Utterly interesting

In the mid-70s, the rock scene was buzzing with heavyweights like Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, but there was one band that turned heads and broke barriers—Mother’s Finest. On the 25th of November 1976, at Chicago’s International Amphitheater, Sabbath fans expecting a night of doom-laden riffs were left stunned by the powerhouse opening act. Imagine being one of the thousands in the crowd that night, already a bit underwhelmed by Sabbath's latest album Technical Ecstasy , only to be hit with the fierce, unrelenting funk ‘n’ roll of Mother’s Finest. Their audacious fusion of searing rock and deep soul, delivered in platform boots and gritty, roaring guitar riffs, brought the house down. Fans found themselves mesmerised by a band they hadn’t anticipated, stealing the thunder from the Birmingham legends. The Early Days: Origins and Breakthrough Mother’s Finest had already begun making waves by the time they hit the stage with Sabbath. The band had released their self-titled album on Epic Records, featuring the provocative single “Niggizz Can’t Sang Rock & Roll.” This track was a reworked version of their earlier 1972 single, “It’s What You Do With What You Got,” and showcased the raw energy that defined the band. The album helped them land prestigious slots supporting acts like AC/DC and The Who, and Mother’s Finest quickly earned a reputation as “the most dangerous opening band in rock.” Their high-octane performances, blending rock and funk with a fearlessness that challenged genre boundaries, set them apart. Their sophomore album, Another Mother Further , cemented their position in the rock world, bringing more aggressive riffs and even a touch of Led Zeppelin influence. Mother’s Finest guitarist Gary Moore (not to be confused with the Irish blues-rock icon) caught listeners’ attention by borrowing riffs from Zeppelin’s Custard Pie , and it’s long been a source of intrigue as to why Zeppelin’s famously litigious camp never pursued action for what was, in essence, a homage to Page’s work. Yet, the irony wasn’t lost on critics who noted Zeppelin's own history of “borrowing” from earlier artists. The Dynamic Duo: Joyce Kennedy and Glenn Murdock At the heart of Mother’s Finest was the explosive vocal power of Joyce Kennedy, who fronted the band with unmatched intensity. Born in 1948, Joyce Kennedy moved to Chicago in 1955 with her mother. Chicago was a thriving centre for blues and soul music in the 50s and 60s, and Chess Records, the legendary label that championed Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, and Willie Dixon, was at the heart of this musical revolution. Kennedy found herself in the perfect environment to nurture her vocal talents. By her teenage years, she had already tasted local success with minor hits, and her path to stardom seemed inevitable. Her meeting with fellow vocalist Glenn Murdock was a fateful one. The two formed both a musical and personal partnership, and by 1975, the two were married and Mother’s Finest was born. Together, they brought a unique dynamic to the band, with Kennedy’s fiery stage presence and powerhouse vocals blending perfectly with Murdock’s smoother style. Their diverse sound and relentless energy allowed them to transcend the boundaries of genre, performing with bands from all corners of the rock and funk worlds. Challenging Stereotypes in Rock What set Mother’s Finest apart was not just their sound, but their defiance of musical stereotypes. In a time when rock was predominantly a white, male-dominated genre, Mother’s Finest, a mixed-race band fronted by a powerful Black woman, smashed through those barriers. They stood alongside other trailblazing acts like War and Mandrill, who were redefining the genre boundaries of rock, soul, and funk. Mother’s Finest challenged perceptions, showing that rock could be soulful, and funk could be heavy. Their single “Niggizz Can’t Sang Rock & Roll” wasn’t just provocative in title—it was a bold statement about racial identity in rock music. The band faced resistance and controversy, but their refusal to be pigeonholed became one of their defining traits. Joyce Kennedy, often compared to icons like Chaka Khan, brought a raw intensity that drew in fans from all walks of life. Her performances, especially covers like Jefferson Airplane’s “Somebody to Love,” were electric, proving that she could not only keep pace with the greatest voices in rock but surpass them. Legacy and Influence Over the decades, Mother’s Finest became known for their relentless energy, genre-blending style, and refusal to conform. Their 70s albums, particularly Another Mother Further , remain cult classics, revered by those who witnessed the band’s trailblazing performances. Mother’s Finest proved that rock was not about adhering to rules but breaking them. Their sound was as much about rebellion as the lyrics of their time, embracing the rawness of rock while injecting it with the soul of funk. Joyce Kennedy, now in her 70s, continues to perform, bringing the same energy and presence that first lit up the Chicago scene back in the day. Mother’s Finest may not have achieved the commercial success of some of their peers, but their influence runs deep. Bands like Living Colour, and later Rage Against the Machine, took notes from Mother’s Finest, proving that music transcends race and genre when done with passion and conviction. Mother’s Finest’s story is one of a band that refused to be boxed in, a group whose live performances could challenge even the biggest headliners. Their impact on the world of rock and funk is undeniable, and their legacy continues to inspire a new generation of musicians who see the possibilities in blending genres, defying expectations, and bringing unbridled energy to the stage. #Mothersfinest #funkrock

As the sun dipped towards the horizon on the evening of May 26, 1940, the beaches of Dunkirk were a scene of unimaginable chaos. Thousands of exhausted soldiers stood in long, winding queues along the shore, their backs to the cold waters of the English Channel, their faces towards the advancing might of the German army. Trapped, surrounded, and with little hope of escape, they waited. The sound of distant gunfire rumbled in the background, punctuated by the shriek of German dive bombers cutting through the sky. And yet, within days, against all odds, these men would be part of a story so miraculous that it would forever be remembered as the “Miracle of Dunkirk.” How could such a desperate situation transform into one of the most daring rescues in military history? The answer lay not only in strategy but in the courage of thousands of individuals who rose to the occasion when it mattered most. The Encirclement: A Nation on the Brink Just weeks before, the British and French armies had been fighting valiantly across France, holding the line against the relentless Blitzkrieg of the German Wehrmacht. But the speed and ferocity of the German advance had stunned the Allied forces, and within days, they found themselves trapped. The port of Dunkirk was their last refuge, yet it quickly became a death trap. The British Expeditionary Force (BEF), Britain’s best-trained soldiers, were now pinned against the sea, with no clear way to escape. The German forces, led by Hermann Göring’s Luftwaffe, were poised to strike the final blow, and Adolf Hitler's Panzer divisions were closing in fast. With no time to spare, the British government realised the gravity of the situation. The loss of the BEF would be catastrophic; these soldiers were the backbone of the British Army. There was even talk in England of discussing a conditional surrender to Germany—a stark indication of how desperate the situation had become. Yet, in one of the many fateful twists of history, a “Halt Order” was issued by the German High Command. For reasons still debated by historians, Hitler ordered his Panzer divisions to stop, giving the British and French soldiers a three-day reprieve. This pause would prove to be the turning point, granting the Allies just enough time to attempt an audacious escape. Planning the Impossible: Operation Dynamo Begins On May 26, with the clock ticking, Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay sat in his underground headquarters beneath Dover Castle and devised a plan that bordered on the impossible. Codenamed Operation Dynamo, it was a desperate bid to evacuate as many troops as possible from the beaches of Dunkirk. But Ramsay faced a monumental challenge: Dunkirk’s shallow beaches meant that large naval ships couldn’t get close enough to pick up the soldiers. With German bombers prowling the skies, time was slipping away. In response, Ramsay made an extraordinary call to the British people—he asked for help. A fleet of small civilian boats, known as the "Little Ships," was needed to ferry troops from the beach to the larger vessels waiting further offshore. The request went out across England, and the response