Utterly interesting

When the festive season descends upon Iceland, the nation transforms into a booklover’s paradise. Unlike the frenzied last-minute shopping that typifies December elsewhere, Icelanders look forward to the arrival of Jólabókaflóðið Iceland's Christmas Book Flood Tradition. This brilliant tradition celebrates the joy of giving and receiving books during the yuletide season, turning Christmas Eve into an evening of literary exploration, and cherished moments with loved ones. The Origins of Jólabókaflóðið The roots of this beloved tradition trace back to World War II, a time when much of Europe grappled with economic hardship and resource scarcity. Iceland, like many nations, faced restrictions on imports, including luxury goods and many traditional gift items. Yet, paper was an exception; it remained relatively inexpensive and unrestricted. This quirk of the wartime economy proved to be a boon for Iceland’s small but vibrant publishing industry. During the 1940s, Icelandic publishers capitalised on the availability of paper to print an abundance of books, but the market faced a unique challenge: Iceland’s population was too small to sustain a year-round book industry. Instead, publishers began concentrating their releases in the months leading up to Christmas, ensuring that books were readily available as holiday gifts. This surge in publishing became the foundation of Jólabókaflóðið. In 1944, the tradition took on an official form with the inaugural publication of Bókatíðindi—a comprehensive catalogue of new book releases compiled by the Iceland Publishers Association. This catalogue, distributed for free to every household, allowed Icelanders to browse and select their holiday reading. Since 1994, this ritual has become a cultural cornerstone, marking the start of the holiday season in Iceland. As Baldur Bjarnason famously observed, “It’s like the firing of the guns at the opening of the race.” A Literary Nation Iceland’s deep connection to books is no accident. The country boasts an extraordinary literary history and is consistently ranked among the top three most literate nations in the world. It also publishes more books per capita than any other country, a testament to the population’s enduring love of literature. This passion for the written word has roots in the Icelandic sagas, a collection of epic tales written between the 12th and 15th centuries. These narratives, detailing heroic deeds, family rivalries, and Viking adventures, are a foundational part of Iceland’s cultural identity. Even today, many Icelanders can trace their ancestry through these sagas, which function as both historical records and literary treasures. The modern embrace of books as gifts is not simply about tradition; it reflects the values of a society that sees reading as an essential part of life. As Kristjan B. Jonasson, president of the Iceland Publishers Association, explains: “The culture of giving books as presents is very deeply rooted in how families perceive Christmas as a holiday. Normally, we give the presents on the night of the 24th, and people spend the night reading. In many ways, it’s the backbone of the publishing sector here in Iceland.” Christmas Eve: The Heart of Jólabókaflóðið The climax of Jólabókaflóðið occurs on Christmas Eve, when families gather to exchange gifts and immerse themselves in their new books. It is a quiet, intimate affair, marked by an atmosphere of warmth and reflection. Unlike the often chaotic holiday traditions seen elsewhere, Christmas Eve in Iceland is an evening of tranquillity. Once the books are unwrapped, the night becomes a time for reading. Families prepare mugs of hot chocolate or their preferred festive drink, often accompanied by Icelandic chocolate bars, and settle into their new literary adventures. The experience is less about materialism and more about the joy of storytelling, connection, and the solace found in shared silence. The importance of this tradition is underscored by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, a renowned Icelandic author, who notes: “Books remain the number one Christmas present here. In fact, it’s considered a total flop Christmas if you do not get a book! Even the news programs in December report on which books are doing well and which ones top the charts.” Iceland’s Publishing Phenomenon The numbers behind Iceland’s publishing industry are as impressive as the tradition itself. With a population of roughly 380,000, Iceland publishes approximately 5 new books per 1,000 people each year—more than any other nation. In 2022, over 1,700 new titles were released, with the majority hitting the shelves in the months before Christmas to coincide with Jólabókaflóðið. Sales during this period are vital to the health of Iceland’s publishing sector. A significant portion of the industry’s annual revenue is generated in these final weeks of the year. Authors, publishers, and booksellers alike benefit from the tradition, which helps sustain a thriving literary culture in a country where reading is a way of life. Beyond Iceland: Books as Gifts Worldwide While Iceland’s approach to Christmas is unique, the idea of books as meaningful gifts resonates globally. From the United Kingdom’s Boxing Day book sales to the American tradition of gifting cookbooks and memoirs, literature holds a special place in holiday celebrations. However, what sets Jólabókaflóðið apart is its communal focus. The act of reading together, even in silence, creates a sense of unity and shared experience that few other traditions can match. Why Jólabókaflóðið Matters Jólabókaflóðið is more than just a holiday custom; it is a celebration of literacy, creativity, and the timeless joy of reading. In an age of screens and instant gratification, Iceland’s dedication to the written word serves as a powerful reminder of the value of slowing down and engaging deeply with a book. The tradition also speaks to the broader cultural significance of literature in Iceland. From the medieval sagas to modern crime novels, books have always been a medium for preserving history, sparking imagination, and fostering connection. Through Jólabókaflóðið, these values are passed down from generation to generation, ensuring that the love of reading remains at the heart of Icelandic identity. A Call to Embrace the Book Flood As the holiday season approaches, perhaps it’s time to take inspiration from Iceland’s Jólabókaflóðið. So brew a cup of hot chocolate, find a cosy spot, and lose yourself in the pages of a good book. In doing so, you’ll be participating in a tradition that has brought joy to countless Icelandic families—a tradition that celebrates the enduring magic of the written word.

