuing the Mogul Shah personally and turning the battle. You did not fuck with this couple. Across India word soon spread that the army of the Begum Somru was arguably the best fighting force out there after the East India Company's and their prestige grew. These were the good times. And they came to a swift end. The Begum grew bored of George and kicked him out of her bed and company, replacing him with a Frenchman named Levassoult. Even though he was now her general in charge of all her forces, she wanted him gone. George took employment with a guy called Appa Khandi Rao (the Mahratta governor of Meerut). This guy was basically a little shit, motivated by greed and more venal needs. George drilled his forces and lead them into battle after battle as Rao subjugated the nearby Rajputs. After a string of victories George was granted a noble rank (jagir) for his services. Meanwhile his ex the Begum Samra found her new lover had begun alienating many of the army and the good folks of Sandhara, to the point where she was replaced by a guy named Zafar-yab-Khan. George was away serving Rao at the time, and only got word of the situation when his ex-lover sent him a desperate appeal. Levassolut was dead and she was being kept tied to a wagon wheel under armed guard. George immediately rode back. It was a measure of how respected and feared he was by now, especially by the troops he had formally led into battle, that the army switched their allegiance back to the Begum at his request without a single shot being fired. This crazy Irishman now had serious chops. She rewarded him by arranging the marriage of George to an Indian-French girl later called Marie, and they had four kids. When George was away campaigning, his ex-lover took them in and raised them in her court. In 1797 Appa Khandi Rao had died and his nephew took over. George had had enough working for useless employers. He knew the land by now, and he had his eye on a choice price of real estate... Harinara. The Green Land' was a much contested piece of real estate. The Sikhs and Mahrattas had been fighting each over for it for years. Located to the northwest of Delhi it was a decent place to start his own kingdom... Thus in 1789, our George led his own army into the region. What followed was some damned hard fighting but, by year end, this illiterate farmer's boy from Tipperary was ruler of his own little Indian kingdom and was now, formally, a bloody rajah. An Irish rajah. Setting up his capital in the town of Hansi, he immediately constructed a fortress to secure the area (called Georgerah because what self-respecting adventure doesn't name a fortress after himself) and actually began RULING his little kingdom. He founded a mint to make his own currency, and established a bunch of foundries to make canon and muskets. His army was disproportionately large but he covered the cost by expanding his territory. He was by all accounts pretty decent- seems that in the chaos of the disintegrating Mugal Empire the criteria for being a good leader was basically 'don't act like a total bastard and actually give a shit about folks'. I know- seems revolutionary. But it worked for him. Those who were loyal to him were rewarded handsomely and he is still spoken about fondly by local historians as a somewhat enlightened ruler given the times. He wasn't content with just a small little kingdom. George had plans guys. Serious plans. He wanted to own the entire Punjab. That's some serious real estate. And what's more? He had the army and the balls to do it. Over the next three years George Thomas carved more and more territory out as his own. A little bit of Ireland in India. By 1800 he was quite the growing power. It's easy to forget however- George was still a foreigner. And he was carving a kingdom out of the remains of a decaying empire. Borders were porous, allegiances and alliances came and went quickly, and Wars were waged over minor issues. To the south the Mahrattas viewed George as a real threat. To the north, the Sikhs saw him as the bastard who kept beating their armies. His ex lover the Bagrum saw him now as a threat to her power. And the Mahrattas armed forces were led by a French general called Perron who saw George as a British agent and feared growing British control... By all accounts George HAD contacted the East India Company in the hope that they would see him as a natural ally and support his campaign. For the record, they thought he was the tits. BUT... their influence didn't spread that far. They couldn't help him. In 1801 while George was away to the north of his new kingdom kicking ass, his enemies invaded to the south led by General Perron. Within a few months George and his forces (numbering around 5,000) were besieged in his capital by an allied army of about 20,000+ The siege lasted weeks and several times when the enemy attacked, the attack was blunted as George personally led desperate counter attacks. By now his reputation as a giant damn near psychotic who was pure death in combat preceded him. At one point a Mahrattas detachment led by a British