was overwhelming. Hundreds of small craft, ranging from fishing boats to pleasure yachts, were volunteered by their owners. Ordinary men and women, many of whom had never before seen combat, took their boats across the English Channel, sailing into a war zone to rescue their countrymen. From May 26 to June 4, these small boats plied the 46 miles between Dunkirk and England, often under heavy fire from German planes. One of the smallest to make the perilous journey was the Tamzine , an 18-foot fishing boat, whose courageous crew played a part in ferrying soldiers from the beach to safety. The courage of these civilians, who risked everything in the name of duty, would become one of the enduring symbols of the Dunkirk evacuation. Heroes in Command: The Leadership That Saved Thousands While the civilian flotilla was en route, the military leadership behind Operation Dynamo worked tirelessly to ensure the operation’s success. At the forefront was Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay, whose calm and decisive leadership transformed a chaotic retreat into an organised evacuation. Ramsay's strategic genius and unshakable resolve allowed him to coordinate the movement of troops, boats, and naval defences, despite the ever-present threat of German attack. On the beaches themselves, Captain William Tennant took charge of the desperate situation. Tasked with managing the flow of troops onto the waiting vessels, Tennant’s leadership was crucial. Under constant fire, he kept order amidst the panic, ensuring that tens of thousands of soldiers were rescued in a timely and efficient manner. Without Tennant’s presence of mind, the evacuation might have descended into chaos, and many more lives could have been lost. And then there was Winston Churchill. As Prime Minister, he understood the high stakes of the situation better than anyone. The loss of the BEF would have left Britain defenceless, and while the operation was underway, he remained steadfast in his belief that Britain could continue the fight, even if alone. His speeches during this time, particularly his famous “We shall fight on the beaches” address, electrified the British public and gave hope to a nation standing on the precipice of disaster. Soldiers on the Beach: Courage in the Face of Destruction The soldiers waiting on the beaches of Dunkirk were not simply passive spectators to their own rescue. Many had fought their way through the Battle of France, only to find themselves with their backs to the sea, facing the full force of the German war machine. Yet, despite their exhaustion and the constant threat of aerial attack, they remained disciplined, lining up in long, orderly queues along the shoreline as they waited for rescue. For days, these men endured relentless bombing from the Luftwaffe. The sand around them was littered with the wreckage of destroyed vehicles and the detritus of war, but they stood resolute, knowing that each passing hour could mean life or death. Among them were not only British soldiers but also thousands of French troops, who fought bravely to hold off the German advance. The French rearguard played a vital role in buying time for the evacuation to continue, their sacrifice ensuring that more British soldiers could be saved. The Unsung Heroes: The Royal Navy and the RAF While the story of the "Little Ships" has captured much of the public imagination, the role of the Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force (RAF) in Operation Dynamo cannot be overstated. The Navy, under Ramsay’s command, deployed destroyers, minesweepers, and other vessels to protect the evacuation effort. These ships risked everything to ensure that the soldiers could be brought back to safety. Some, like the destroyer HMS Keith , were lost to German air attacks, but their crews continued to press on, driven by an unbreakable sense of duty. Meanwhile, overhead, the RAF engaged in fierce dogfights with the Luftwaffe, drawing German planes away from the beaches and providing vital cover for the evacuation. Though they were often outnumbered and outgunned, RAF pilots took to the skies with relentless determination, knowing that the success of the entire operation depended on their efforts. Men like James Nicolson, an RAF Hurricane pilot, fought with extraordinary bravery, risking everything to protect the soldiers on the ground. The Final Push: A Miracle Completed By June 4, the beaches of Dunkirk had been emptied. Over 338,000 men—British and French—had been rescued from the jaws of destruction. In the final hours, the last of the British soldiers were pulled to safety, followed by the French rearguard who had so bravely held the line. The sheer scale of the operation, and the number of lives saved, far exceeded initial expectations. What had begun as a desperate retreat had become a triumph of human spirit and perseverance. In the House of Commons, Winston Churchill delivered a speech that would echo through the ages. While celebrating the success of the evacuation, he reminded the nation that Dunkirk was not a victory. “Wars are not won by evacuations,” he declared soberly. Yet, the miracle of Dunkirk would stand as a turning point in the war, not only saving lives but also galvanising Britain’s resolve to continue the fight against tyranny.

The beauty of isolated tracks lies in their ability to transform our understanding of familiar music. They offer a chance to dissect the craftsmanship behind the songs that have become part of cultural history. One such track is Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On," a song that exemplifies the band's early mastery of dynamic contrasts, blending soft acoustic passages with thunderous electric crescendos. The meticulous layering of musical elements makes it a compelling case study in rock composition. The Recording Process: A Snapshot of 1969 "Ramble On" was written by guitarist Jimmy Page and vocalist Robert Plant during a particularly prolific period for the band. The track was recorded in New York during the spring of 1969 while Led Zeppelin was on its second North American tour. This approach to recording—darting into studios between live performances—characterised the creation of Led Zeppelin II . The album itself became a testament to the band’s ability to channel the raw energy of their live shows into meticulously crafted studio tracks. Jimmy Page's acoustic guitar: Bassist John Paul Jones later reflected on this frenetic pace in the liner notes to the Led Zeppelin boxed set: "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 section of 'Dazed and Confused.' We'd remember the good stuff and dart into a studio along the way." This piecemeal recording method lent the album a sense of spontaneity, while still allowing the band to experiment with sound and structure. The Dynamic Heart of "Ramble On" "Ramble On" stands out as an early example of Led Zeppelin's hallmark use of dynamic range within a single song. The track oscillates between acoustic verses, marked by Plant’s introspective vocals, and electric choruses that showcase Page's layered guitar work. This contrast is mirrored by John Paul Jones’s bassline, which provides a crisp framework, anchoring the song’s structure even as it moves between soft and loud. John Bonham's percussion work during the quieter sections has been a source of fascination for fans and drummers alike. The gentle, rhythmic tapping—almost percussive whispers—adds an intriguing texture to the track. The origins of this sound have been hotly debated. Some have suggested Bonham used unconventional tools such as the sole of his shoe or a plastic bin lid. However, as detailed in John Bonham: A Thunder of Drums  by Chris Welch and Geoff Nicholls, the truth is simpler yet no less inventive: Bonham used his bare hands to tap out 16th notes on an empty guitar case. John Paul Jones's bass guitar: A Tolkien Influence The lyrics of "Ramble On" offer a glimpse into Robert Plant’s fascination with the mythic worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien. Lines such as: "'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." place the listener firmly within the narrative of The Lord of the Rings . Plant’s love for Tolkien’s works would later manifest in other Led Zeppelin songs, including "Misty Mountain Hop" and "Stairway to Heaven." This blending of high fantasy with blues-influenced rock added a literary depth to the band’s lyrics, setting them apart from many of their contemporaries. John Bonham's drums: The Legacy of Isolated Tracks Listening to the isolated tracks of "Ramble On" allows fans to appreciate the individual contributions of each band member. Whether it’s Page’s intricate guitar layers, Jones’s steady bassline, Bonham’s innovative percussion, or Plant’s soaring vocals, each element reveals a unique aspect of the band’s creative process. "Ramble On" is more than just a song—it’s a snapshot of Led Zeppelin in their early prime, balancing the raw energy of their live performances with the precision and experimentation of studio work. It encapsulates their ability to push musical boundaries while remaining deeply rooted in their influences, from blues to fantasy literature. As we revisit this classic track, the isolated elements remind us of the enduring brilliance of Led Zeppelin and their timeless contributions to the world of rock music Robert Plant's main vocals: Jimmy Page's electric rhythm guitar: Jimmy Page's electric lead guitar: Robert Plant's backup vocals: #ledzeppelin #isolatedvocals #rambleon #isolateddrums #isolatedguitar #isolatedrhythmguitar #isolatedbass