Most people know Pablo Picasso as the man who turned art inside out, the father of Cubism, the creator of wild, angular portraits, and the sort of artist who could paint a face with three eyes and somehow make it feel more human. But Picasso wasn’t just an innovator with a paintbrush, he was also someone with a fiery political conscience and a knack for saying the unsayable with both images and words. There’s one story in particular that sums him up perfectly. During World War II, when Paris was under Nazi occupation, a Gestapo officer reportedly stormed into Picasso’s apartment. Spotting a photograph of Guernica , Picasso’s enormous anti-war mural, the officer asked, “Did you do that?” Picasso didn’t miss a beat. “No,” he replied. “You did.” It’s a line that’s been repeated countless times, possibly apocryphal, but it captures exactly what Guernica  is about, a confrontation, a reckoning, a mirror held up to the face of violence. A Response to an Atrocity To understand Guernica , you have to understand the event that inspired it. On 26 April 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, the town of Guernica in the Basque Country was bombed by German and Italian warplanes. The attack was coordinated with General Francisco Franco, leader of the Nationalist forces, and served as a grim test of the Luftwaffe’s aerial tactics. The bombardment lasted for more than three hours. The town burned for days. Civilian casualties were high, estimates vary, but several hundred people died, many more were injured, and the psychological impact was devastating. At the time, Picasso was living in Paris . He had already been commissioned by the Spanish Republican government to create a work for their pavilion at the 1937 Paris International Exposition (the World’s Fair). But up to that point, he hadn’t quite landed on a subject. When news of the Guernica bombing broke — thanks in part to the vivid newspaper reporting of British journalist George Steer — Picasso immediately knew what he would paint. He began work on Guernica  in May 1937 and completed it in just over a month, working from his studio on the Rue des Grands-Augustins. The painting was immense, more than 25 feet wide and 11 feet tall, and he completed it in oil on canvas, entirely in monochrome. The choice to use black, white, and grey was deliberate. Not only did it mirror the starkness of newspaper photographs, but it also stripped the scene of any comforting or decorative quality. This was not meant to be beautiful in a traditional sense, it was meant to haunt you. What’s Actually in the Painting? At first glance, Guernica  can be overwhelming. It’s not a literal depiction of a bombing raid. There are no planes, no explosions in the usual cinematic sense. But what you do get are symbols, ones that speak to suffering, destruction, and raw human pain. A bull stands on the left, wide-eyed and unyielding, its symbolism contested. Some see it as brutality, others as stoicism or the enduring Spanish spirit. Beneath the bull is a woman cradling her dead child, her face contorted in grief, mouth open in a scream that seems to echo across the canvas. At the centre, a horse writhes in agony, its body pierced by a spear, its scream forming the painting’s visual core. Elsewhere, limbs are severed. Flames engulf a figure to the right, arms raised in despair. A dismembered arm holds a broken sword, from which a single flower grows, perhaps the only faint glimmer of hope in the entire mural. There’s also a lightbulb, shaped like an all-seeing eye, watching over the scene. Some interpret it as technological surveillance, others as divine judgment or the cold light of modern warfare. It’s hard to pin down exactly what each element means, and that’s part of the power of Guernica . It doesn’t spoon-feed emotion. Instead, it draws you in with its jarring forms and forces you to feel the chaos. Not Realism, but Real Impact What makes Guernica  so striking is how it sidesteps realism but hits even harder because of it. As art writer Noah Charney has pointed out, if Picasso had chosen to paint a realistic scene, corpses, rubble, literal blood, it might have been too graphic, too sentimental, or too emotionally manipulative. Instead, by using Cubist abstraction, Picasso pulls viewers in before they even realise what they’re seeing. It creates a sense of disorientation that mimics the emotional aftermath of trauma. Charney draws a parallel with the German playwright Bertolt Brecht, who used what he called Verfremdungseffekt , the “alienation effect”, in his theatre productions. Brecht didn’t want audiences to get lost in a fictional world. He wanted them to stay aware they were watching a play — to think critically, not just feel passively. Picasso’s Guernica  does the same. The figures are jagged and exaggerated, but they serve to expose deeper truths about war and its consequences. The Painting Goes on Tour After its debut at the 1937 Paris World’s Fair, Guernica  travelled widely. It was exhibited in Scandinavia, the UK, and across the Americas. These tours weren’t just about showing off Picasso’s genius — they were political. The painting was used to raise funds for Spanish war relief and to keep the international spotlight on Franco’s regime. During its stay in London in 1938, it was displayed at the Whitechapel Gallery, hung in a room with little ceremony but immense impact. Visitors often left visibly shaken. For much of its life, Guernica  was housed at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York. Picasso had stipulated that it should not return to Spain until democracy was restored. As such, it remained in exile until 1981, six years after Franco’s death. Its eventual return to Spain was loaded with symbolism — a homecoming, but also a reminder of the country’s dark past. Today, Guernica  hangs in Madrid’s Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía , where it has resided since 1992. It is surrounded by related studies, sketches, and interpretive materials, but the main canvas remains the undeniable star. Legacy and Vigilance Even now, Guernica  has a political life. In 2003, during the build-up to the Iraq War, a reproduction of the painting at the United Nations headquarters in New York was famously covered with a blue curtain. Officials claimed it was to provide a neutral backdrop for press briefings — but the timing, right as war was being discussed, did not go unnoticed. A painting created to condemn the horrors of civilian bombing was once again too confronting to be seen. That tells you everything you need to know about Guernica . It’s not a relic. It’s not a piece of art to be admired at a distance. It’s still asking difficult questions, about power, violence, complicity, and memory. Picasso once said, “Painting is not made to decorate apartments. It is an offensive and defensive weapon against the enemy.” Guernica  is the clearest example of that philosophy. A mural made in a time of fear that continues to demand courage, from its viewers and from the world it reflects.

In the early 1970s, Durham, North Carolina, was a city deeply divided by race. Although the Brown v. Board of Education  decision in 1954 had legally mandated the desegregation of schools, much of the South, including Durham, resisted such changes. The racial tension, particularly regarding the desegregation of schools, was palpable, and at the forefront of this battle stood two fiercely opposed figures: Ann Atwater, a Black civil rights activist, and C.P. Ellis, a leader of the Ku Klux Klan. However, in an effort to desegregate the Durham school district, the unthinkable happened in 1971: Ann Atwater and C.P. Ellis were placed together as co-chairs of a 10-day community event known as SOS—Save Our Schools. This forum was designed to bring together different voices in the community to discuss the problems within Durham’s education system and to find solutions. Initially, the idea of working together seemed impossible. Atwater and Ellis had clashed violently in the past. On one occasion, when Ellis proposed banning Black people from Durham’s sidewalks, Atwater had threatened him with her pocket knife. Ellis, in turn, would show up to community meetings armed with a machine gun, ready to defend himself against the activist he despised. However, what began as a forced collaboration slowly turned into an unlikely friendship that would change both of their lives forever. The Roots of Racism: C.P. Ellis’s Rise in the Klan Born in 1927, C.P. Ellis was the son of a millworker. His family lived in poverty, a hardship that would shape Ellis’s views on race and society. Forced to leave school after the eighth grade to help support his family, Ellis married at 17 and struggled to provide for his wife and three children, despite working multiple jobs. As financial pressures mounted, Ellis became embittered by his circumstances. “I worked my butt off and never seemed to break even. They say abide by the law, go to church, do right, and live for the Lord, and everything will work out. It didn’t work out,” Ellis said in a 1980 interview with Studs Terkel. “It kept getting worse and worse. I began to get bitter.” This bitterness drove Ellis to seek solace in the Ku Klux Klan. Joining the Klan provided him with a sense of belonging and, more importantly, a scapegoat for his problems. “I didn’t know who to blame. I began to blame it on Black people. I had to hate somebody,” Ellis recalled. The Klan fed into his frustrations, convincing him that Black people were responsible for his financial struggles and that they were to blame for the social and economic issues that plagued poor white communities like his own. Ellis quickly rose through the ranks of the Durham Klan, assuming the title of Exalted Cyclops, the highest-ranking officer in his local chapter. He became an active participant in the escalating racial tensions in Durham, regularly confronting civil rights activists, including Ann Atwater. Atwater, an outspoken and tireless advocate for the Black community, became a particular target of Ellis’s ire. “I hated her guts,” Ellis admitted. But, like Ellis, Atwater was also fighting for better opportunities for her family. She understood that, beneath the hate, Ellis shared many of the same struggles. Clashing for a Common Cause: The SOS Charrette In 1971, Ellis and Atwater were thrust into an intense partnership when they were asked to co-chair the SOS charrette, a forum designed to address the problems in Durham’s school system. The SOS event was funded by a grant aimed at facilitating desegregation and was intended to bring the community together to find solutions. Atwater came to the first meeting armed with her Bible, ready to stand her ground. “I had my white Bible in my hand,” she later recalled in an NPR interview. “I always said if they’d said something to me, I was going to knock the hell out of them with my Bible.” Ellis, wary of working alongside someone he had long despised, arrived with a machine gun stashed in his car. Despite their mutual animosity, something unexpected happened over the course of the meetings. At one session, a gospel choir performed, and Atwater noticed that Ellis was awkwardly clapping along to the music. “He wasn’t clapping his hands even along with us; he would clap an odd beat,” Atwater remembered. In an extraordinary gesture, Atwater took Ellis by the hand and helped him clap in time with the rest of the group. It was a small but profound moment of connection. As the charrette continued, the two began to see the shared problems facing their communities. Both had children in Durham’s struggling school system, and both knew that the future of those schools depended on change. “Mr. Ellis has the same problems with the schools and his children as I do with mine,” Atwater observed, “and we now have a chance to do something for them.” For Ellis, it was a turning point. He began to realise that Atwater was not the enemy; instead, they were both victims of a larger system that was failing them. “During those days, it became clear to me that she had some of the identical problems that I had, and that I’d suffered like she had,” Ellis said. “And what in the hell had I spent all my life fighting people like Ann for?” A Transformation of Belief: From Klansman to Advocate The 10-day SOS meeting had a profound effect on C.P. Ellis. By the end of the charrette, he had renounced his membership in the Klan. “I found out they’re people just like me,” Ellis reflected. “They cried, they cussed, they prayed, they had desires. Just like myself.” For Ellis, it was a moment of awakening. He realised that the hatred he had carried for so long had blinded him to the humanity of those he had been taught to despise. In the years following the SOS charrette, Ellis left his job at Duke University’s maintenance department and went back to school, earning his high school diploma. He became a union organiser for a predominately Black union, the International Union of Operating Engineers, and became an outspoken advocate for civil rights. His transformation was not without personal cost. Ellis was ostracised by former friends and fellow Klan members, many of whom labelled him a traitor. He struggled with depression and considered suicide, but his commitment to racial equality never wavered. In 1980, he reflected, “I tell people there’s a tremendous possibility in this country to stop wars, the battles, the struggles, the fights between people. People say: ‘That’s an impossible dream. You sound like Martin Luther King.’ An ex-Klansman who sounds like Martin Luther King.” A Lifelong Friendship C.P. Ellis and Ann Atwater remained friends for the rest of Ellis’s life. Their bond, born out of a bitter confrontation over school desegregation, became a testament to the power of understanding and reconciliation. They looked out for each other, and when Ellis passed away in 2005, Atwater delivered the eulogy at his funeral. Their story serves as a powerful reminder that even the deepest divisions can be bridged through empathy, understanding, and a willingness to listen.