officer ran into George during an attack... The officer was the veteran of several Indian wars, was know for his bravery and yet he said upon seeing George Thomas, "He looked so ferocious that I eyed him for a moment, and then turned and ran, and my men after me.” Some say George was seeking death at this point. But his suicidal bravery was actually causing serious losses for his enemies. Even with many of his small garrison jumping the walls and surrendering, George held off and kept inflicting grievous casualties. Eventually they offered him really good terms if he surrendered. Reluctantly he did. And was treated more as an honoured guest than a vanquished enemy. George took this as a sign. He decided it was time to return home (this is Ireland in the early 1800's- if he had any idea how bad shit was there he would never had said this). His wife didn't want to go as she did have an inkling as to how well a half Indian woman would be greeted back in Europe. She stayed with his ex, the Bagram (George didn't take it personally she had sent troops to aid his downfall). But George never made it. He travelled to Bengal, telling his tales of adventure to an English officer who wrote it down, before apparently meeting his fellow Irishman the future Duke of Wellington, who he happily told all about the Mahrattas (Wellington would soon after go and kick their arses in battle). And there in a place called Baharamphur, on a river boat sailing down the Ganges, George was struck down with a fever and died, aged only 44. George Thomas brings us to a world often overlooked. India just before the British took over. A series of warring states, where mercenaries could make a fortune and actual adventurers like him could even carve out their own kingdom. It wasn't easy. It was a brutally tough life. George died so young because he had spent 15 years living this mad lifestyle. He had by all accounts fought dozens of battles, winning damn near all of them. For a few years this Irish farm boy dared to dream, and created his own kingdom in the lush fields of India.

Zitkála-Šá, born on February 22, 1876, emerged into the world on the Yankton Indian Reservation. Her upbringing unfolded amidst the reservation's embrace, alongside her mother, a descendant of Sioux Dakota ancestry. Details about her father, of Anglo-American descent, remain scarce. At the age of eight, Zitkála-Šá encountered missionaries from the White’s Manual Labour Institute in Indiana who journeyed to the Yankton reservation to enroll children into their boarding school. Despite her mother's initial reluctance, influenced by her older brother's return from such a school, Zitkala-Sa herself harboured an eagerness to attend. The allure of the school, painted by the missionaries as a place of wonder, captivated her and her peers, promising train rides and orchards abundant with red apples. After much deliberation, Zitkála-Šá's mother reluctantly consented, torn between the desire to preserve their Dakota way of life and the necessity of providing her daughter with an education, absent within the reservation's confines. In her autobiography, Zitkála-Šá recollects that upon boarding the train, an immediate sense of regret engulfed her for persuading her mother to permit her departure. The realisation dawned that she was embarking on a journey that would sever her ties with everything familiar for years to come. Unfamiliar with English and confronted with the prohibition of tribal languages at the school, she confronted the stark reality of being compelled to relinquish her Dakota heritage in favour of adopting an "American" culture. Zitkála-Šá's introduction to the school marked a distressing ordeal. The children were informed that everyone would undergo a haircut, a practice starkly contrasting Dakota culture, where only those deemed cowardly and captured by the enemy received such treatment. Zitkála-Šá resisted vehemently, seeking refuge in an empty room. However, her attempt to evade was short-lived as school staff discovered her concealed beneath a bed. Subsequently, they forcibly extracted her, binding her to a chair and severing her braids amidst her anguished cries. Reflecting on the experience later in life, she conveyed how the school staff displayed a blatant disregard for the children's emotions, likening their treatment to that of "little animals." Eventually, after a few years, the school permitted Zitkála-Šá a visit to her mother during a break. While at home, her mother urged her to give up schooling and remain at home. Zitkála-Šá's retrospective writings reveal that the visit evoked a sense of melancholy within her, despite this, she chose to return to the school. This decision might echo the sentiments of numerous children who, after experiencing life at the institution, grappled with a sense of estrangement from their reservation. The transformative impact of school life left an indelible mark on her, altering her perception of belonging. In 1895, Zitkála-Šá completed her studies and enrolled in a teacher training program at Earlham College in