The universe of Beatles bootlegs is, quite frankly, boundless. From live performances and outtakes to demos and the inevitable studio goof-offs, there are enough recordings to occupy a lifetime of listening. For many fans, the historical value of these recordings often outweighs the musical merit—some being of poor quality or fragmentary, with snippets barely holding together. For others, however, the mere fact that "the fab four" were involved somehow grants the session a mystical quality. It seems to be a common belief that everything John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr touched turned directly to gold. Yet, for the average fan, this claim doesn’t always hold up under scrutiny. Among these countless recordings, one particular bootleg stands out— A Toot and a Snore in ’74 , a recording with undeniable historical significance but questionable musical value. This bootleg, captured at Burbank Studios in Los Angeles on the 28th of March 1974, is particularly notable because it documents the last time Lennon and McCartney ever played together. That alone makes it a piece of history worth hearing, even if the music itself leaves much to be desired. Who Was There? Aside from Lennon and McCartney, this laid-back jam session included some rather illustrious company. Stevie Wonder was there, lending his talents on electric piano. Harry Nilsson, the session’s initial catalyst, was present as well, providing some vocals and an acoustic guitar contribution. Guitarist Jesse Ed Davis and saxophonist Bobby Keys (a stalwart of the Rolling Stones’ horn section) rounded out the more musical attendees, while May Pang, Lennon’s companion during his so-called “Lost Weekend,” played tambourine. It was a session born out of spontaneity. At the time, Lennon was producing Harry Nilsson’s album Pussy Cats  during his infamous separation from Yoko Ono, which saw him embark on a drug-fuelled binge of sorts. McCartney, meanwhile, had not seen Lennon for three years, their once close friendship having deteriorated after the Beatles’ breakup. Despite the bad blood, when McCartney found himself in Los Angeles, a casual jam seemed the most natural thing in the world. And so, on that fateful night, they gathered together, old tensions momentarily set aside. Why Did They Jam Together? The answer is simple enough: it was a product of circumstance and whimsy. Lennon was in town, deep into his "Lost Weekend" phase—a chaotic period of drinking, drugs, and creative outbursts. McCartney, on a visit to Los Angeles with his wife Linda, happened to be around. Despite the animosity that had brewed between the two former bandmates following the Beatles' split, the opportunity to play together was evidently too enticing to resist. What transpired in that session was hardly a serious attempt at music-making. Rather, it was a loose, inebriated jam that meandered through covers and off-the-cuff improvisations, interspersed with lots of studio chatter. The tone was casual and hazy, and the title A Toot and a Snore  is telling enough—the phrase refers to Lennon offering Stevie Wonder cocaine during the opening moments of the session. “Do you want a snort Steve? A toot? It’s going round,” Lennon quipped. From there, things only got looser, the "snore" being a possible reference to the lack of any coherent direction the session took. What Did They Play? The recording itself—released in 1992 by Germany's Mistral Music—is more of a curio than anything. What survives on tape is far from a polished product, and the session is clearly more about the joy of playing than the quality of the music. It features half-hearted attempts at rock 'n' roll standards like “Lucille,” “Stand By Me,” and “Cupid,” with Lennon on lead vocals and guitar, and McCartney mostly on drums (Ringo’s drumkit, to be precise). Stevie Wonder adds flourishes on electric piano, though none of the contributions are particularly groundbreaking. Lennon and McCartney sing together on occasion, with McCartney’s harmonies slipping in every now and then. For those searching for a moment of pure magic, however, there isn’t much to be found in this impromptu gathering. Pang, who wrote about the night in her 1983 book Loving John , described the event as one filled with “joyous music,” but it’s clear that this is something you probably had to witness firsthand to fully appreciate. Richard Metzger from Dangerous Minds  captures the essence of the session aptly when he describes it as “a drunk, coked-up jam session.” That’s precisely what it was, albeit one of historical importance. And in that historical importance lies its main appeal—Lennon and McCartney, the two titans of pop music who had once dominated the world together, briefly reunited to jam once again. It was a fleeting glimpse of what might have been, if only for one more night. When Lennon later spoke of the session in a 1975 interview, he reflected on it with a certain warmth. “I jammed with Paul,” he recalled. “We did a lot of stuff in L.A. There was 50 other people playing, but they were all just watching me and Paul.” The fondness in his tone suggests that the experience meant more to him than the slapdash recordings might imply. McCartney, on the other hand, recalled the night as “hazy, for a number of reasons” during a 1997 interview—likely alluding to the abundance of substances being passed around that night. Ultimately, A Toot and a Snore in ’74  holds a significant place in Beatles lore. While the recording itself may not offer much in terms of sonic brilliance, it remains a poignant document—proof that Lennon and McCartney could still come together and make music, however briefly, after all the acrimony. In that sense, it is worth a listen, if only to hear two legends setting aside their differences, if only for a fleeting, coke-laced evening. #beatleslastrecording #lostweekend

On March 29, 1992, nearly seven months before Rage Against the Machine was to release its legendary self-titled debut album, they played Zed Records, a small music shop in Long Beach, California. YouTube user CowProd posted footage of Rage’s entire set, and said that they’d had been sitting on it for almost twenty years because they claim to be “that lazy.” I know the feeling. If time travel existed, this is one of those moments I'd like to go back to. Rage Against the Machine @ Zed Records, 29/3/92 – Set List: 00:44 – “Bombtrack” 04:52 – “Darkness” (or “Darkness of Greed”) 08:31 – “Take the Power Back” 13:48 – “Bullet in the Head” 19:23 – “Settle for Nothing” 24:06 – “Killing in the Name” 29:42 – Tom jamming 30:02 – “Know Your Enemy” 34:37 – “Freedom”

Following the enactment of the Lunatic Act in 1808, each county was mandated to establish a facility for the mentally ill. However, by 1840, North Wales had yet to establish such an institution due to financial constraints in the impoverished rural areas. Consequently, severely ill pauper lunatics from North Wales were being transferred to English Asylums for care. Dr. Samuel Hitch, the superintendent of Gloucester Lunatic Asylum, observed the challenging circumstances faced by Welsh paupers in his facility, prompting him to pen a letter to the Times. “So few of the lower class of the Welsh, except in some towns or the precincts of inns, speak English, and this only for the purpose of commerce, or to qualify themselves for duties of menial servants, and not to an extent which would enable them to comprehend anything higher, – whilst both the officers and servants of our English Asylums, and the English public too, and equally ignorant of the Welsh Language, – that when the poor Welshman is sent to an English Asylum he is submitted to the most refined modern cruelties, being doomed to an imprisonment amongst strange people, and an association with his fellow men, whom he is prohibited from holding communications, harassed by wants which he cannot make known and appealed to by sounds which he cannot comprehend, he become irritable and irritated; and it is proverbial in our English Asylum that the Welshmen is the most turbulent patient wherever he happens to become an inmate” The Metropolitan Commissioners in Lunacy were compelled to investigate the living conditions of Welsh-speaking patients in asylums, and their 1844 report exposed the deplorable state of the asylum system. Anticipating this, a group of philanthropists