In the spring of 1980, Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, the creative minds behind Blondie, crossed paths with the visionary artist H.R. Giger at the Hansen Gallery in New York City. The gallery was showcasing Giger’s hauntingly surreal Alien  paintings, fresh off the back of his Oscar win for Best Visual Effects in Ridley Scott’s groundbreaking film Alien . Giger, already known for his biomechanical designs and dark, otherworldly creations, was riding high on the success of the movie, which had launched him into mainstream recognition. It was during this momentous event that Giger, Stein, and Harry met for the first time. As Giger later recalled: "There I was introduced to a very beautiful woman, Debbie Harry, the singer of the group Blondie, and her boyfriend, Chris Stein. They were apparently excited about my work and asked me whether I would be prepared to design the cover of the new Debbie Harry album. I found both of them immediately likeable; so I readily agreed and was greatly pleased to be allowed to create something for such an attractive woman, although I had never heard anything from the group. This was due to the fact that I was more interested in jazz." Blondie had already achieved massive commercial success by 1980, and Eat to the Beat , their fourth album, had only further solidified their place as new wave pioneers. Yet, both Harry and Stein were feeling disillusioned, fatigued by the relentless touring schedule and the growing pressures of being part of Blondie. In this context, the idea of launching Harry’s solo career took root, with Stein keen to explore new avenues outside of the band's established sound. Giger, though unacquainted with Blondie's music, was intrigued enough by their personalities and Harry’s distinctive image to join the project. Here is a picture of Giger with the early concept art: Giger said that the idea of the metal spikes derived from a medical procedure he had recently undergone: “Since I had just had an acupuncture treatment from my friend and doctor, Paul Tobler, the idea of the four needles came to me, in which I saw symbols of the four elements, to be combined with her face. I submitted the suggestions by phone to Debbie and Chris. They liked the idea and, in addition, they commissioned me to make two videoclips (music videos) of the best songs.” The imagery was bold and arresting, completely in line with Giger’s fascination with the fusion of human flesh and mechanical elements, a concept he had explored in Alien  and throughout his artwork. However, not everyone was taken with the provocative cover. In fact, it stirred quite the controversy. British Rail famously banned advertisements featuring the image due to its unsettling nature. The cover represented a significant departure from Harry’s pop-star image, thrusting her into the strange and dystopian world of Giger’s biomechanical horror. It was a far cry from the Blondie of Parallel Lines  and Eat to the Beat , and while some admired Harry and Stein for taking such a bold risk, the general public didn’t seem ready for the eerie transformation of their disco-pop queen. Despite the backlash, the duo remained undeterred. As part of their collaboration with Giger, Harry and Stein invited him to direct two music videos from KooKoo , specifically for the tracks “Now I Know You Know” and “Backfired.” When the hired director failed to show up on set, Giger took over, helming the videos himself. His vision translated seamlessly from the album cover to the visual medium, embedding KooKoo  with the same fusion of science fiction and body horror that characterised his most famous work. Harry and Stein later reflected on their experience working with the Swiss surrealist in an article for Heavy Metal  magazine. In the co-authored piece, titled “Strange Encounters of the Swiss Kind,” they discussed Giger’s unique artistry and how it influenced both the album and their creative process: "Giger is an industrial designer, which is very apparent to you the moment you step into his home. Even something as alien-looking as his chairs is structurally sound. The Alien creature—with its McLuhanesque quality of being the machine as an extension of the organic—makes sense biologically. The face hugger, with its air sacs, isn’t just decorative. Giger’s work has a subconscious effect: it engenders the fear of being turned into metal. It’s awesome—the work of an ultimate perfectionist, a true obsessive." For Harry and Stein, Giger's obsessive attention to detail and his ability to merge the mechanical with the biological had a profound impact on their approach to KooKoo . The album, however, was not the commercial success they had hoped for. While the songs “Backfired” and “The Jam Was Moving” received some attention, it was clear that the experimental and avant-garde nature of the project alienated much of Blondie’s pop audience. The album's dark, futuristic artwork and the visceral images in the music videos were unsettling for a mainstream audience who had been accustomed to Blondie’s upbeat and catchy tunes. Still, KooKoo  stands as a testament to Harry’s willingness to push boundaries and challenge her public image. The collaboration with Giger may not have been the commercial triumph they had envisioned, but it remains an iconic moment in both Harry’s career and Giger’s oeuvre. The artwork, with its haunting, impaled beauty, has since become a cult favourite, embraced by fans of both Harry and Giger for its daring combination of two radically different artistic visions. Here are some intriguing shots of Harry wearing a unique Giger bodysuit and other moments behind the scenes:

On a freezing Chicago afternoon in 1928, a sixteen-year-old girl sprinted flat out towards an elevated train platform, her coat flapping behind her and icy air tearing past her face. The train had already begun pulling away from the station, and to her teacher, Charles Price, a former track athlete, there was no chance she’d catch it. He’d already boarded and taken his seat when, moments later, the doors opened once again. There she was, Betty Robinson, breathless, beaming, and entirely unaware that she had just changed the course of her life. To Robinson, racing for the train wasn’t unusual. She was simply heading home from Thornton Township High in Harvey, just a few stops from her hometown of Riverdale, Illinois. But to Price, what he had witnessed was extraordinary. The biology teacher had seen many sprinters in his day, but none moved quite like Betty. He would soon ask her to race 50 yards down the school corridor. Her time was so astonishing that he encouraged her to train with the boys’ team—there wasn’t one for girls. What followed is one of the most extraordinary yet largely forgotten careers in Olympic history. Betty ‘Babe’ Robinson went from suburban schoolgirl to international champion in five short months—and then, just as swiftly, to a hospital bed, her body shattered in a plane crash. But that wasn’t the end of her story. Far from it. An Unlikely Beginning Born on 23 August 1911, Betty Robinson was, by her own admission, “a hick.” She loved playing guitar, acting in school plays, and racing neighbourhood boys at church socials. She was fast and fiercely competitive, but the idea of a woman having a career in athletics hadn’t occurred to her. “I had no idea women even ran then,” she recalled in 1984. Just days after her impromptu race for the train, Price formally timed her sprint and was so impressed that he arranged for her to enter a regional meet. Robinson made her debut in March 1928, finishing second to national 100m record-holder Helen Filkey. That performance earned her an invitation to join the Illinois Athletic Women’s Club (IAWC). Two months later, in only her second 100m race, Robinson defeated Filkey outright. Her time of 12 seconds bettered the official world record—though wind assistance meant it was not ratified. Still, her place at the Olympic trials was secure. At the Newark trials in July, Robinson raced three times in an hour, finishing second in the final and earning a place on the