Indiana, where she stood out as one of the few Native American students. Later, she transitioned to the New England Conservatory of Music, focusing her studies on the violin. By 1900, she found herself teaching music and speech at the renowned Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania, a distinguished institution among the country's boarding schools. Zitkála-Šá's was employed at the Carlisle School for less than two years, a period fraught with haunting reminders of her own traumatic education. Witnessing the arrival of a fresh cohort of young children, subjected to the same brutal haircutting ritual she endured, stirred profound introspection. She began to challenge the school's ethos, questioning the necessity for children to relinquish their entire culture in pursuit of education. Observing instances of cruel treatment by the staff and uncovering the government's financial incentives tied to the removal of children from reservations further deepened her disillusionment. It became evident to her that these schools were meticulously crafted to systematically eradicate her people's culture. Zitkála-Šá harnessed her frustrations into a passion for writing, documenting her personal journey and preserving the customs and values instilled by her mother. Her eloquent essays and poignant short stories found a platform in esteemed national publications such as Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s Monthly. In 1901, she achieved a milestone with the publication of her book Old Indian Legends, a compilation of her insightful and culturally rich narratives. That same year, Zitkála-Šá bid farewell to the Carlisle school and journeyed back to South Dakota. There, she secured a position at the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs, providing her with financial stability as she pursued her true calling: crafting stories that celebrated Dakota culture and upheld its cherished values. Amidst her tenure at the Bureau, she crossed paths with Raymond Talesfase Bonnin, a fellow colleague. Their union culminated in marriage in 1902, and they had a son, naming him Raymond. The family relocated to Utah, where Zitkála-Šá assumed the role of a teacher. Unlike her previous experience, she didn't teach at a boarding school, but rather at a school situated on a Ute reservation, where children resided with their families. During her teaching tenure, she crossed paths with William Hanson, a music professor at Brigham Young University. Collaborating with William,Zitkála-Šá merged her passions for music and writing. Together, they crafted The Sun Dance, an opera inspired by her own essays. Notably, this opera marked a significant milestone as the first published opera authored by a Native American. Recognising the potency of music in transmitting Native American customs orally, Zitkála-Šá viewed it as a compelling medium to disseminate her family's values and connect with a broader audience. Because many Native American customs were passed down orally through music, Zitkála-Šá believed opera was a powerful way to share her heritage and at the same time reach a new audience. In 1916, fuelled by a growing desire to advocate for Native rights, Zitkála-Šá and her husband made a pivotal decision to relocate to Washington, D.C. There, she immersed herself in activism, contributing to the causes through her roles at the Society for American Indians and American Indian Magazine. Their collective efforts culminated in the establishment of the National Council of American Indians in 1926, a milestone in their pursuit of Native empowerment and representation. Additionally, Zitkála-Šá took charge of organizing the Indian Welfare Committee on behalf of the National General Federation of Women’s Clubs, further amplifying her impact on indigenous advocacy. Zitkála-Šá's relationship with the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs soured as she staunchly advocated for the preservation of Native American culture, diametrically opposed to the Bureau's assimilationist agenda. Her tireless activism sparked public consciousness on a myriad of Native American issues, spanning education, economics, employment, health, and religion. Her unwavering commitment catalyzed tangible change in government policy. Representing various organizations and committees, she played a pivotal role in the passage of landmark legislation such as the Indian Citizenship Act in 1924 and the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934. These laws facilitated Native Americans' attainment of American citizenship and enabled them to reclaim autonomy from federal oversight. Despite her passing in 1938, Zitkála-Šá's legacy endures as a beacon of hope and inspiration for generations to come. Her unwavering commitment to preserving Native American culture and advocating for indigenous rights continues to reverberate in the halls of power and the hearts of her people.

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

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

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