in Denbigh convened a meeting in October 1842 to highlight the urgent need for a mental health facility in Central or North Wales. During this meeting, an anonymous benefactor generously donated 20 acres of land to the committee, later revealed to be Joseph Ablett of Llanber Hall. However, the project encountered obstacles, including legal restrictions on multiple counties collaborating to build an asylum, and reluctance from other Northern Welsh counties to contribute financially. Despite these challenges, the committee successfully raised £4,600 through public donations, including contributions from Queen Victoria and other members of the royal family. Despite facing these challenges, the construction of the Hospital commenced in 1844. The plans were created by Mr. Fulljames from Gloucester, with the guidance of his friend Dr. S. Hitch. The Hospital was built using limestone bricks from the Graig Quarry near Denbigh and was considered the most superior structure of its kind. The construction was finished four years later, and the Hospital opened on November 14, 1848, with a capacity to accommodate up to 200 patients. The clock tower was a donation from Mrs. Ablett in memory of her husband, who had donated the land for the Asylum. Over time, the Hospital faced increasing pressure to care for its patients and alleviate overcrowding, resulting in several extensions being added over the years. The most significant extension work took place in 1899, allowing the Hospital to accommodate a peak of 1500 patients and provide a wide array of treatments. In 1995, the Hospital ceased operations and has since remained vacant, leading to a deterioration of the buildings to a dilapidated state, despite their Grade II listing. In 2004, Prince Charles visited the site and placed all the buildings under the protection of the Phoenix Trust to ensure their safety. How to get there - Head through the centre of Denbigh Town and look for signs to the Castle. Park up at the Castle for free or on the road below. After parking, follow the road down towards the outskirts of town and you will come to the main gates of Denbigh Asylum - to avoid attention (the house opposite the gates have dogs), walk a little further up the road, past the next house with the aviary in the front driveway, and take the first right onto a dirt path in a little wooded area a little further on from the house; walk down this path up this and don't be tempted to climb at the first reasonable looking gap in the hedge above the wall, there are better gaps in the hedges and lower wall a little further down. Climb up a dry stone wall and you are now within the grounds of this rather magnificent place. #denbighasylum #northwaleshospital #mentalasylum #abandonedplaces

In the grand arena of Roman chariot racing, no name looms larger than that of Gaius Appuleius Diocles. His rise to prominence as one of the most successful athletes in the Roman Empire has not only been immortalised in historical records but also cemented his status as one of the wealthiest sportsmen of all time. His fame and fortune make him a subject of fascination even today, with comparisons frequently drawn between his earnings and those of modern athletes. Early Life Gaius Appuleius Diocles was born in 104 CE in Lusitania, a Roman province located in what is modern-day Portugal. Little is known about his early life, but it is believed he was born into a family of modest means, with no apparent ties to the wealthy patrician class or any particular influence within the racing circuits. His humble origins, however, would serve to highlight the extraordinary trajectory of his career. Chariot racing, one of the most popular sports in Ancient Rome, was a perilous pursuit. The races took place in vast arenas, the most famous being the Circus Maximus in Rome, which could hold an estimated 150,000 spectators. The sport attracted massive crowds, enormous sums of money, and intense rivalries between the racing factions (or teams) known as the Reds, Whites, Blues, and Greens. Diocles, initially racing for the White faction, would later switch allegiances to the Greens and finally to the Reds, where he found his greatest success. Career and Success Diocles began his chariot racing career at the age of 18. As a novice, his talents were quickly recognised, and he rapidly ascended through the ranks. His transition from the White to the Green faction marked a significant step in his career, but it was with the Red faction that he truly became a household name across the Roman Empire. Diocles raced for 24 years, an extraordinary length of time for a charioteer. The average career of a Roman charioteer was fraught with danger, and many racers met early deaths from crashes and injuries. The fact that Diocles not only survived but thrived for over two decades speaks to his exceptional skill, resilience, and perhaps a degree of luck. During his career, Diocles participated in 4,257 races, a staggering number considering the perilous nature of the sport. He won 1,462 of these races, amounting to a victory rate of over 34%. His success was not only a product of his mastery of the reins but also of his strategic acumen—Diocles was known for his ability to close out races in the final moments, coming from behind to snatch victory from his competitors. The Fortune of Diocles Diocles’ triumphs on the racetrack were not only celebrated with fame but also with enormous financial rewards. Roman charioteers, especially the most successful ones, were lavishly compensated for their victories. However, Diocles’ earnings eclipsed those of his peers, solidifying him as not just the greatest charioteer but one of the wealthiest individuals in the Roman Empire. By the time he retired at the age of 42, Diocles had amassed an astonishing fortune of 35,863,120 sesterces. To put this in perspective, a Roman legionary soldier at the time earned about 900 sesterces per year. Diocles’ earnings were equivalent to the annual salary of more than 39,800 legionaries, or roughly the cost to supply grain for the entire city of Rome for an entire year. The Modern Equivalent When adjusting for inflation and economic changes, estimating the modern equivalent of Diocles’ fortune is complex. However, some estimates place his earnings at approximately $15 billion (around £11.6 billion) in today’s terms. This immense figure dwarfs the earnings of modern athletes, even those who are considered the highest-paid in the world. For comparison, Lionel Messi, one of the top-earning athletes in 2023, took home approximately $130 million (£101 million) that year, from a combination of his salary, endorsements, and sponsorships. Similarly, LeBron James earned around $119 million (£93 million) in the same period. While these figures are monumental in today’s economy, they pale in comparison to Diocles’ earnings when adjusted for historical context. In fact, Diocles’ fortune makes him arguably the highest-paid athlete in history, even surpassing modern sporting giants such as Michael Jordan or Floyd Mayweather. The Legacy of Diocles Diocles’ legacy extends far beyond his remarkable earnings. He remains an enduring symbol of what can be achieved through talent, determination, and a bit of luck. His success represented more than just personal achievement; it demonstrated the societal importance of chariot racing in Ancient Rome. Chariot races were not mere entertainment but a powerful form of social and political expression. Victories in the circus were celebrated with religious fervour, with the winning charioteer seen as a representative of divine favour. In this context, Diocles was not just an athlete but a cultural icon. Even today, scholars and sports historians look to Diocles’ career as a testament to the role of sport in ancient societies and the rewards that came with success at the highest level. His story also illustrates the precarious nature of athletic careers, both ancient and modern, where fortune and fame often come at a heavy physical cost. Though there are no known surviving portraits or statues of Diocles, his name is inscribed in historical records and on monuments dedicated to chariot racing, including the famous inscription at the Circus Maximus, which chronicles his victories and his staggering wealth. Chariot Racing: A Dangerous Sport The life of a charioteer was fraught with peril. Races involved teams of horses pulling lightweight chariots at tremendous speeds around a track. The tight turns and chaotic nature of the races often led to catastrophic crashes, known as naufragia . Competitors were regularly thrown from their chariots, trampled by horses, or crushed beneath the wheels of rival chariots. Charioteers faced a grim reality: a single mistake could lead to death or severe injury. To mitigate the dangers, some charioteers tied the reins around their bodies, enabling them to control the horses more effectively. However, this method also made it more difficult to escape if their chariot overturned or crashed, often resulting in fatal consequences. Despite the risks, chariot racing was a path to immense wealth and fame for those who could master the craft, as Diocles demonstrated. Comparing Diocles’ earnings to those of modern athletes serves as a reminder of how lucrative sports have been for millennia. While today’s top athletes enjoy vast riches and global fame, Diocles’ accomplishments suggest that the concept of the sports superstar is not a modern invention but has deep historical roots. Though over 1,800 years have passed since Diocles raced in the Circus Maximus, his legacy as the wealthiest athlete in history remains largely unchallenged. His story exemplifies the timeless allure of sports, where talent and risk can lead to extraordinary success. #highestpaidathlete #Diocles #chariot