American team for the Amsterdam Games. These were the first Olympics to permit women in track and field, and Betty was about to make history. Olympic Debut at Seventeen The voyage to Amsterdam aboard the SS President Roosevelt  took nine days. Robinson trained by running laps around the ship’s deck and enjoyed the camaraderie of her fellow athletes, among them swimmer Johnny Weissmuller, soon to find fame as Tarzan. At just sixteen, Robinson was already gaining attention. Louis Nixdorff of the US lacrosse team noted in his journal that she was often approached for photos alongside the Olympic greats. In the 100m event, only Robinson made it through to the final from the four US women. Her primary competition was Fanny Rosenfeld of Canada, a 24-year-old national sensation who had beaten Robinson in an earlier heat. Both had won their semi-finals in 12.4 seconds. Nerves may have played a part—Robinson arrived at the track with two left shoes, having left the correct pair back at the team’s quarters. A teammate dashed back to the ship to retrieve them, and Robinson made it to the start line just in time, contemplating whether she might have to run barefoot. The race was fraught with tension. Two false starts saw Myrtle Cook of Canada disqualified in tears, and Germany’s Leni Schmidt dismissed amid angry protest. That left just four women. Robinson lined up beside Rosenfeld, determined to keep her closest rival within sight. When the gun fired, Robinson surged forward. Rosenfeld recovered from a poor start and drew level halfway down the cinder track. The finish was a blur—both women crossed the line with arms raised—but Robinson had edged ahead. Her time of 12.2 seconds (officially equalling the world record) secured her the first-ever Olympic gold medal awarded to a woman in the 100m. “I can remember breaking the tape, but I wasn’t sure that I’d won,” she later said. “My friends in the stands jumped over the railing and put their arms around me—and then I knew.” Robinson later anchored the 4x100m relay team to a silver medal behind Canada, where a redeemed Myrtle Cook ran the final leg. From Golden Girl to Tragedy Back in the United States, Robinson’s return was met with parades, interviews, and meetings with celebrities—including baseball legend Babe Ruth. When she arrived home in Riverdale, 20,000 people greeted her. The town gifted her a diamond watch and her school presented her with a silver cup. Betty resumed her studies, planning to coach at the 1936 Olympics. She continued to run competitively, setting new records, including 5.8 seconds for the 50-yard dash and 11.4 seconds for the 100-yard dash in blistering heat at Soldier Field. In early 1931, she set world records at 60 and 70 yards. But in June of that year, everything changed. Eager to cool off during training, Robinson joined her cousin for a brief flight in a small plane. Just after takeoff, the engine stalled. The aircraft plummeted into a marsh. When rescuers arrived, they assumed she was dead and drove her to an undertaker. Thankfully, someone realised she was still alive. Robinson had suffered catastrophic injuries: a shattered leg, hip and arm, and internal trauma. She was unconscious for days and spent eleven weeks in hospital. Her left leg healed shorter than her right, and she walked with a limp. The 1932 Olympics in Los Angeles passed without her. Betty Robinson recovering in hospital following the plane crash. Return to Glory Robinson’s recovery was long and arduous, but her physical condition pre-accident gave her a crucial edge. “If I hadn’t been in such good shape, I wouldn’t have come out of it as well,” she acknowledged. Unable to get into a crouch start, the 100m was out of the question. But relay runners—apart from the starter—could launch from a standing position. With quiet determination, she began training once again and earned her place on the 1936 US Olympic team. She was 24—the oldest member of the squad. In Berlin, all eyes were on Jesse Owens and his four gold medals, but Robinson had her own moment. The German relay team, favourites after breaking a world record in their heat, led by nine metres on the final leg. But in a disastrous handover, anchor runner Ilse Dorffeldt dropped the baton. The Americans surged ahead and won in 46.9 seconds. Robinson, who had passed the baton to Helen Stephens, collected her second Olympic gold. “I wish they hadn’t dropped it,” she said later. “Helen was faster. We would have won anyway.” A Quiet Legacy Robinson retired from competition but remained active in sport, serving as a timekeeper for the AAU and speaking regularly to promote women’s athletics. She married, had children, and worked in a hardware shop in Glencoe, Illinois. She never boasted of her Olympic achievements. Her medals were kept in a sweet tin in her dresser drawer. But her granddaughter, Brook Doire, remembered: “She held them with such care when she showed them.” In 1977, Robinson was inducted into the USA National Track & Field Hall of Fame. She never made it into the US Olympic Hall of Fame, though her family hoped she would one day be recognised. In 1996, aged 84, Robinson carried the Olympic torch for a short distance en route to the Atlanta Games. Frail but determined, she insisted on carrying the heavy torch herself. A Story Still Waiting to Be Told Betty Robinson passed away on 17 May 1999, aged 87. She had been battling cancer and Alzheimer’s. She left behind a quiet legacy—an American teenager who became the fastest woman in the world, survived a near-fatal crash, and returned to Olympic glory. Her story may one day find its way to the silver screen. If it does, the first scene needs little embellishment: a young girl dashes for a train on a cold winter’s day. She makes it. And in doing so, she outruns not just the train, but history itself. Sources Los Angeles Times, 1984 Tales of Glory  by Lewis H. Carlson & John J. Fogarty Chicago Tribune archives Official Report of the IX Olympiad, Amsterdam 1928 Oral history interviews with Brook Doire

In the strange interwar theatre of British politics, few figures stood further apart in temperament and ideology than Bertrand Russell and Oswald Mosley. One was a Nobel Prize-winning philosopher, a pacifist, and a logician who tried to make sense of the world through reason and principle. The other, a charismatic aristocrat turned fascist, rallied blackshirts in London streets and looked to Mussolini for inspiration. So when the two briefly crossed pens, the exchange, if you can call it that, was as short as it was unforgettable. In 1962, decades after Mosley’s heyday as Britain’s most notorious fascist, he was still trying to claw his way back into political relevance. As part of a public relations campaign, he sent out letters to prominent figures of British life, asking for support or at least dialogue. One of those recipients was Bertrand Russell, by then in his nineties and a national treasure. Perhaps Mosley assumed that the passage of time had mellowed the philosopher’s views. He was wrong. Russell’s reply is now legendary for its brevity and precision Dear Sir Oswald, Thank you for your letter and for your enclosures. I have given some thought to our recent correspondence. It is always difficult to decide on how to respond to people whose ethos is so alien and, in fact, repellent to one’s own. It is not that I take exception to the general points made by you but that every ounce of my energy has been devoted to an active opposition to cruel bigotry, compulsive violence, and the sadistic persecution which has characterised the philosophy and practice of fascism. I feel obliged to say that the emotional universes we inhabit are so distinct, and in deepest ways opposed, that nothing fruitful or sincere could ever emerge from association between us. I should like you to understand the intensity of this conviction on my part. It is not out of any attempt to be rude that I say this but because of all that I value in human experience and human achievement. Yours sincerely, Bertrand Russell This must be the nicest "Fuck off" that's every been written.