Baron Hill, located in Beaumaris, Anglesey, Wales, derives its name from the hill where it is situated. Founded in 1618 by Sir Richard Bulkeley, it served as the ancestral home of the prominent Bulkeley family. Legend has it that during the English Civil War, Colonel Thomas Bulkeley, who succeeded Richard, extended an invitation to King Charles I to occupy the estate and establish his court there. In the eighteenth century, the residence belonged to Lord Viscount Bulkeley, who held Jacobite sympathies. The Neo-Palladian architectural style is evident in the curved facade, terraces, follies, and balconies of the building, which were features incorporated during the 1776 renovation by architect Samuel Wyatt. Nevertheless, the mansion's original construction dates back to 1618. The estate's grounds also include an icehouse and a lodge house. During World War I, estate taxes depleted the family's wealth, leading to financial difficulties that prevented the Williams-Bulkeley family from maintaining the property. In World War II, the Royal Engineers were stationed at the residence, which sustained fire damage but still stands as a shell. Sir Richard Williams-Bulkeley currently resides at the nearby Red Hill estate. In the nineteenth century the occupants of Baron Hill remained the dominant Anglesey landowners, possessing estate also at Llanfairfechan and other parts of Caernarfonshire. The house is a bit of a bugger to locate, but if anyone has a burning desire to visit it before it's completely gone, feel free to get in touch and I can give you directions to get there. You can also see more shots on my Instagram feed. #Baronhill #abandonedplaces

When Goodfellas  hit cinemas in 1990, it set a new benchmark for gangster films, with its vivid portrayal of life in the Mafia. Directed by Martin Scorsese, the film’s striking realism derived from its roots in real events. Unlike the operatic narratives of The Godfather  or the nostalgic arcs of Once Upon a Time in America , Goodfellas  offered an unflinching look into organised crime through the lens of a single gangster, Henry Hill, and his associates in the Lucchese crime family. This gritty authenticity was thanks to Nicholas Pileggi’s 1986 non-fiction book, Wiseguy , which chronicles Hill’s life and criminal exploits, including the audacious Lufthansa heist of 1978—one of the most significant robberies in American history. The crime involved stealing $5.875 million (equivalent to over $20 million today) in cash and jewels from a vault at New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. It remains infamous not only for the sheer scale of the theft but also for the bloodshed that followed. Henry Hill: The Storyteller of the Underworld Henry Hill, portrayed by Ray Liotta, serves as both the central character and narrator of Goodfellas . Born in 1943 in Brooklyn to an Irish-American father and a Sicilian-American mother, Hill grew up idolising the Mafia figures in his neighbourhood. By the age of 14, he dropped out of school and began working for Paul Vario, a Lucchese crime family capo. Starting with errands and collecting cash, Hill quickly became embroiled in arson, credit card fraud, and assaults. Despite his Irish heritage preventing him from becoming a made man, Hill gained the trust of Vario and became a crucial associate of the crew. Hill’s criminal portfolio expanded during the 1970s, involving truck hijackings, narcotics trafficking, and a point-shaving scheme with the 1978–79 Boston College basketball team. However, it was the Lufthansa heist that cemented his place in mob history. His downfall came in 1980 when he was arrested on drug trafficking charges. Facing prison and fearing for his life after rumours surfaced that his associates planned to kill him, Hill turned informant. His testimony brought numerous convictions, and he entered the Witness Protection Program, though his continued criminal activities and tendency to reveal his identity led to his expulsion. Despite these risks, Hill survived and died of heart disease in 2012. James “Jimmy the Gent” Burke: The Ruthless Mastermind Robert De Niro’s portrayal of Jimmy Conway in Goodfellas  was based on James Burke, the architect of the Lufthansa heist. Born in 1931 in New York City, Burke endured a traumatic childhood in foster care, marked by abuse and neglect. By his early twenties, he had found his way into Paul Vario’s crew. Nicknamed “Jimmy the Gent” for tipping truck drivers during hijackings, Burke was anything but gentle when it came to maintaining control. His violent reputation included gruesome murders, such as the dismemberment of his fiancée’s ex-boyfriend on their wedding day. Burke’s brilliance as a criminal strategist shone during the Lufthansa heist, but paranoia and greed led him to orchestrate the murders of several accomplices, ensuring they wouldn’t betray him. His criminal empire unravelled following Henry Hill’s cooperation with authorities. Burke was sentenced to 20 years for his role in the Boston College point-shaving scandal and received a life sentence for a prior murder while in prison. He died of lung cancer in 1996. Karen Hill Karen Hill — Henry’s wife, played by Lorraine Bracco in the film — was born Karen Friedman in New York City in 1946. Soon after her birth, her family moved to Long Island where she was raised in the Five Towns area. She first met Henry through mutual friends while she was working at a dental office in New York. The pair’s first meeting — at the Villa Capra, a restaurant owned by notorious mobster “Frankie The Wop” — was a double date involving Paul Vario’s son, Paul Jr. (not Thomas DeSimone, as depicted in the film). At first, Karen said that the date was disastrous and that Henry even stood her up on her second date, only further lowering her opinion of him. However, following a number of lavish dates after these initial fiascos, the two became a couple. Karen and Henry eloped to North Carolina in 1965 when she was just 19, but eventually had a large Jewish ceremony back home to appease her parents. Soon after, they had two children, Gregg and Gina, and lived together with Karen’s parents before moving into their own place as Henry’s status rose within Vario’s crew. But things turned sour when Henry went to prison on extortion charges in the 1970s. In his memoirs, Henry claims that, during this time, Karen was sleeping with Vario. When Henry faced prison again, on drug charges in 1980, he instead testified for the government, entered the Witness Protection Program, and took Karen and their kids along with him. Eventually, however, Karen and Henry divorced in 1989, though it was not finalised until 2001. Since then, she has remarried and lived under an alias due to the exposure from Wiseguy and Goodfellas. Thomas DeSimone: The Volatile Enforcer Joe Pesci’s Oscar-winning portrayal of Tommy DeVito in Goodfellas  brought to life the chilling volatility of Thomas DeSimone. Born in 1950 in Massachusetts into a Mafia family, DeSimone grew up surrounded by organised crime. Through his sister Phyllis, a mistress of Jimmy Burke, DeSimone joined the Vario crew. Known for his explosive temper and penchant for violence, DeSimone committed his first murder at 17, shooting a random pedestrian to impress Henry Hill. His most infamous act was the 1970 murder of Billy Batts, a made man in the Gambino family. After Batts insulted DeSimone about his past as a shoeshine boy, DeSimone and Burke brutally killed him and buried his body. This act of defiance against the Gambino family set the stage for DeSimone’s eventual demise. After his role in the Lufthansa heist, DeSimone continued his violent streak, even killing Parnell “Stacks” Edwards, who had failed to dispose of the heist’s getaway van. In 1979, DeSimone vanished, likely killed by the Gambinos in retaliation for Batts’ murder. Paul Vario: The Capo of East New York Paul Vario, reimagined as Paul Cicero in Goodfellas  and played by Paul Sorvino, was a towering figure in the Lucchese crime family. Born in 1914, Vario dominated the East New York criminal scene, leveraging his union connections to control operations at JFK Airport. Vario approved the Lufthansa heist and provided the infrastructure for its execution. However, his ruthlessness extended beyond financial dealings. A notorious story recounts how he ordered an assault on a restaurant staff after a waiter spilled wine on his wife. Ultimately, Vario’s empire crumbled due to Hill’s testimony. He was convicted of defrauding the government and died of a heart attack in prison in 1988. Billy Batts: The Gambino Made Man Who Met a Brutal End Billy Batts, played by Frank Vincent in Goodfellas , was a pivotal figure in both the film’s narrative and the real-life events that inspired it. Born William Bentvena in 1921 in New York City, Batts grew up in the same East Brooklyn neighbourhood as Henry Hill. Like many of his peers, he gravitated toward organised crime and eventually became a trusted associate of the Gambino crime family. By 1961, Batts had risen to the rank of made man, an elite status within the Mafia reserved for full-blooded Italian-Americans. His rise coincided with the era of John Gotti, another Gambino enforcer, with whom Batts often worked. However, his career came to a halt in 1964 when he was arrested during a drug deal in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Sentenced to six years in prison, Batts left a vacuum in his criminal operations, which were quickly taken over by Jimmy Burke. Upon Batts’ release from prison in 1970, he sought to reclaim his loansharking business from Burke, but this demand put him in conflict with his successor. Things came to a head during a “welcome home” celebration at Robert’s Lounge, a bar owned by Henry Hill and frequented by the Vario crew. Batts, perhaps emboldened by his status as a made man, made a fatal mistake when he publicly humiliated Thomas DeSimone. In front of a crowd, Batts joked about DeSimone’s past as a shoeshine boy, saying, “Go home and get your shine box!” DeSimone, already known for his violent temper, was enraged. However, Mafia protocol dictated that killing a made man without permission would incur deadly consequences, so DeSimone and Burke waited for the right opportunity. Two weeks later, Batts was invited to another gathering at the bar. This time, it was a trap. After getting Batts drunk, Burke and DeSimone launched a brutal attack. DeSimone pistol-whipped Batts until he fell unconscious, while Burke restrained him. Believing him to be dead, the group loaded Batts’ body into the trunk of a car. However, as they drove away, they heard noises from the trunk—Batts was still alive. The group pulled over, and DeSimone and Burke stabbed and beat him to death before burying the body under a dog kennel. Retribution from the Gambinos The murder of Billy Batts was a reckless move, one that demonstrated the hubris of Burke and DeSimone. As a made man in the Gambino family, Batts’ death would not go unanswered. While Paul Vario shielded his crew for a time, the murder created tension between the Lucchese and Gambino families. Ultimately, it was likely Batts’ murder that sealed DeSimone’s fate. According to Henry Hill’s later testimony, DeSimone’s disappearance in 1979 was orchestrated by the Gambino family as revenge. In a grim irony, Paul Vario, DeSimone’s mentor, is believed to have handed him over to the Gambinos, reportedly as punishment for attempting to assault Karen Hill, Henry’s wife and Vario’s mistress.

The image of a funeral train rolling through the American heartland is both sombre and symbolic. One such train—the one that carried the body of Robert F. Kennedy—became an unforgettable emblem of a nation in mourning. This iconic moment in American history, which unfolded on June 8, 1968, was documented in a series of poignant photographs that still resonate with profound emotional weight. As the train made its way from New York City to Washington, D.C., to deliver the senator’s body to Arlington National Cemetery, thousands of Americans lined the tracks to pay their respects. RFK, a figure of great hope and promise, had been assassinated just days earlier, and his death, following that of his brother President John F. Kennedy, cast a long, dark shadow over the country. The crowds who gathered at the tracks bore witness to this grief, their faces etched with sorrow, reflecting the profound sense of loss that pervaded the nation. What makes the photographs of this funeral train particularly moving is their depiction of the silent, shared mourning that crossed the racial and socio-economic divides of the 1960s. The train, moving slowly through the landscape, became a focal point for national reflection, and the scenes captured along the way are now etched into the collective memory of America. Photographers working for Life magazine, along with other media outlets, snapped images of ordinary citizens standing in quiet tribute—men, women, and children who stood in the summer heat to say a final farewell to RFK. Perhaps the most famous image is the one taken by photographer Paul Fusco. Aboard the funeral train, Fusco aimed his camera outward, capturing the people standing along the tracks. His photos, shot through a window blurred with speed, captured a wide array of Americans—from factory workers, to families, to African American mourners, all standing in dignified silence. Some saluted, some held signs, while others simply looked on in quiet reverence. These images not only documented the funeral procession but also told a broader story of a divided nation in a rare moment of unity. The train journey, meant to be around four hours, stretched closer to eight as it crawled through the crowds of mourners. What stands out about Fusco’s photos is that they seem almost timeless—the people in them, frozen in their grief, look almost ghostly as they are blurred by the train’s motion. Despite the 1960s being a time of immense political upheaval, these photos show how Kennedy’s death brought together a cross-section of the country in their shared heartbreak. But it wasn’t just Fusco’s photos that immortalised this moment in history. The American photographer and painter Richard Avedon also captured striking images from the funeral, albeit in a different manner. His work focused more on intimate portraits, capturing the raw emotion of individuals as they grieved RFK’s passing. While Fusco’s work gave a sweeping view of the nation in mourning, Avedon’s lens brought the sorrow into sharper focus, narrowing in on the faces of those who had felt RFK’s loss personally. These photographs are more than just historical records; they are powerful symbols of the emotional turbulence of 1968. Kennedy’s death came on the heels of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, amid riots, protests, and a growing schism in American society over civil rights and the Vietnam War. Yet, for a brief moment, as the funeral train passed, these divisions seemed to melt away, replaced by a collective expression of sorrow and loss. Fusco’s images, in particular, serve as a reminder of the humanity that emerged during this period of tragedy. His photos do not depict the celebrities or political figures of the time, but rather, the ordinary people who had been touched by Kennedy’s vision for America—a vision that ended abruptly with his death but lived on in their memories. The legacy of RFK’s funeral train photography extends beyond the immediate historical context. Fusco’s images have been displayed in exhibitions and galleries, offering new generations the chance to engage with this moment in American history. The blurry, almost impressionistic quality of these photos speaks to the way memory and grief often work—fading in detail over time but never losing their emotional impact. Today, over half a century later, these photos continue to resonate. They evoke a time when a nation came together to honour a man who represented hope and progress in the midst of one of the most turbulent periods of modern history. The train that carried Robert F. Kennedy’s body to its final resting place also carried the weight of a nation’s grief, captured forever in the solemn faces of those who stood by the tracks, waiting to say their goodbyes. Jack Newfield , a reporter that had been travelling with the campaign, expressed his feelings on the effect of the assassination, closing his memoir on Kennedy with: "Now I realised what makes our generation unique, what defines us apart from those who came before the hopeful winter of 1961, and those who came after the murderous spring of 1968. We are the first generation that learned from experience, in our innocent twenties, that things were not really getting better, that we shall not overcome. We felt, by the time we reached thirty, that we had already glimpsed the most compassionate leaders our nation could produce, and they had all been assassinated . And from this time forward, things would get worse: our best political leaders were part of memory now, not hope. The stone was at the bottom of the hill and we were all alone."