Woodstock Music and Art Fair. Held from August 15 to 18, 1969, in Bethel, New York, Woodstock was more than just a music festival; it was a cultural phenomenon that drew approximately half a million people. The festival, headlined by now-legendary acts such as Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Grateful Dead, Joe Cocker, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, has since become emblematic of the 1960s counterculture and a defining moment in American history. As the monetary breakdown shows, Hendrix earned the most money from the festival, pulling in about $18,000. (For reference, that’s roughly $112,000 in 2024). Blood, Sweat and Tears ($15,000), Joan Baez ($10,000), Creedence Clearwater Revival ($10,000), and The Band ($7,500) rounded out the Top 5 earners. Other A-listers such as The Who and Joe Cocker took home $6,250 and $1,375, respectively. There was a lot of cash to go around, to be sure, but the event wasn’t as steep as some of today’s big-budget productions. Check out the full listing below. 1. Jimi Hendrix – $18,000 2. Blood, Sweat and Tears – $15,000 3. Joan Baez – $10,000 4. Creedence Clearwater Revival – $10,000 5. The Band – $7,500 6. Janis Joplin – $7,500 7. Jefferson Airplane – $7,500 8. Sly and the Family Stone – $7,000 9. Canned Heat – $6,500 10. The Who – $6,250 11. Richie Havens – $6,000 12. Arlo Guthrie – $5,000 13. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young – $5,000 14. Ravi Shankar – $4,500 15. Johnny Winter – $3,750 16. Ten Years After – $3,250 17. Country Joe and the Fish – $2,500 18. Grateful Dead – $2,500 19. The Incredible String Band – $2,250 20. Mountain – $2,000 21. Tim Hardin – $2,000 22. Joe Cocker – $1,375 23. Sweetwater – $1,250 24. John B. Sebastian – $1,000 25. Melanie – $750 26. Santana – $750 27. Sha Na Na – $700 28. Keef Hartley – $500 29. Quill – $375

In 1920, Dutch writer, traveller, and linguist Gerard Nolst Trenité, better known by his pseudonym Charivarius , released a textbook titled Drop Your Foreign Accent: engelsche uitspraakoefeningen  (English pronunciation exercises). Nestled in the appendix of this unassuming work was a poem that would go on to outshine the book itself, capturing the imaginations of linguists, educators, and language enthusiasts for over a century. The poem, aptly titled The Chaos , is a brilliant and humorous exploration of the countless irregularities in English spelling and pronunciation. While Drop Your Foreign Accent  has faded into obscurity, The Chaos  remains a cult classic, a playful yet maddeningly challenging demonstration of the idiosyncrasies of the English language. Its history, publication, and rediscovery tell a fascinating story about the complexities of language and the persistence of linguistic curiosity. Gerard Nolst Trenité A Legacy Unearthed: The Rediscovery of The Chaos By the mid-20th century, Drop Your Foreign Accent  had been largely forgotten, and The Chaos  might have shared its fate if not for the dedicated efforts of the Simplified Spelling Society (SSS). In 1994, the SSS published an account in their journal detailing how fragments of the poem were discovered scattered across Europe. Over time, portions were unearthed in countries as far-flung as France, Canada, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, and Turkey. Piecing together the poem’s fifty-eight stanzas became something of a linguistic treasure hunt, a testament to its enduring appeal despite its complexity. The SSS celebrated The Chaos  as “a concordance of cacographic chaos,” a phrase that perfectly encapsulates its dual nature as both a marvel of linguistic ingenuity and a relentless tongue-twister. Since its republication in 1994, the poem has enjoyed a revival among those fascinated by the peculiarities of the English language. It is now widely shared, studied, and performed—often with delight and occasional frustration. The Structure and Style of The Chaos At first glance, The Chaos  appears to be a whimsical list of unrelated words and phrases. Yet, beneath its playful surface lies a meticulously crafted exploration of the intricacies of English pronunciation. The poem contains around 800 examples of irregularities, including homonyms, loanwords, and archaic pronunciations that highlight the language’s evolution over centuries. For instance, the poem juxtaposes words like “cough” and “though,” which share similar spellings but wildly different pronunciations. It also includes words whose pronunciations have shifted over time, such as “studding-sail,” pronounced “stunsail” in nautical contexts—a term whose obscurity is itself a reflection of English’s ever-changing lexicon. This interplay of spelling and pronunciation makes the poem both a linguistic puzzle and a historical document. It invites readers to grapple with the remnants of Middle English, Norman French, and Latin, all of which have left indelible marks on modern English. Each stanza is a miniature minefield of traps for the unwary, challenging even native speakers to navigate its twists and turns without stumbling. Why The Chaos Resonates The enduring appeal of The Chaos  lies in its ability to entertain and educate simultaneously. It highlights the absurdities of English in a way that is both humorous and humbling. For non-native speakers, the poem is a stark reminder of the difficulties inherent in mastering a language so heavily influenced by other tongues. For native speakers, it is an opportunity to laugh at their own linguistic quirks. In the words of the SSS, English is “a rapidly-changing language,” one whose spelling and pronunciation often bear little resemblance to one another. This dissonance is rooted in the language’s history: from the Great Vowel Shift of the 15th and 16th centuries to the influence of various colonial languages, English has never been a language of strict phonetic logic. Instead, it has thrived on its adaptability and eclecticism. The Chaos  captures this chaotic essence in a way that no textbook or grammar guide ever could. It is both a critique of English orthography and a celebration of its idiosyncratic charm. A Challenge for the Brave: Reading The Chaos To truly appreciate The Chaos , one must attempt to read it aloud. This is no small feat. The poem’s intricate wordplay and unpredictable shifts in pronunciation make it a formidable test of one’s linguistic agility. Many have taken up the challenge, often in front of audiences, with results ranging from triumphant to hilariously disastrous. Whether you are a seasoned linguist or a casual language enthusiast, The Chaos  offers an opportunity to engage with English in a unique and challenging way. It is a reminder of the beauty and complexity of language, as well as the joy that comes from grappling with its contradictions. Legacy and Impact Today, The Chaos  continues to be shared in classrooms, linguistic forums, and online communities around the world. It has become a rite of passage for English learners and a source of fascination for linguists. Its clever construction and enduring relevance serve as a testament to Gerard Nolst Trenité’s wit and insight. While the textbook that first housed the poem may have been forgotten, The Chaos  has carved out a lasting place in the cultural and linguistic landscape. It stands as both a playful critique and a loving homage to a language that is, in equal measure, maddening and marvellous. Here is the head battering poem in full -

The Aftermath of Emancipation The abolition of slavery in the United States, formalised by the 13th Amendment in 1865, marked a pivotal moment in the nation’s history. For millions of formerly enslaved African Americans, freedom meant an opportunity to rebuild lives shattered by generations of bondage. However, one of the most immediate and heartbreaking challenges was the fragmentation of families. During slavery, it was common for enslaved individuals to be forcibly separated from their loved ones. Husbands were torn from wives, children were sold away from parents, and extended family members were scattered across plantations, often across state lines. This traumatic reality of separation meant that, after the Civil War, many newly freed African Americans were left searching for lost relatives. In the aftermath of emancipation, one of the most striking methods used to reconnect with lost family members was the "Wanted" or "Information Wanted" ads. These ads appeared in newspapers, particularly in African American publications, where former slaves would post notices seeking information about family members they had lost contact with during the years of slavery. The Role of Newspapers in Reuniting Families During the late 19th century, newspapers became an essential medium for African Americans to connect with their communities and, most importantly, to attempt to reunite with loved ones. These publications, which began to flourish post-emancipation, offered newly freed individuals a voice in public discourse that they had long been denied. One of the most notable publications that hosted these ads was The Christian Recorder , a newspaper of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. Starting in the 1860s, the paper became a crucial hub for people trying to track down family members. These "Information Wanted" ads were often brief, but they contained poignant details. Individuals would provide their own names, sometimes the name of the person they were looking for, a description, details about the last time they had seen them, and the name of the enslaver who had owned them. A common refrain in these ads was a deep yearning for connection and the hope that