Thomas Anthony DeSimone was one of the most volatile and feared figures in the New York Mafia during the 1960s and 1970s. Born into a family deeply connected to organised crime, DeSimone’s early exposure to the mob world shaped him into a ruthless and unpredictable enforcer. With close ties to the Lucchese crime family, his criminal career saw him involved in notorious heists, brutal murders, and a string of violent outbursts that left even seasoned mobsters unnerved. Thomas Anthony DeSimone, born on May 24, 1950, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, grew up in a family deeply entrenched in the world of organised crime. His father, also named Thomas DeSimone, was a recognised figure in the underworld, and his brothers Anthony and Robert followed in similar footsteps, becoming associates of the Gambino crime family. Anthony’s fate was grim, being murdered by Thomas Agro in 1979, while Robert’s involvement with the Mafia also shaped his future. DeSimone’s personal life was similarly complicated, with his sister Phyllis involved in a long-term affair with James Burke, a man who would later become one of DeSimone’s most influential criminal mentors. DeSimone’s early life was marked by a swift immersion into crime, setting him on a path that would ultimately lead to his notorious reputation. At the age of 15, DeSimone was introduced to Paul Vario, a caporegime in the Lucchese crime family. Through Vario, DeSimone met Henry Hill and James "Jimmy the Gent" Burke, two prominent figures in the Lucchese crew. Hill, in particular, recalled his first encounter with the young DeSimone, describing him as "a skinny kid who was wearing a wiseguy suit and a pencil moustache." Despite his youth, DeSimone's desire to belong to the Mafia world was evident from the start. By the time he was 20, DeSimone was already participating in serious criminal activities, including truck hijackings, fencing stolen goods, and extortion. The mob’s world was brutal, and DeSimone thrived in its violence. He quickly gained a reputation for his unpredictability and short temper. His weapon of choice was a .38-caliber revolver, which he carried inconspicuously in a brown paper bag—something Henry Hill would later note as part of DeSimone’s ability to blend into the everyday surroundings while always being armed. The Air France Heist One of DeSimone's early criminal milestones came in 1967, when he participated in the infamous Air France robbery. The heist was a sophisticated operation, targeting a shipment of cash flown from Southeast Asia to New York. Air France was responsible for transporting large amounts of currency to the U.S., often storing these sums temporarily at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The cash was kept in a cement strong room, but lax security allowed DeSimone, Burke, and Hill to walk right in without arousing suspicion. Robert McMahon, an Air France employee, provided the key tip for the robbery, identifying a window of time when the security guard would be on break. On April 7, 1967, DeSimone and Hill entered the cargo terminal and used a duplicate key to access the room where the money was kept. In less than half an hour, the duo stole $420,000 in cash, without firing a single shot or alerting anyone. The robbery wasn’t discovered until three days later, making it one of the smoothest heists in the mob’s history. The Air France robbery solidified DeSimone's place within the Lucchese family, marking him as an effective and capable criminal. However, despite his skill in pulling off heists, DeSimone’s violent tendencies often overshadowed his abilities. The Murder of William Bentvena Perhaps the most infamous incident that cemented DeSimone’s violent reputation was the murder of William "Billy Batts" Bentvena in 1970. Bentvena, a made member of the Gambino crime family, had just been released from prison and was celebrating his return at a party held at Robert’s Lounge, a bar owned by James Burke. During the festivities, Bentvena made a seemingly innocent remark about DeSimone's former job shining shoes. DeSimone, who was deeply insecure about his lowly past, perceived the comment as an insult. Two weeks later, DeSimone enacted his revenge. Along with Hill and Burke, he lured Bentvena to a nightclub, where he attacked him with a pistol, savagely beating him to the point where they thought Bentvena was dead. The three men stuffed Bentvena’s body into the trunk of a car and drove off to dispose of it. However, during the journey, they realised that Bentvena was still alive, groaning from the trunk. DeSimone and Burke stopped the car and finished the job, beating Bentvena to death with a tire iron and shovel. The body was initially buried at a dog kennel, but when the property was sold months later, Burke ordered DeSimone and Hill to exhume the remains and dispose of them elsewhere, likely crushing them in a compactor or re-burying them under Robert’s Lounge. This murder, brutal even by Mafia standards, showcased DeSimone's lethal temper and his willingness to kill for even perceived slights. His violent nature became notorious within mob circles, but it was also a double-edged sword—DeSimone was feared, but his reckless actions put him on a dangerous path. The Murder of Michael "Spider" Gianco One of the most chilling examples of DeSimone’s lack of control came during a card game, where Michael "Spider" Gianco, a young bartender, inadvertently insulted him. The initial conflict began when Gianco forgot to bring DeSimone a drink, prompting DeSimone to shoot him in the leg in a fit of anger. The situation could have ended there, but a week later, when Gianco returned to work with his leg in a cast, DeSimone began taunting him again. Gianco, emboldened by Burke’s joking support, told DeSimone to "go fuck [himself]." The room fell silent, and DeSimone, now humiliated in front of his peers, shot Gianco three times, killing him instantly. Even James Burke, a hardened killer, was stunned by DeSimone’s senseless murder. DeSimone was forced to bury Gianco’s body himself, but it is believed that the remains were moved multiple times and may never be recovered. Henry Hill, who witnessed these murders, later described DeSimone as a psychopath, a man whose violent tendencies seemed uncontrollable. The incident with Gianco, in particular, highlighted DeSimone’s volatility and inability to tolerate even the slightest perceived disrespect. The Lufthansa Heist DeSimone's involvement in the notorious Lufthansa heist, which took place on December 11, 1978, added another major event to his criminal résumé. Organised by James Burke, the heist saw a group of mobsters steal $5.875 million (around $27.4 million today) in cash and jewellery from the Lufthansa cargo terminal at JFK Airport. It was the largest cash robbery in U.S. history at the time, and DeSimone was one of the key participants. The heist itself was carefully planned, with Burke selecting a crew that included DeSimone, Robert McMahon, Angelo Sepe, and several others. The plan was executed without a hitch, but trouble arose after the heist. Burke, notorious for eliminating anyone who could potentially link him to a crime, began systematically killing those involved in the heist. One of DeSimone’s assignments was to murder Parnell "Stacks" Edwards, who had failed to dispose of the getaway van, leaving it in a location where it was discovered by police. Edwards’ fingerprints were found in the vehicle, leading Burke to order his execution. DeSimone and Sepe tracked Edwards down and shot him multiple times, ensuring his silence. Disappearance and Death In the wake of the Lufthansa heist, DeSimone’s life took a dangerous turn. By 1979, his violent outbursts and unsanctioned murders, particularly those of Gambino family associates William Bentvena and Ronald Jerothe, had made him a target. It is believed that the Gambino family sought revenge for these killings, and on January 14, 1979, DeSimone vanished. His wife, Angela, reported him missing after he borrowed $60 from her and failed to return. Henry Hill, who had turned informant, later revealed that DeSimone had been lured to his death under the pretense that he was going to be "made" in the Lucchese family. Instead, he was executed by Gambino family members, possibly with John Gotti himself involved. While the exact details remain murky, several mob insiders, including Thomas Agro, claimed to have taken part in the killing. Some accounts suggest that DeSimone was tortured before his death as punishment for the murder of Bentvena, a personal friend of Gotti’s. Despite his short life, DeSimone’s violent reputation left a lasting legacy in Mafia history. His story became widely known through Henry Hill’s memoir Wiseguy  and its cinematic adaptation Goodfellas . DeSimone, portrayed by Joe Pesci in the film, was depicted as an erratic, hot-headed killer, a characterisation that aligned closely with the real DeSimone's behaviour. His story serves as a stark example of the violent, unpredictable nature of life in the Mafia, where even those deeply entrenched in the organisation are not immune from retribution. DeSimone’s disappearance remains unsolved, and his body has never been recovered. It is believed that he was buried in The Hole , a notorious Mafia burial ground near JFK Airport. Today, Thomas DeSimone is remembered as one of the most dangerous figures in New York’s organised crime history, a man whose violent tendencies ultimately led to his own demise.

In the mid-1970s, David Bowie’s life was spiralling. His previous years, marked by wild success and notoriety, had driven him to the brink of a personal and artistic collapse. The glamour of fame had mutated into isolation and paranoia, fueled by rampant cocaine addiction and the excesses of his rock-star lifestyle in Los Angeles. By 1976, the need to escape this destructive environment became overwhelming, and Bowie made a life-changing decision. He fled to Berlin, a city divided both physically by the Berlin Wall and emotionally by the Cold War, but one that, for Bowie, held the promise of artistic renewal and personal sobriety. His arrival there marked the start of one of the most important and productive periods of his career. Bowie had been enamoured of Berlin since his youth, having been introduced to German expressionist art and Fritz Lang’s monumental 1927 film Metropolis  during his time at Bromley Technical High School in south-east London. He developed what he later referred to as “an obsession for the angst-ridden, emotional work of expressionists, both artists and filmmakers, and their spiritual home: Berlin.” As Bowie learned more about the artistic ethos of German expressionism, these influences found their way into his early work, especially during his time with Lindsay Kemp’s mime company in the late 1960s. These artistic connections, coupled with his desire to break from the constraints of his LA lifestyle, drew him to West Berlin in the 1970s. But Bowie’s fascination with Germany wasn’t limited to the visual arts. He was also captivated by the new wave of electronic music emerging from the country, particularly the work of Tangerine Dream and its founder, Edgar Froese. Bowie was especially inspired by Froese’s 1975 solo album Ypsilon in Malaysian Pale , which profoundly shaped his own work on Station to Station  (1976). “The randomness of the compositions fascinated me,” Bowie recalled, adding that this style would come to heavily influence his Berlin period. Thus, in 1976, seeking both personal redemption and artistic experimentation, Bowie left the sun-soaked excesses of Los Angeles and followed Edgar to Berlin. Berlin, to Bowie, was the ideal environment for reinvention. “I liked the idea of the Berlin Wall because, at that time, I felt that it was always necessary to be in a place where there was tension,” he later said. “And you couldn’t find a place with more tension than… West Berlin [with its] factional elements, both musically and artistically. There was also a very strong socialist left-wing element there which gave it this kind of anarchistic vibe. I can see why, throughout the 20th century, it was the city [that] writers continually returned to, because both the negative and positive aspects of whatever’s going to happen in Europe always emanate at some point, right back to the 1920s, from Berlin.” Bowie quickly found that Berlin’s fractured, gritty atmosphere was the perfect antidote to the artificial, hedonistic haze of LA. “I was very lucky to be there at that time, mainly because it was undergoing artistically its greatest renaissance since the Weimar days of the 1920s,” he remembered. “When I was there the whole new German expressionist period had started, and all of the German electronic bands were starting to come down to Berlin to work.” As a city that had been physically and politically divided since the construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961, West Berlin was isolated in a sea of communist East Germany. After World War II, most industries and big businesses fled the city, leaving behind empty warehouses and factories. In their place, students, artists, and counterculture figures moved in, transforming Berlin into a crucible of radical thought and artistic experimentation. “It became like a workshop,” Bowie said. “And it was just a wonderful place to be for that.” One of the artists Bowie invited to join him in Berlin was his close friend Iggy Pop. Bowie and Iggy Pop had first met in the early 1970s when Iggy’s brash, punk-inspired style of music caught Bowie’s attention. Their friendship deepened as Bowie produced two of Iggy’s albums, The Idiot  and Lust for Life . Like Bowie, Iggy was grappling with substance abuse and personal demons, and he accepted Bowie’s invitation to come to Berlin. Iggy later reflected on the unique character of the city: “In Berlin you had a city that was built to hold millions of people, and in the western half there were very few people – around half a million – and most of those were draft-dodging, grumpy German students, resistant to any western influences.” He added, “And then you had the very personable prewar leftovers: bankers, cab drivers, restaurateurs, innkeepers. And, most importantly, there was very cheap space. There was no economy. The whole premise was being propped up artificially by political pressures of the time, and that’s what made it interesting. And Bowie’s wise investment was that he’d gotten to a point that he could afford to go there.” By the time Bowie arrived in Berlin, he was ready to cast off the trappings of his previous life. Alongside Iggy, he rented a modest apartment above a car repair shop in the Schöneberg district. Bowie was nearly bankrupt due to his ongoing divorce and legal disputes with his former management, but Berlin’s low cost of living suited him. Tony Visconti, who had worked with Bowie on The Man Who Sold the World  (1970), was enlisted as producer for Bowie’s next album, Low , and later “Heroes” , both of which reflected the artist’s desire to experiment. “Berlin suited his financial situation at the time,” Visconti noted. “He was almost bankrupt… but the financial costs gave him artistic freedom.” Looking to explore new sonic territory, Bowie teamed up with Brian Eno, an avant-garde musician known for pushing creative boundaries. Eno, like Bowie, found Berlin the perfect symbol for their work. “Berlin at that time was this peculiar juncture between two cultures,” Eno said. “We were quite consciously trying to fuse high art and low art.” The fusion of funk rhythms, ambient landscapes, and avant-garde sounds led to some of Bowie’s most groundbreaking work. With Low , and especially “Heroes” , Bowie reshaped rock music by integrating the experimental, mechanical sounds of Berlin’s electronic bands with his signature glam and art rock sensibilities. The recording of “Heroes”  took place at Hansa Studios, located just 500 yards from the Berlin Wall, in a building that had once served as a Nazi ballroom. The presence of the Wall and the watchful East German guards in their towers added a palpable tension to the sessions. Tony Visconti recalled the view from the control room: “We recorded the album in the shadow of the wall… Directly in front of us was a guard tower with East German guards – you could actually see the red stars on their fuzzy hats.” This sense of physical and psychological division bled into Bowie’s music. “There was a darkness to the music I wrote in Berlin,” Bowie reflected, “but it also had a great celebratory nature to it.” Tracks like the haunting instrumentals ‘Moss Garden’ and ‘Neuköln’ (named after a district in Berlin) captured the eerie quietness of the city’s empty spaces, while the title track ‘“Heroes”’ became an anthem of defiance and hope, inspired in part by Visconti’s fleeting kiss with a backing singer near the Wall. The song’s emotional power and its connection to Berlin’s divided landscape have made it one of Bowie’s most enduring and iconic pieces. Bowie’s exploration of new sonic worlds, supported by Eno’s experimental ethos, fundamentally changed how he approached music. “I started using the album as an instrument,” Bowie explained. “If a note or sound effect would go wrong, I’d keep it, and get another four instruments to play the same wrong note. Then it sounds like an arrangement, and an integral part of the composition.” Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy— Low  (1977), “Heroes”  (1977), and Lodger  (1979)—marked a period of intense creativity and reinvention. As Brian Eno noted, “The state of mind existed before the choice of city… but Berlin encouraged strong statements.” This period not only rescued Bowie from the personal chaos of his earlier years but also revitalised his career, influencing a generation of musicians to come. When “Heroes”  was released in October 1977, it was met with critical acclaim. Though some listeners were taken aback by the dark, experimental instrumentals, the album has since been recognised as one of Bowie’s greatest achievements. Its influence extended beyond Bowie’s immediate circle, inspiring artists such as U2, Depeche Mode, and Nick Cave, all of whom would go on to record at Hansa Studios in the years following Bowie’s stay in Berlin. For Bowie, Berlin was more than just a backdrop for his creative rebirth. It was the city’s fractured, turbulent spirit, its collision of old and new, that mirrored Bowie’s own journey. As he revisited the city musically in his 2013 single Where Are We Now? , reflecting on how much Berlin had changed since his 1970s sojourn, it was clear that the city had left an indelible mark on him, as Bowie later reflected: “Berlin was a singular place, and it was there that I think I became the person I really wanted to be.”