their loved ones were still alive, despite the vast geographical distances and years that may have passed. Here is an example of a typical ad from The Christian Recorder  in 1865: "Information Wanted of My Children. – I am anxious to learn the whereabouts of my three children, William, Henry, and Amanda. They were sold from me when young, by Mr. Thomas in Virginia, and taken to Texas. Their mother, Mariah, was also sold. Any information of them will be thankfully received by their father, Simon Green." Another ad, published in The Christian Recorder  in 1870, shows the heartbreak of a mother searching for her son: "Information wanted of my son, Joseph, who was sold from me in Richmond, Virginia, ten years ago, and taken to New Orleans. He was last owned by a man named John Smith. I was sold shortly afterward to a different owner. If anyone has any knowledge of Joseph, please contact his mother, Mary Johnson." The Emotional Weight of the Ads These ads reflect the emotional toll of family separation during slavery. They are written with a clear desperation, showcasing the strength of familial bonds that transcended the brutal realities of enslavement. Despite the dehumanisation that enslaved individuals endured, the ads also serve as testimony to their resilience and love for one another. Each "Information Wanted" ad represents an attempt to reclaim the humanity and familial bonds that slavery had sought to strip away. The ads were not merely a cry into the void; they were a form of hope and resistance. They signalled that even though slavery had ended, the long journey to healing and reuniting fractured families had only begun. Reuniting Families: Success Stories The success rate of these ads is difficult to quantify, but there are documented instances where families were successfully reunited through this medium. For example, an ad from The Southwestern Christian Advocate , another key African American newspaper, published in 1880, recounts how a man named John Battle was able to find his sister, whom he had not seen since they were children, after placing a notice in the paper. In another heartwarming example, The Christian Recorder  reported a reunion between a mother and her daughter in the 1880s. The mother had placed an ad looking for her daughter, who had been sold from her over twenty years prior. Someone who saw the ad recognised the name and informed the mother, leading to their reunion after decades of separation. These success stories, though not always common, became symbols of hope for thousands of families still searching. They underscored the fact that despite the odds, the power of persistence, community, and the written word could yield miracles. The legacy of these "Information Wanted" ads persists to this day. In the 21st century, scholars and historians have collected and digitised thousands of these advertisements, making them available to the public. Projects such as the "Last Seen: Finding Family After Slavery" initiative have created databases where descendants of formerly enslaved people can search for their ancestors and learn more about the post-slavery attempts at reunification. The archival preservation of these ads offers a powerful insight into the social history of African Americans and serves as a poignant reminder of the personal and familial costs of slavery. Many of these ads can be viewed through online databases such as: Last Seen: Finding Family After Slavery The Freedmen's Bureau Records

Leonid Rogozov lying down talking to his friend Yuri Vereschagin at Novolazarevskaya Most people get squeamish just thinking about an operation. Now picture being so far from civilisation that when your appendix starts acting up, the only person around with the skills to fix it is… you. This was the brutal reality for Leonid Rogozov, a young Soviet surgeon who, during an expedition to one of the most remote corners of Earth, found himself facing a choice no one wants: perform surgery on himself or almost certainly die. Trouble in the Polar Wasteland In 1961, Leonid Rogozov was just 27 and part of the Soviet Union’s sixth Antarctic expedition. His team of a dozen hardy souls had been tasked with setting up a brand-new base at the Schirmacher Oasis, which sounds a lot more inviting than it really was — a desolate stretch of frozen nothingness battered by gales and endless snow. By mid-February that year, the Novolazarevskaya Station was up and running. The men settled in, ready to outlast the long Antarctic winter together. But by the time April rolled round, Leonid started feeling off: lethargy, nausea, and then a sharp pain stabbing his right side — the textbook signs of appendicitis. Leonid Rogozov (R) relaxing with a penguin Being the only doctor on site, he didn’t have the luxury of asking for a second opinion. His son Vladislav later put it plainly: “It’s a routine operation in the civilised world, but unfortunately, he didn’t find himself in the civilised world — instead he was in the middle of a polar wasteland.” No Escape, No Help For Rogozov, it must have felt like a nightmare in slow motion. He knew precisely what was happening inside his body — and what would happen if he did nothing. A burst appendix is not something you can just sleep off, especially not when your nearest hospital is across blizzards, pack ice, and several thousand miles of hostile ocean. Calling for help was futile. The ship that had brought them down took 36 days by sea — it wouldn’t be back for a year. And as for planes, the howling storms ruled out any hope of a quick rescue. Rogozov’s life was now down to him alone. The base commander needed permission from Moscow before green-lighting such an extreme measure — it was the Cold War, after all, and every mishap was political ammunition. If Rogozov failed, it would be an embarrassing dent in the image of Soviet heroism at the very height of the polar race. But there was no other choice. So Rogozov decided to gamble on the impossible: a self-performed appendectomy. Leonid Rogozov with a very young Vladislav in 1969 “A Snowstorm Whipping Through My Soul” Rogozov kept a diary throughout, his stoicism laid bare in dry, honest scribbles. On the night before his surgery he wrote, “It hurts like the devil! A snowstorm whipping through my soul, wailing like 100 jackals… I have to think through the only possible way out — to operate on myself… It’s almost impossible… but I can’t just fold my arms and give up.” In those words, you glimpse a man torn between medical logic and raw fear — aware of the risk but compelled by a stubborn will to live. Surgical Plans in the Freezing Dark Never one to wing it, Rogozov devised a careful plan. He assigned two assistants — neither of whom had ever assisted in surgery before — to pass him instruments and hold a mirror and a lamp. He even coached them on emergency procedures: how to give him a jolt of adrenaline if he passed out, and how to ventilate him if he stopped breathing. A general anaesthetic was out of the question — he couldn’t risk knocking himself out completely. So he injected his own belly wall with novocaine, steeled his nerves, and picked up the scalpel. “My poor assistants! At the last minute I looked over at them. They stood there in their surgical whites, whiter than white themselves,” he wrote later. “I was scared too. But when I picked up the needle and gave myself the first injection, somehow I switched into operating mode.” By Touch, Not Sight The mirror idea didn’t last long. Trying to operate backwards through an inverted reflection was worse than working blind, so Rogozov did it by feel, probing and cutting his own flesh with bare hands. No gloves, no luxury of detachment — just him, his tools, and pain. At one point, he accidentally nicked the blind gut and had to stitch it up mid-procedure. Blood was pouring, his head was spinning, and every few minutes he paused for 20 seconds just to keep from blacking out. “Finally here it is, the cursed appendage!” he scribbled. A black stain at its base meant he had been frighteningly close to a fatal rupture. Two Hours, a New Lease on Life After nearly two hours of agony and grit, Rogozov stitched himself back up. Before resting, he calmly told his team how to sterilise the tools and clean the room. Only then did he allow himself antibiotics and a few hours’ sleep. Remarkably, he was back on light duty within a fortnight, tending to his comrades and keeping the station running. Leonid Rogozov in Leningrad (now St Petersburg) a few years after his return to Russia Home at Last — and an Unwanted Fame When the time came to leave Antarctica, the team faced more drama: a blockade of ice nearly trapped them for another year. They were eventually airlifted out in nail-biting conditions — one plane almost ditched into the ocean. Back in the USSR, Rogozov returned a hero, his story plastered across Soviet papers as an example of the unbreakable young Soviet man — alongside cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, who had rocketed into space just weeks before. Both men were 27, both working class, both symbols of the state’s unshakable strength. Rogozov himself shunned the fuss. He quietly went back to his beloved hospital job the very next day. A Lesson for Explorers and Astronauts Alike Today, any Antarctic team from Australia or elsewhere must have their appendix out before heading south. Some experts have even floated the idea that future Mars colonists should do the same — just in case. Rogozov’s son Vladislav puts it best: “If you find yourself in a desperate situation when all the odds are against you… believe in yourself and fight. Fight for life.”

It’s the mid-1980s, and Phil Lynott is deep in a Soho recording studio, working on his second solo album. The room, as usual, is full to bursting with hangers-on, friends, freeloaders, fans, all waiting for the moment when the rock star opens up the party supplies. With a wry smile, Lynott counts them: twelve people. Methodically, he lays out twelve lines of cocaine. The group lean in. Then, without breaking eye contact, Lynott bends over and inhales every single line himself. “He sat next to me and clenched the edge of the desk,” recalled producer Kit Woolven. “His hands went pure white, he was holding the desk so tightly.” It was a moment of theatre. A rebuke to the opportunists, and a declaration of unchallenged bravado. That scene, charged with attitude and tragedy, encapsulates Phil Lynott: a man driven to live up to the rock star image he’d spent his life crafting, and who, ultimately, couldn’t escape it. Phil Lynott at home with a friend at Embassy Court, West Hampstead, London (1976) The First Black Irish Rock Star Phil Lynott wasn’t just a frontman. He was a phenomenon. In 1970s Ireland, still clinging tightly to Catholic orthodoxy, social conservatism and an often insular cultural identity, he appeared like a bolt of lightning across grey skies. Tall, mixed-race, stylish, poetic and unrepentantly confident, Lynott embodied something that Ireland had simply never produced before: a Black rock star with swagger, vision and global ambition. Born in West Bromwich, Birmingham in 1949, Lynott entered the world at a time when Britain and Ireland were just beginning to experience the demographic shifts that would slowly redefine them. His mother, Philomena Lynott, was a Catholic teenager from Dublin who had travelled to England to find work. His father, Cecil Parris, was an Afro-Guyanese merchant seaman and self-styled adventurer who disappeared from the picture not long after Lynott was born. At the age of seven, Phil was sent to live with his maternal grandparents in Crumlin, a working-class suburb of Dublin. His grandmother Sarah and grandfather Frank were loving but firm — not wealthy, but consistent and protective. They gave Phil stability, and the values of hard work and resilience. He adored them. It was in this environment, deeply Irish, modestly rooted, that Lynott began to shape his identity. lin in the late 1950s and early ’60s was not a racially diverse place. Phil was one of just a handful of Black children in a city of more than half a million. But far from being cowed by that visibility, he embraced it. He didn’t try to disappear into the crowd; he stood out, and deliberately so. He grew his Afro high, leaned into his unique style, and developed a taste for American soul, British rock, and literary drama. By his early teens he’d formed his first band, and by 20, he’d co-founded Thin Lizzy. From the beginning, it was clear that this wasn’t someone merely dabbling in music — he was on a mission to lead, to perform, and to define what Irish rock could be. What Lynott represented mattered deeply in a country still wrestling with its post-colonial self-image. He was the embodiment of a modern, confident, multicultural Ireland before most people even realised such a version existed. He was both insider and outsider — shaped by Irish values, but unafraid to challenge them. In doing so, he inspired a generation of musicians and creatives, from Bono to Imelda May, and opened the door for a more open and expressive Irish cultural identity. Thin Lizzy and the Birth of the Irish Rock Juggernaut Thin Lizzy, with Lynott on bass and vocals and Brian Downey on drums, was Ireland’s first rock supergroup. While the guitarists came and went — Eric Bell, Scott Gorham, Gary Moore among them — Lynott was always the core: the band’s songwriter, image-maker, and anchor. Their music was a fusion of street poetry and heavy riffs. Songs like The Boys Are Back in Town , Cowboy Song , Dancing in the Moonlight , and Don’t Believe a Word  blended lyrical romance with hard-hitting guitar lines. Their version of Whiskey in the Jar , a reimagined Irish folk ballad, became an international hit and was later covered by Metallica, Pulp, and others. Bob Geldof once called The Boys Are Back in Town  “one of the top five songs about rock ‘n’ roll itself ever – spectacular.” But behind the confidence was complexity. Lynott was a self-confessed romantic who read Camus, idolised Frank Sinatra, and wrote poetry. Yet he also believed rock stardom required myth-making — and he threw himself into that with total abandon. Machismo, Mayhem, and Melancholy Lynott’s public persona — all leather trousers, limousine arrivals and impish grins — was part performance, part coping mechanism. In the pages of Cowboy Song , his authorised biography by Graeme Thomson, we see a man balancing contradiction: a church-going, literature-loving son who grew into a man playing the role of untameable icon. “I wanted to explore the dichotomy of someone who, at heart, is quite quiet and thoughtful but who gets a lot of his self-esteem and his identity from being a rock star and playing up to that image,” Thomson explained. Phil certainly played the part. When a Dublin newspaper falsely reported he’d been arrested in a drugs raid, he stormed into the office and started swinging punches: “My f***ing granny saw that!” he shouted. It wasn’t the first time the rock image collided with reality — and it wouldn’t be the last. The early substance use was limited to cannabis and alcohol, but even then, fights and confrontations followed. Guitarist Scott Gorham said he’d had just two fights in his life before joining Lizzy — and two more within his first month on the road with them. But things escalated. Cocaine and heroin entered the picture. By the early 1980s, Lynott was touring with a 2lb bag of cocaine — casually dipping in and out of it as if it were a snack. He spent time with heavy-living rockers like Lemmy from Motörhead, and tried, on and off, to get clean. A Poet Dressed in Leather Phil Lynott was more than a rock icon with a bass guitar and a bottle of whiskey in hand. Beneath the surface of leather trousers and arena-shaking choruses was a man shaped by language as much as volume — a songwriter, a reader, and most of all, a romantic who saw himself as a writer first, musician second. His lyrics were never just filler between solos. They were stories — often melancholic, laced with longing, heartbreak, or myth. In Cowboy Song , he’s the solitary wanderer. In Dancing in the Moonlight , he captures a fleeting, youthful joy tinged with nostalgia. In Sarah , written for his daughter, there’s tenderness stripped of bravado. He had the rare ability to write songs that were as poetic as they were pub-ready — verses that made you feel something even when the amps were turned to eleven. Lynott didn’t just write lyrics either. He published two volumes of poetry: Songs for While I’m Away  (1974) and Philip  (1977). These weren’t vanity projects to pad his image — they were genuine attempts to explore themes that rock ’n’ roll couldn’t always contain: mortality, religion, exile, love. The titles alone suggest distance and intimacy, as though he were already aware he might always remain slightly apart from the world around him. The boy from Crumlin who dreamed big never quite lost that sense of watching from the edges. He read widely, too. Albert Camus, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald. There was a literary seriousness to him that surprised people expecting only rock clichés. He loved language, and he was thoughtful — at odds with the caricature of a hard-drinking frontman, but not necessarily incompatible with it. Lynott understood the need to play the part. The leather and the limelight were as much costume as calling. And yet, that duality — the bookish romantic and the swaggering rocker — wasn’t just personal. It was national. Lynott’s identity straddled multiple tensions: Black and Irish, working class and intellectual, tough and tender. He became Ireland’s first major rock export not simply because he had the talent, but because he captured something of a country in transition. He made Irishness cool — not the twee folk stereotype, but a swaggering, modern, streetwise Irishness that carried electric guitars and quoted Yeats. As Graeme Thomson writes in Cowboy Song , Lynott’s overt masculinity was revolutionary in a landscape where male emotion was usually muted or repressed. He was brash, yes, but also emotionally open — a combination rarely permitted in Irish public life, let alone from a man with an Afro and a leather jacket. “He transmitted a growing sense of cultural confidence to those who came in his slipstream,” Thomson notes, “inspiring the likes of Bono.” Indeed, U2’s frontman has often acknowledged Lynott as a path-breaker — someone who gave permission for Irish musicians to see themselves as global contenders, not local curiosities. Lynott embodied contradiction, but never shied away from it. He was the romantic rogue, the soulful rebel, the sensitive showman. In many ways, he was his own greatest creation — a persona shaped from the fragments of literature, rock mythology, and personal struggle. As much as Ireland shaped him, he also helped reshape Ireland. His music didn’t just soundtrack a generation; it hinted at the emergence of a more confident, outward-looking culture. A culture that, like Phil, could mix beauty with grit, poetry with punch, and truth with theatre. Lynott and Bob Geldof in 1977 The Final Chord By 1983, Thin Lizzy had disbanded. Years of relentless touring, infighting, and hard living had worn the band down. Lynott tried to go solo, but the momentum was fading. The hits were fewer, and the problems were multiplying. His substance use — once part of the rock ’n’ roll theatre — was no longer manageable. Heroin and cocaine were taking a toll not only on his career, but on his health and family. He became isolated. Friends worried. The press turned less forgiving. And yet, he remained proud, often defiant. He still wrote. He still hoped for another shot. But the body, by then, could no longer keep up with the spirit. On Christmas Day 1985, Lynott collapsed at his home in Kew, West London. His estranged wife, Caroline Crowther — daughter of television presenter Leslie Crowther — rushed to his side. He was taken to Salisbury Infirmary, unconscious and gravely ill. On 4 January 1986, he died. He was 36 years old. The official causes were pneumonia and multiple organ failure, but the years of physical punishment had brought him to that point. The boy who had once run headlong into the spotlight, determined to be bigger, bolder, and louder than anyone else, had burnt out. In the afterword to Cowboy Song , Caroline writes with heartbreaking clarity: “Drugs have a way of spoiling everything, even while they’re telling you they’re going to make it all better… For Philip that was not possible.” It’s a sobering coda to a story fuelled by ambition, poetry, and self-destruction. But it’s not the end of Lynott’s tale — not really. He lives on — in statues, in street names, in the lyrics that still drift out of pub jukeboxes and late-night radios. And in Dublin, where statues are known for their irreverent nicknames, James Joyce is “the prick with the stick,” and Oscar Wilde is “the queer with the leer.” But Phil? He’s simply “the ace with the bass.” And no one says it with a smirk. Lynott and Lemmy

I'm seriously addicted to deconstructing well known songs, I've no idea why. I think it stems from playing around with the mixing levels at The Rolling Stones exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery There’s something quite special about isolated tracks. They let us pick apart an old favourite and discover hidden details we probably missed the first hundred times round. Today, we’re doing just that with a classic slice of early Led Zeppelin — Ramble On . This track came together thanks to the unstoppable ideas of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, scribbled down and laid down while the band zigzagged across North America in the spring of 1969. They were only on their second tour of the States, yet somehow found pockets of time between gigs to pop into whichever studio was handy, adding bits and pieces to what would become Led Zeppelin II . Jimmy Page's acoustic guitar: As John Paul Jones later scribbled in the notes for their big box set, they were pretty much living out of a suitcase: “We were touring a lot. Jimmy’s riffs were coming fast and furious. A lot of them came from onstage, especially during the long improvised bit in Dazed and Confused . We’d remember what worked, then nip into a studio and stick it down.” Ramble On  is a neat early example of what Zeppelin did so well — building big contrasts in a single song. It drifts between soft acoustic bits and full-on electric blasts, and John Paul Jones’s bass keeps everything stitched together crisply. John Paul Jones's bass guitar: If you listen closely, you might notice the gentle, almost playful drumming during the quieter bits. Drummers have argued for years over how John Bonham pulled that off. Some swear he whacked a shoe sole with his sticks, others say it was a plastic bin lid. But according to Chris Welch and Geoff Nicholls in John Bonham: A Thunder of Drums , Bonzo just used his bare hands on an empty guitar case, simple but clever. John Bonham's drums: Lyrically, Ramble On  is pure Plant. He was deep in his Tolkien phase, weaving bits of The Lord of the Rings  straight into rock poetry: “’Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor I met a girl so fair. But Gollum and the evil one crept up And slipped away with her.” He’d revisit Tolkien’s worlds again in Misty Mountain Hop  and the legendary Stairway to Heaven . Robert Plant's main vocals: At around 1:14 in Ramble On , Jimmy Page’s guitar comes snarling in. There’s debate among gearheads over which guitar he used here — he’d just started favouring his famous Gibson Les Paul around this time, but the tone on Ramble On  has that leaner sound more like his old Fender Telecaster from his Yardbirds days. Regardless, Page kept it clean and punchy, not piling on too many overdubs — a rare bit of restraint for a man who loved to layer. Right around that same spot, you’ll catch Plant’s extra vocals weaving in. He later said that working on Led Zeppelin II  was when he finally felt properly at home fronting the band. As he told Nigel Williamson in The Rough Guide to Led Zeppelin : “Led Zeppelin II was very virile. That was the album that was going to dictate whether or not we had the staying power and the capacity to stimulate.” Jimmy Page's electric rhythm guitar: When Led Zeppelin II  hit the shelves in October 1969, it shot straight to number one in both Britain and America. Over the decades it’s shifted more than 12 million copies — not bad for a record mostly thrown together in borrowed studios between gigs. And while Ramble On  was never pushed as a single, Rolling Stone still slotted it into their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time at number 444. Not that anyone in Zeppelin needed a magazine’s stamp of approval — the music says it all. Jimmy Page's electric lead guitar: And while Ramble On  was never pushed as a single, Rolling Stone still slotted it into their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time at number 444. Not that anyone in Zeppelin needed a magazine’s stamp of approval — the music says it all. Robert Plant's backup vocals: