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The relentless rise of the mafia: a grisly tale of extortion, execution and Don Corleone
The 20th century was a golden age for organised crime groups. Ryan Gingeras reveals how gangs from the Sicilian Mafia to Mexico’s cartels capitalised on political chaos, economic upheaval and mass migration to spread their tentacles around the world
In the early 1860s Sicily was incorporated into the Kingdom of Italy. Soon after, visitors to the island discovered what they believed was a criminal fraternity at work in Palermo and its environs. That fraternity – the ‘Mafia’ – possessed secret rites and bylaws that governed its members. Chief among their rules was the vow of silence, omertà, when it came to their interactions with the police. Many assumed this ‘honoured society’ was born out of the prisons of Palermo, a place where hardened criminals mixed with members of secret revolutionary organisations. Before 1900, Mafiosi distinguished themselves by a clear pattern of criminal behaviour. Brigand gangs who robbed travellers on the roads were bound to the Mafia. Large landowners and government officials abetted the murders, thefts and acts of extortion mafiosi committed. Yet there were aspects of what Mafia was that remained difficult to pin down. Mafiosi, Palermo’s mayor told one public enquiry, could be “anyone who has self-respect and has a certain exaggerated pride, and the inclination to not be overwhelmed but to overwhelm others, the will to appear courageous, to be ready to fight, and so on”. For people in the 19th century, what made Sicily’s Mafia significant was the threat it posed to the government in Rome. Mafiosi appeared to rule the island from the shadows. The violence associated with them was used to intimidate citizens and to demonstrate its power to the Italian capital. In the global context, the Sicilian Mafia seemed to be a part of a pattern. Other secret organisations were challenging states and empires in the hopes of winning self-rule or overthrowing governments. By the start of the 20th century, commentators outside of Italy began characterising nationalist guerrillas, anarchists and other revolutionaries as ‘mafias’ in their own right. The first generations Colloquially speaking, the word ‘mafia’ is often used as shorthand for groups involved in organised crime. But not every gang enjoyed the distinction of being called a mafia. Genuine mafias possess gravitas and do not come and go. They possess a culture, history or pedigree that adds to their status. Their mythos overshadows the exploits or dangers of the common criminal. The term ‘mafia’ is quite old. Use of the word dates back centuries in Italy, even though its meaning and significance has evolved. For Sicilians, ‘mafia’ historically meant a kind of boldness. A mafioso specifically denoted someone who was domineering or who bragged of their strength or prowess. Scholars tend to agree that the Sicilian Mafia is one of four historic mafias that endure to this day. The other three –the Camorra, which emerged in Naples, China’s Triads and the Yakuza in Japan – have similarly rich backstories. In each case, the development of these groups or subcultures speaks to their cultural roots. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1082329096webready-e3f9054-e1773654775259.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Two men in traditional Japanese formal dress walk at the front of a group, followed by several men in dark suits. They appear to be outdoors during a formal event" title="Members of the Yakuza, Japan’s notorious organised crime syndicate, attend a funeral in Kobe, 1981. From the mid-19th century, the group were integral to the radicalisation of Japanese politics (Image by Getty Images)" /> The precise story of how the Yakuza came into existence is a detail lost to time. The term itself originates from the phonetics of the word ya-ku-za, meaning 8-9-3, the worst hand to hold in a Japanese game of cards. This name alone confirms that gamblers were the first to acquire a connection to Yakuza culture, which dates back as far as the seventh century. Intimidating opponents Unlike Sicily’s Mafia, Yakuza culture spanned much of Japan. From the Middle Ages forward, Japan’s elite relied upon clan members to manage or mitigate crime within their midst. Violence was a key to Yakuza culture, as were intricate tattoos and rituals. Later, after the Meiji Restoration (1868) and the establishment of a modern state, political operatives sought Yakuza support in the hope of intimidating opponents. Yakuza became integral to the radicalisation of Japanese politics, a process that eventually led the nation into the Second World War. Read more | The first mafia? How an early medieval kingdom perfected the art of deadly diplomacy Neither crime, nor politics, gave birth to China’s Triads. Their history dates to the country’s tradition of secret mystical societies. A feature of this was the way fraternal organisations promoted folk religion and mutual aid for China’s rural underclass. With Manchu conquest in the 17th century, these organisations morphed into secret societies associated with opposition to the government. The establishment of the Qing dynasty (1644–1912) led to the creation of a group calling itself the Three United Society, from which the term ‘triad’ was coined. The number of Triad-derived groups rose as Manchu rule grew increasingly more unpopular in the 19th century. To sustain themselves, many secret societies resorted to theft, extortion and the sex trade. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1354467399webready-f00eeb0-e1773654880975.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Three individuals stand side by side before an ornate, possibly ceremonial backdrop. One wears a light suit, while the others wear traditional Chinese clothing. Each has a ribbon pinned to their chest." title="Shanghai gangsters in c1925. In the early 1900s, secret societies capitalised on a power vacuum to form de facto governments across much of China (Image by Getty Images)" /> Adding to the strength and mysticism of the Triads were rich customs and a hierarchical structure involving initiations. After the fall of the Qing in 1912, secret societies expanded their influence over much of China, in many cases forming de facto governments over the countryside. Europe’s fragmented political landscape did not produce such universalised criminal societies. To understand the growth of the Camorra, we need to begin with 18th-century freemasonry. This provided a critical model for the organisation of subversive groups. Political radicals embraced its cult of secrecy and hierarchy in building movements aimed at national liberation or revolution. In the port city of Naples, rather less idealistic figures also took inspiration as, within the main prison, inmates in the early 19th century began to mimic masonic traditions in crafting secret codes and rules. Outsiders called this budding culture the Camorra, a possible allusion to the chamarra, or jackets, they wore. Camorra culture gradually exited the prison, finding members among the impoverished of Naples. With the threat of nationalist revolution threatening the city’s establishment, political leaders in Naples relied on the Camorra as informants and enforcers. Similarly to the Mafia in Sicily, Camorristi monopolised and exploited the underworld of Naples as extortionists and smugglers. They formed alliances with business leaders, politicians and the police. They became part of the city’s elite. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1450387208webready-88367a6-e1773654963308.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Four uniformed officers stand in a line in front of tall metal bars, behind which several people are confined, some gripping the bars and looking outward. The setting appears institutional, with tiled walls" title="Italian police guard men accused of being members of the Camorra, during a trial in Naples, 1985. This crime group was originally modelled on the secret codes and rules of 18th-century freemasonry (Image by Getty Images)" /> Coming to America Each of these cultures initially operated as provincial conspiracies. Yet in the late 19th century, an era of mass migration, this changed. Like the millions of other people leaving Asia and Europe, Triads, Camorristi, Yakuza and Mafiosi sailed abroad. Many settled in the United States where they fell into familiar patterns of behaviour. This was a phenomenon Americans recognised almost immediately. In the run-up to the new century, newspapers took a keen interest in what they believed were vast immigrant conspiracies. Urban areas appeared to develop new underworlds as the vice trade came under the control of Chinese fraternal lodges (often referred to as Tongs). Japanese gamblers formed violent gangs on the west coast. Italian extortionists, known as Black Hands, became the scourge of communities across the USA. Read more | How J Edgar Hoover secretly ruled America Tabloids feasted on these revelations and fanned anti-immigrant sentiment. An occasional offence could be forgiven but, as one Mississippi editor put it, “When foreign groups transport and carry on here their Tongs, mafias, vendettas, class enmities and hostilities, it is a disturbance of such alien… and bloody character that America is not obliged to endure it and should not.” Like activists in other parts of the western world, crusaders in US cities grew fearful of the effect gambling and prostitution had on society. Increased use of alcohol and narcotics similarly concerned advocates for women’s rights and child welfare. Dispensing these goods and services were ‘organised crimes’ in so far as each required an illicit chain of suppliers, dealers and consumers. With the west in the lead, lawmakers around the world agreed to take more stringent steps to combat vice at home. As the world’s biggest economy and a country left largely unscarred by both the First and Second World Wars, America assumed a leading role in this movement. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-515170982webready-e7ec811-e1773656015480.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black‑and‑white portrait shows a person wearing a light fedora, dark overcoat with a velvet collar, white shirt, and striped tie, facing slightly to the right against a plain background" title="Gangsters such as Al Capone cashed in on the prohibition of drugs and alcohol (Image by Getty Images)" /> Domestically, attempts to clamp down on the use of alcohol and narcotics catalysed huge changes within the American underworld. Early beneficiaries of the Prohibition era were individuals who shared connections to the Mafia and Camorra traditions. They created a system of ‘families’ that held sway over bootleg liquor and vice across swathes of the country. Newspapers and newsreels captured their ascendency, as did early talkies such as Scarface (1932). Al Capone embodied this moment in his dress, cant, swagger and flair for publicity. Newspapermen loved him. “His whole demeanour,” one journalist noted, “is that of an overgrown child.” Capone could easily persuade a know-nothing stranger that he was as “harmless as a big St Bernard dog”. If the modern mafioso has a father, it would be him. Dope goes global It was only in retrospect, however, that American authorities conceived of bootleggers as a part of a distinctly American mafia. This crucial turn occurred after the Second World War, when peace brought a dramatic surge in narcotics trafficking. Heroin streamed across both the Atlantic and Pacific into a newly prosperous USA, a trade led by both old and new syndicates. Triad-linked groups traded in heroin cultivated in Burma and processed in Hong Kong. Meanwhile, Corsican syndicates, as well as Sicilian mafiosi, exported even larger amounts of dope from Turkey and Lebanon. This latter ‘French Connection’ drew the attention of Washington’s top narcotics official, Harry Anslinger. In the 1950s, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics (FBN) had long lived in the shadow of J Edgar Hoover’s FBI. This fact roiled Anslinger so much that he went on the offensive. Amid a climate of growing paranoia, Anslinger’s FBN seized the national spotlight with a series of fantastic revelations. Through televised senatorial hearings, government witnesses testified to a criminal conspiracy extending in and beyond the USA. At its heart were the rites and tradition of Sicily’s Mafia. American crime families, in coordination with syndicates abroad, dominated the global narcotics industry. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/0112042-2webready-35fd87a-e1773655091113.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="In a courtroom, two men talk beside a wooden barrier; one wears dark sunglasses. Behind them, several uniformed officers sit in rows, with more people visible in the background" title="Sicilian Mafia boss Luciano Leggio talks with his lawyer during a trial of mafiosi in 1969. “What made Sicily’s Mafia significant was the threat it posed to the government in Rome,” writes Ryan Gingeras (Image by Topfoto)" /> In 1963, Anslinger’s star witness, Joseph Valachi, added explosive touches to proceedings. Valachi, a one-time New York gangster, confirmed the existence of a singular criminal culture. Members, he claimed, called it ‘cosa nostra’, our thing. Valachi’s story reverberated worldwide. America, it seemed, had its own mafia, one that led the world in a host of nefarious dealings. Meanwhile, older mafias abroad were experiencing their own renaissance. The rise of fascism and the outbreak of war in 1939 inflicted devastating losses upon the gangsters of Naples and Sicily. Similarly, Triads and Yakuza gangs suffered at the hands of invading armies and collapsed governments. Yet with the restoration of peace, a new generation took advantage of the emerging postwar environment. Read more | The A-Z of British gangs and gangsters They formed partnerships with local politicians charged with organising reconstruction efforts. Yakuza and mafiosi found common cause with rightwing political parties that feared the growing popularity of leftist movements. Above all, Italian, Chinese and Japanese gangsters realised unprecedented opportunities to profit from the narcotics trade. This changed the character of these older criminal fraternities. Mafiosi of an earlier time, as one Sicilian don saw them, were “dignified people, gentlemanly and inherently good”. Narcotics trafficking, and the riches that came with it, often warped and diminished the character of those involved. Super Mario The idea of a life of crime impacting on gang members themselves was popularised in the work of the Italian-American novelist Mario Puzo. By his own account, Puzo had no particular affinity for crime stories but, when he was looking for a subject with wide appeal, he remembered Valachi’s testimony and began researching mob history. Puzo’s novel The Godfather (1969) sold millions of copies. A then ailing Paramount Studios bought the rights and head of production Bob Evans took a chance in hiring a young Francis Ford Coppola to direct the cinematic version. The film, released in 1972, took the Academy Award for Best Picture and racked up millions at the box office. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/3B5WNKGwebready-c054e86-e1773655386592.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Two individuals stand outdoors with a red building and a green‑white‑red flag or banner blurred in the background. The person on the left, with short hair and glasses, wears a dark jacket over a sweater and collared shirt and stands with arms crossed. The person on the right, also wearing glasses, has longer hair and a full beard and wears a brown jacket over a striped shirt while looking slightly upward." title="Mario Puzo (left) and Francis Ford Coppola on the set of The Godfather Part II in 1973. Puzo was inspired to write his iconic crime novel by Joseph Valachi’s testimony (Image by Alamy)" /> At no point do characters in The Godfather utter the word ‘mafia’. Viewers and critics, however, understood the film offered a close dissection of the phenomenon. The movie fulfilled the audience’s expectations. “Consciously or not,” as one French critic said, “people are inclined to believe that the true princes who govern us are hidden masters, all-powerful [but] anonymous.” The Godfather and its 1974 sequel changed how gangsters talked and how they went about their work. Even before 1972, mafiosi in Sicily began to refer to their secret society as ‘La Cosa Nostra’. After The Godfather, they also began calling their betters ‘padrinos’, a term used in the film. Around the world, criminal groups started referring to their leaders as godfathers (or some translation of the word) and began to mimic the organisational structure from the film. Life imitated art. Coppola’s opus arrived in cinemas at a time when the international drug trade was growing rapidly. Heroin consumption began to peak in the US and started to rise in western Europe. Cocaine, previously a boutique drug, began to appear in greater amounts in US cities. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1423176387webready-9c7c07f-e1773655583523.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An outdoor wedding reception takes place under a green‑and‑white striped canopy. A long table is set with flowers and a tiered cake, where the bride, groom, and other guests sit. In the foreground, a man in a dark suit warmly greets a man in a military uniform holding his hat. Behind them, elegantly dressed guests—including a woman in a red polka‑dot dress and wide‑brimmed hat—watch the exchange with smiles. Trees and hanging decorations create a festive atmosphere" title="Vito’s son and successor, Michael (Al Pacino), is greeted by his brother Sonny, played by James Caan. Such was the impact of The Godfather that, in its wake, real-life gangsters mimicked the Corleones’ organisational structure, changing how they talked and operated (Image by Getty Images)" /> Newer criminal groups emerged too. Before the end of the 1970s, two cocaine trafficking coalitions took shape in the Colombian cities of Medellín and Cali. Parallel developments in Mexico also gave birth to a similar alliance of drug smugglers run from Guadalajara. Some in the press initially referred to these groups as mafias. Law enforcement officials instead took to calling them cartels due to their perceived similarity to the petroleum consortium, OPEC. It was the latter name that took hold. A key figure was Pablo Escobar of Medellín. Having dabbled in smuggling as a youth, his reputation for violence sealed his close ties to landowners and drug runners. He drew inspiration from The Godfather and mimicked the “slow manners and long silences” of Marlon Brando’s performance. Escobar, however, was far more brutal than the fictitious Vito Corleone. His cartel murdered thousands, including some 200 judges and 700 police officers. Escobar’s death at the hands of Colombian security forces in 1993 marked the end of the Medellín Cartel. The cocaine trade, however, lived on. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-108556393webready-0846542-e1773655693174.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A close‑up portrait of a person with curly dark hair, a mustache, and light skin, wearing a light shirt and beige jacket against a dark, blurred background" title="Pablo Escobar took inspiration from the fictitious Vito Corleone. Yet, writes Ryan Gingeras, “he was far more brutal” (Image by Getty Images)" /> Cases across the Pacific spoke to increased activity among the Yakuza and Triads. In the wake of The Godfather, exposés in western media took particular interest in how Japanese and Chinese gangsters compared to western crime syndicates. For many journalists, Asia’s ‘mafias’ appeared more malevolent and exotic. The secret rites of the Yakuza and Triads made their involvement in the drug trade seem more difficult to police. No enquiry into the world of the Japanese gangster failed to mention their intricate tattoos, the katana swords with which they often fought or the severing of their pinkies as acts of contrition. The press made much of the supposed Triad penalties of “death by 5,000 thunderbolts” and the “flowing of blood from the body’s five openings”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-90768133webready-e58bc1e-e1773655170247.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="“Seen from behind, a person displays an elaborate traditional Japanese tattoo covering their back and upper arms, featuring a warrior figure. They stand against a wooden panel, with decorative floral motifs framing the image" title="A heavily tattooed Japanese man in c1895. Body art and rituals have both been associated with Yakuza culture over its long history (Image by Getty Images)" /> Meanwhile, the sheer number of supposed mafias surged during the 1980s and 1990s. Increased cocaine production in Latin America touched off upheaval in Colombia and Mexico, leading to unprecedented waves of violence and, as governments pushed back, the fragmentation of existing cartels. As smuggling routes grew more complex, Jamaican and Nigerian groups grew in influence. Street gangs such as the Bloods and Crips metastasised across the USA, specialising in the retail trade in drugs. Unholy alliances The dissolution of the eastern bloc had even more dramatic consequences. The sudden liquidation of state-owned industries across the former Soviet Union forged a series of unholy alliances between presumptive oligarchs and gangs. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-627229258webready-33cb468-e1773655825345.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Two people in military uniform stand over a pile of leaves, burning a fire in the middle of the pile. Large clouds of smoke are billowing up from the fire" title="Soldiers burn coca leaves in 1989. A surge in heroin and cocaine consumption across the west fuelled the rise of South American cartels (Image by Getty Images)" /> Other syndicates comprising Chechens, Albanians, Kurds, Serbs and Turks came to cast a shadow over different parts of Europe. The emergence of these groups led political leaders across the world to see their collective security in a new light. As the new century dawned, the United Nations formally adopted a convention dedicated to combating transnational organised crime. To mark the occasion, signatories assembled for a ceremony in Corleone, the Italian birthplace of Puzo’s fictional Godfather. Throughout this period, ‘mafia’ became a byword for describing new groups emerging in the west. The ease with which commentators referred to Russian, Albanian, Nigerian or Turkish mafias obscured the fact that no single group anchored their creation. Popular culture helped cement the impression that mafias were a global phenomenon. Read more | The Victorians’ cocaine habit: why 19th-century Britain couldn't get enough of the 'miracle' drug During this process, the narrative around organised crime moved far beyond the four historic mafias. Indeed, you could plausibly argue that such terms as gangsters, organised crime and the mafia have become interchangeable. So does the term mafia still have a special meaning and power? Yes, in that it encompasses a world where gangsters don’t just operate in the criminal sphere, somehow separated from the rest of society, but influence politics, commerce, culture and even international affairs. Without mafias, history since the late 19th century would have been very different. Mafias may operate in the shadows, but shining light on them helps us to see the past more clearly. Ryan Gingeras is the author of Mafia: A Global History (Simon & Schuster, 2026) This article was first published in the March 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
16 remarkable moments in the history of the Oscars
When was the first Academy Awards? How many Oscars did Titanic win in 1998? Why did Will Smith slap Chris Rock? Here's everything you needed to know about the history of the most notable event in the film industry calendar...
The Academy Awards were first held in 1929, and each year the film industry awards gold-plated statuettes – commonly called Oscars – in a glittering and star-studded ceremony. Officially the Academy Award of Merit, everyone knows the golden knight holding a sword and standing on a reel of film as Oscar. Cedric Gibbons, art director at movie studio Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, gets the credit for designing the statuette but not for naming it. Read more | The best historical movies of all time There are three theories. Hollywood journalist Sidney Skolsky always maintained he thought it up as a less-grandiose antidote to the pretentiousness of the award ceremony. Meanwhile, actor Bette Davis claimed she once remarked the statuette’s backside resembled that of her husband, Harmon Oscar Nelson. The most likely winner, however, is Margaret Herrick, a librarian at the Academy, who said the knight (not just his rear) looked like her uncle Oscar. But how much do you really know about the history of the awards themselves, and the dramatic moments that have played out on the biggest night of the Hollywood calendar? The history of the Oscars: 16 key moments 1929: The first ceremony takes place Founded by Louis B Mayer, head of MGM studios, in 1927, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was intended as a non-profit organisation with the goal of advancing the film industry. The first Academy Award ceremony took place two years later at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, on 16 May 1929. Tickets for the private dinner cost $5 and the presentation ceremony hosted by Douglas Fairbanks (actor and first president of the Academy) lasted just 15 minutes. The film industry was undergoing a dramatic change at the time, with the revolutionary introduction of new sound technology. Although hugely popular ‘talkies’ such as The Jazz Singer (1927) had been released before the first Academy Awards, they were not considered, because it was seen as unfair to compare them to silent movies. Read more | Stars, scandals and the end of silent films The first-ever Academy Award was bestowed upon Emil Jannings, for Best Actor for his leading roles in silent films The Way of All Flesh (1927) and The Last Command (1928). The first-ever Academy Award for Best Picture went to Wings, a 1927 silent movie that told the story of two pilots in love with the same woman. The film cost $2 million to produce, making it the most expensive movie of its time. Up until the release of The Artist in 2011, Wings was the only silent film to win Best Picture. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-2225661880-bbfceb9-e1773593014852.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A large banquet hall filled with formally dressed guests seated at long tables during the 1929 Academy Awards dinner at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel." title="Guests seated at the first Academy Awards banquet, held at the Roosevelt Hotel, Hollywood, on 16 May 1929. The actual presentation ceremony lasted a mere 15 minutes (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1934: The wrong Frank gets up on stage Arguably one of the most awkward Academy Awards moments happened in 1934, when both Frank Lloyd and Frank Capra were nominated in the Best Director category. Caught up in the excitement of the ceremony, Frank Capra heard Will Rogers, who presented the award, exclaim “Come on up and get it, Frank!” He duly ran up to the stage to claim his award, only to find that it was in fact Frank Lloyd who had won. Capra called the journey back to his chair “the longest, saddest, most shattering walk in my life”, saying “I wished I could have crawled under the rug like a miserable worm. When I slumped in my chair I felt like one. All my friends at the table were crying”. However, Capra’s humiliation didn’t last long: he won the Best Director gong the following year for It Happened One Night (1934). 1938: An imposter nabs an Academy Award The Best Supporting Actress Award of 1938 went to Alice Brady for her role in In Old Chicago (1937). However, she was too ill to attend the ceremony. When her award was announced an unknown man took to the stage to collect it, apparently on her behalf. Before anyone realised something was wrong, the man had vanished. The mystery of the imposter’s identity – and what happened to Brady’s stolen statuette – was never solved. Statuettes vanished again in 2000, when crates containing 55 Oscars disappeared from a loading bay. Some 52 of the statuettes were recovered soon after, found by citizen Willie Fulgear, who was rummaging in a bin behind a food store in LA’s Koreatown. According to The New York Times he was looking for boxes to use for an upcoming house move. Astonished by his unexpected discovery, Fulgear told reporters: “I’ve got more Oscars than any of the movie stars”. Investigators believed that the culprits took the Oscars by accident, unaware of the crates’ contents. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-1247583035-7b2e403-e1773592915263.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A middle-aged man in a hat stands beside a large skip filled with discarded Oscars campaign leaflets and packaging in a Los Angeles car park." title="Willie Fulgear stands next to the dumpster where he uncovered 55 stolen Oscars statuettes in March 2000. A truck driver was later sentenced to six months in prison for the theft (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1939: George Bernard Shaw becomes the first person to win an Oscar and a Nobel Prize After winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1925, Shaw received an Academy Award for adapting his 1913 stage play Pygmalion into a film script. He didn’t attend the ceremony, however, reportedly saying: “They might as well send some honour to George for being king of England.” 1940: Results are leaked ahead of the ceremony At the first Academy Awards in 1929, the winners had been announced to the public three months previously. However, the following year the Academy decided to create a sense of suspense and instead sent an advanced list of award winners to newspapers, embargoed for publication until 11pm on the night of the Oscars ceremony. Read more | Knights! Camera! Action! Hollywood's obsession with the medieval era This system remained in place for the next 10 years. However, in 1940 the Los Angeles Times broke the embargo and announced the winners in their evening edition, meaning that nominees could find out their fate before turning up at the ceremony. As a result of this fiasco, the following year (1941) the sealed envelope system was introduced and the results became a closely guarded secret. 1940: Hattie McDaniel becomes the first African-American Oscar winner McDaniel made history in 1940 by winning the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress, for her role as ‘Mammy’ in the 1939 Civil War epic Gone With the Wind. However, in the year that McDaniel won, the Oscars ceremony was due to take place in a hotel that upheld a strict racial segregation policy. Film producer David O Selznick reportedly had to call in favours just to have McDaniel allowed into the building. Despite being the recipient of a major award, McDaniel had to sit at the back of the auditorium on a segregated table away from the rest of her co-stars. McDaniel was also banned from attending Gone With the Wind’s Atlanta premiere because of segregation laws. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-3248364-8f93e1c-e1773592849432.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara grips a curtain while Mammy, played by Hattie McDaniel, tightens the laces of her corset in Gone with the Wind." title="Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh) clutches a bedpost as Mammy (Hattie McDaniel) tightens her corset in Gone with the Wind (1939). McDaniel later became the first African-American actor to win an Academy Award for her role in the film (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1943–45: Oscar statuettes are made of painted plaster The Oscars statuette, which depicts a knight with a crusader’s sword standing on a reel of film, was designed by MGM’s chief art director Cedric Gibbons in 1929. In the early ceremonies the gongs were made from gold-plated solid bronze, which was later substituted for the pewter-like alloy Britannia metal. However, as the Second World War raged, metal shortages meant that the awards had to be made from alternative materials. Consequently, all awards handed out between 1943 and 1945 were made of painted plaster. When the war was over, all recipients of plaster awards were invited to exchange them for metal ones. 1945: The first Academy Award comes in handy during the Second World War Emil Jannings, winner of the first-ever Academy Award for his performances in silent films The Way of All Flesh and The Last Command (see 1929, above), was ruled out from the new Hollywood talkies because of his thick German accent. Jannings therefore returned to Germany, where he became associated with Joseph Goebbels’ propaganda machine, starring in several films promoting Nazism. When the Allies stormed Berlin in 1945, Jannings reportedly carried his Oscar statuette around with him to win over American GIs and to demonstrate his former allegiance to the US. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-3273720-0eb23a9-e1773588040173.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Emil Jannings in military uniform sits between two soldiers in a scene from the silent film The Last Command." title="Emil Jannings (centre) in The Last Command (1928), one of two films that earned him the first Academy Award for Best Actor in 1929. The German star later appeared in Nazi propaganda films and reportedly used his Oscar statuette to convince invading Allied troops of his pro-US sympathies (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1968: The ceremony is postponed In 1968 the Academy decided to push back the ceremony from 8 April to 10 April following the assassination of Martin Luther King, whose funeral was scheduled for 9 April. In 1981 the ceremony was postponed for 24 hours following an assassination attempt on US president Ronald Reagan, and the 2021 event was also delayed by two months due to the Covid-19 pandemic. 1973: Marlon Brando’s Oscar is rejected by Sacheen Littlefeather Marlon Brando famously refused his Best Actor award for his performance in The Godfather (1972) in protest of Hollywood’s portrayal of Native Americans. He did not attend the ceremony, instead sending Native American activist and actress Sacheen Littlefeather to make a speech in his place. When Littlefeather explained Brando’s actions, the audience was clearly unsure how to react – some people cheered, others booed. A confused Roger Moore, who attempted to present the award, apparently took the statuette home with him after Sacheen Littlefeather refused to accept it. Listen now | Hollywood history: everything you wanted to know Brando was not the first person to have refused an Oscar: in 1936 Dudley Nichols rejected his Best Adapted Screenplay award for The Informer (1935) due to ongoing strike action by the Screen Writers Guild. Later, after receiving a Best Actor nomination for his titular role in Patton in 1971, George C Scott informed the Academy that if he won he intended to refuse the award. Everyone was therefore very surprised to hear him announced as the winner. Goldie Hawn, who presented the award, exclaimed “Oh my god!” when she read the result. Unsurprisingly, Scott did not attend the ceremony, which he reportedly dismissed as a “two-hour meat parade”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-515575596-c4b96e8-e1773587308777.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black-and-white photograph of Sacheen Littlefeather in a dress and feathered hairpiece speaking to presenters Roger Moore in a tuxedo and Liv Ullmann in an embroidered gown." title="Sacheen Littlefeather remonstrates with presenters Roger Moore and Liv Ullmann at the 45th Academy Awards. The actress and activist had declined the Best Actor award on behalf of Marlon Brando, who refused the accolade in protest at Hollywood’s portrayal of Native Americans (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1974: Tatum O’Neal becomes the youngest-ever Oscar winner The 10-year-old received an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her role in Paper Moon (1973), in which she starred opposite her father, Ryan O’Neal. She accepted her award wearing a mini tuxedo and platform shoes. 1998: Titanic wins 11 Oscars With 14 nominations and 11 wins, the blockbuster epic Titanic (1997) dominated the Academy Awards in 1998. Starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, it tells the tragic story of the passenger ship that sank on its maiden voyage in 1912. Films with historical settings have long performed well at the Oscars, from 1931’s Best Picture winner All Quiet on the Western Front, through to recent films such as Lincoln (2012), 12 Years a Slave (2013) and Oppenheimer (2024). Other notable historical films that have swept the boards include the 1959 Charlton Heston epic Ben-Hur (11 wins), 1996’s The English Patient (nine wins) and 1939 Civil War drama Gone With the Wind (eight wins). Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Dances with Wolves (1990), Schindler’s List (1993) and Shakespeare in Love (1998) each took home seven awards. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-153184430-f61cc2c-e1773586809929.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="James Cameron in a black tuxedo stands on the Oscars stage with arms raised triumphantly, mouth open in celebration, while holding an Oscar statuette." title="A triumphant James Cameron raises his Oscar aloft after winning the Best Director award for Titanic in 1998. The blockbuster won 10 other accolades that evening, including Best Picture (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 2002: Halle Berry wins Best Actress – and makes history In March 2002, Halle Berry won the Academy Award for Best Actress for her performance in the romantic drama Monster’s Ball. The film, in which Berry plays the widow of an executed death row prisoner, was critically acclaimed for its depiction of poverty and racism in the American South, with her emotionally charged performance earning most of the plaudits. But the moment carried wider historical significance, too: Berry became the first African-American woman to win the award. The importance of the achievement was not lost on the Ohio-born star, who tearfully dedicated the award to “every nameless, faceless woman of colour that now has a chance because this door tonight has been opened”. But while Michelle Yeoh became the first Asian woman to win the Best Actress award in 2023, Berry remains the only African-American recipient. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-51093737-bfd9528-e1773586577271.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Halle Berry in a burgundy embroidered evening gown raises an Oscar statuette while smiling at the microphone, as a tuxedo-clad Russell Crowe applauds behind her on stage." title="Halle Berry accepts the Academy Award for Best Actress for her performance in Monster's Ball, March 2002. Berry remains the only African-American recipient of the award. (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 2010: Kathryn Bigelow becomes the first woman to win Best Director The 82nd Academy Awards saw Iraq War drama The Hurt Locker scooping six gongs, including Best Picture. But arguably the most significant accolade was that awarded to Kathryn Bigelow, who became the first woman to win the Best Director award. There have been two further female recipients since then: Chloé Zhao for Nomadland (2021) and Jane Campion for The Power of the Dog (2022). 2017: La La Land is accidentally named Best Picture instead of Moonlight At the 89th Academy Awards in 2017, romantic musical La La Land and coming-of-age drama Moonlight were in contention for the coveted Best Picture prize, with many commentators suggesting it was a two-horse race between the films. It seemed settled, then, when the ceremony reached its climax and veteran actors Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway – who were presenting the award – opened an envelope apparently revealing that La La Land had been triumphant. The film’s cast and crew, including lead actors Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling, made their way on stage to deliver their acceptance speeches and begin the celebrations. Yet it transpired that Beatty had inadvertently been handed the envelope announcing Stone’s earlier Best Actress win, leaving Dunaway to read out the only film title visible on the card: La La Land. The actual Best Picture envelope – which revealed Moonlight as the true winner – was still in the hands of an accountant from PricewaterhouseCoopers, the firm that oversees the Oscars voting process. Once the blunder became apparent, La La Land producer Jordan Horowitz halted the proceedings and held up the correct card showing that Moonlight had indeed won Best Picture, prompting the film’s stars to come forward and accept the accolade instead. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-645759516-31a508a-e1773586283673.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Warren Beatty stands at a microphone on the Oscars stage holding an envelope, while presenters and winners gather around him amid confusion during the 2017 Best Picture announcement." title="Actor Warren Beatty (centre) tells the 90th Academy Awards how an envelope mix-up led to La La Land accidentally being announced as Best Picture winner instead of Moonlight. La La Land still won six prizes at the ceremony, however, including the Best Actress award for Emma Stone (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 2022: Will Smith slaps Chris Rock With the film industry returning to normal following the disruption of the Covid-19 pandemic, the 94th Academy Awards was always likely to be memorable – though not in the way most people expected. Before presenting the award for Best Documentary Feature, comedian Chris Rock made an unscripted joke about Jada Pinkett Smith, who had shaved her head after being diagnosed with the autoimmune condition alopecia areata. Incensed, Pinkett Smith’s husband, Will Smith, strode onto the stage and slapped Rock across the face, before returning to his seat and shouting, “Keep my wife’s name out of your f******g mouth”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2022/03/GettyImages-1239559037-bcc5989-e1773586126858.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Chris Rock recoils on the Oscars stage after being struck by Will Smith, who stands beside him in a black tuxedo during the 2022 ceremony." title="Will Smith (right) slaps comedian Chris Rock during the 94th Academy Awards in 2022. The actor and rapper was subsequently banned from all Oscars-related events for 10 years (Photo by Getty Images)" /> The bizarre spectacle prompted speculation that the incident had been staged, but the slap was genuine – and the situation grew more awkward when Smith later returned to accept the award for Best Actor for his role in King Richard. The rapper and former Fresh Prince of Bel-Air star is currently serving a 10-year ban from attending Academy Awards events, due to expire in 2032. This article was first published by HistoryExtra in February 2016
"We shall never surrender": 14 quotes that have defined the past century
Words have the power to alter the course of history. They can harden the resolve of an entire nation or people, encapsulate the ideals of a movement, and evoke joy – or provoke anger – long after they have been said. Here, Dr Seán Lang explores 14 of the most influential quotes of the past 100 years
<img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/RooseveltGettyImages-464783507-622899f-e1773405930967.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Franklin D. Roosevelt sits at a desk in an official setting, with papers, a microphone, glasses, and an ashtray arranged in front of him, heavy curtains framing the background." title="President Franklin D Roosevelt prepares for his inaugural speech, 1933. The former New York governor had won the presidency based on his promised ‘New Deal’, which lasted until the Second World War (Image by Getty Images)" /> 1. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” Franklin D Roosevelt, 1933 The United States lay devastated by the Great Depression, an economic collapse without precedent that destroyed the country’s global image as a land of opportunity and reduced millions of Americans to poverty and destitution. The governor of New York, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had run for and won the presidency on the promise of a massive recovery programme, dubbed the ‘New Deal’, but he knew he could do nothing unless the American people first regained their self-belief. In his inaugural address on 4 March 1933, Roosevelt reassured them that they had nothing to fear, except fear itself – “nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror, which paralyses needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.” The New Deal lasted throughout the 1930s until World War II set the country back towards full employment. Through the programme of reforms, regulations and projects, Roosevelt understood the power of words. He explained policies simply and clearly to radio listeners in his ‘fireside chats’, reassuring Americans that they had what it would take to improve their own lives and that the government would help. Roosevelt was elected an unprecedented four times, but it was that first inaugural message that set the tone for his time in office and helped give back the US its self-belief. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/ChurchillGettyImages-2667802-081f3a8-e1773403673660.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A man in a suit and hat stands outside a brick building, holding a cane and raising his hand in a V‑for‑Victory gesture" title="Winston Churchill gives his famous ‘V for Victory’ hand signal outside 10 Downing Street. The prime minister made some of his most memorable speeches during the first few months of his premiership, when Britain came under threat of German invasion (Image by Getty Images)" /> 2. “We shall never surrender” Winston Churchill, 1940 By June 1940, it seemed that Hitler had won his war. He had conquered Poland; launched a devastating assault in Denmark and Norway; and attacked in the west, invading the Netherlands and Belgium, and storming through northern France to cut off the British army and much of the French. It was only a matter of time before France was forced to surrender and German troops entered triumphantly into Paris. To any impartial observer, it seemed obvious that Britain had no choice but to seek a peace settlement with Hitler. But Winston Churchill, Britain’s pugnacious and controversial new prime minister, decided to ignore those pressing him to do just that. In an electrifying speech to the House of Commons on 4 June 1940, later broadcast on the BBC, he declared that Britain would fight on and never surrender – that “we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be”. Churchill knew that Britain’s navy and air force would make a German invasion hazardous, though not impossible, and that the only chance of defeating Nazism was to keep going until the United States could join the war. His words defined the stubborn defiance and ‘Dunkirk spirit’, which saved not just Britain but the world from a Nazi victory. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Mao-ZedongGettyImages-515210286-5fc8355-e1773403801718.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Mao Zedong, wearing a military-style uniform and cap, stands on a balcony and claps while looking over a wide avenue filled with a dense crowd and banners." title="Mao Zedong, seen here in an undated photograph, first used the phrase ‘paper tiger’ during a 1946 interview. The term is now popularly used to describe threats that are less powerful than they might first appear (Image by Getty Images)" /> 3. “The atom bomb is a paper tiger” Mao Zedong, 1946 The dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 redefined the world. Leaders had always been able to plunge their peoples into war, but now they could wipe out whole cities, even countries, with a single order. While the United States was the only one with nuclear capability at first, the Soviet Union was not far behind thanks to communist spies in the west passing nuclear secrets to Moscow. Read more | Reign of the red terror: Mao Zedong and the Cultural Revolution In an interview with American journalist Anna Louise Strong in 1946, the chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, Mao Zedong, described the atom bomb as a “paper tiger”, something that looks more dangerous than it is. Mao meant that all governments depended on the support of the people, and they would never consent to using atomic weapons. The phrase was taken another way: no government would dare use such weapons for fear of provoking a response from the other side. This was the idea behind the doctrine of ‘mutually assured destruction’ during the Cold War, as the power and number of nuclear weapons intensified. Even then, the world came perilously close to disaster on more than one occasion. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Mandy-RiceGettyImages-1365867502-dd9056f-e1773403905292.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A group of people gathers outside a stone building while several British police officers in traditional helmets stand among them, appearing to manage or escort individuals through the crowd." title="Mandy Rice-Davies (centre left) leaves the Central Criminal Court after testifying at the 1963 trial of her friend Stephen Ward. Questions about the model’s alleged affair with a Tory peer prompted a now-legendary response (Image by Getty Images)" /> 4. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Mandy Rice-Davies, 1963 This ordinary retort marked an unlikely watershed in British social history. Marilyn (better known as Mandy) Rice-Davies was a model and dancer working in London’s Soho, where she met Christine Keeler and her friend and protector, Stephen Ward. A successful osteopath, Ward was well-known in high society, hosting parties and introducing girls like Keeler and Rice-Davies to his well-connected friends, including the Secretary of State for War John Profumo and the Conservative peer Lord Astor. A public scandal ensued when the truth of Ward’s parties was revealed, especially with reports that Keeler had slept both with Profumo and a Russian naval attaché, Eugene Ivanov, which made the affair a diplomatic furore. Rice-Davies was a witness at Ward’s trial. It was widely held at the time that people in high society were trustworthy and honourable, incapable of the lewd behaviour associated with ‘lower’ classes. When it was put to Rice-Davies that Lord Astor denied her claim of an affair, the assumption was that his word was worth more than hers. Her cheeky response – “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” – suggested that the aristocracy were no more honourable than anyone else. The remark caused a sensation. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Cassius-ClayGettyImages-545316246-1db1a81-e1773404032921.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A boxer wearing a shiny robe with “CASSIUS CLAY” on the back stands in the ring with both gloved hands raised in triumph as spectators watch from the packed arena." title="Cassius Clay celebrates his win over Doug Jones at Madison Square Garden, March 1963. The boxer, who changed his name to Muhammad Ali the following year, frequently described himself as ‘the Greatest’ (Image by Getty Images)" /> 5. “I am the greatest” Cassius Clay, 1963 Muhammad Ali, who changed his name from Cassius Clay in 1964, was always much more than a boxer: he was a role model for young black people around the world and a major international celebrity, mixing his sporting triumphs with irrepressible charm and wit. Boxing had long been a way for poor Americans to better themselves. Clay, who came from the segregated South, won the light heavyweight gold medal at the age of 18 at the 1960 Rome Olympics before turning professional and starting an immense career that saw him become world heavyweight champ three times. As well as a pugilist, though, Clay was a charismatic self-promoting poet always showing his gifts for trash talking. In 1963, shortly before announcing his conversion to Islam and his new name, he issued a record of rhythmically spoken poetry entitled I Am the Greatest. Ali continued to describe himself proudly as ‘the Greatest’, but he put his reputation and career on the line, and even risked jail, by refusing to serve in the US Army in 1967 as the war in Vietnam raged. His case went to the Supreme Court and Ali became a symbol of growing American opposition to the war, and a figurehead of the civil rights movement. He was now a champion of the dispossessed as well as ‘the Greatest’ in the boxing ring. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Martin-Luther-KingGettyImages-517357504-1305bdb-e1773404333188.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Martin Luther King Jr. stands at a podium filled with microphones, delivering a speech to a large crowd. People in the background wear uniforms, hats, and formal clothing." title="Martin Luther King Jr delivers his iconic ‘I Have a Dream’ speech during the March on Washington, 1963. The rally is considered a watershed moment in American history (Image by Getty Images)" /> 6. “I have a dream” Dr Martin Luther King Jr, 1963 Martin Luther King Jr’s iconic speech was delivered in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC, an enormous statue of the US president who had ended slavery in the United States. By the 1960s, however, true emancipation was still far off as African Americans faced entrenched legal discrimination and police violence. King, who had made his name leading protests against racial segregation, was speaking to a huge civil rights rally calling for jobs and fair treatment for America’s black population, but his speech went much further than that. Read more | How did the US civil rights movement influence Britain? King’s style of oratory owed much to his background as a Baptist preacher and his imagery, of a dream in which black and white people lived in harmony and friendship – and where his children “will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character” – was in line with the visionary sermons that many of his listeners had heard in church. The power of his words went far beyond the 17 minutes that his speech took and the 250,000 people gathered on that day, 28 August 1963. They became not only a defining moment of the civil rights movement, but of US history. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Hannah-ArendtGettyImages-135314633-43360a4-e1773404990659.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A person in a dark buttoned shirt with a brooch and patterned trousers reclines against a plain wall, one hand resting beside them holding a cigarette, their gaze angled upward." title="Hannah Arendt poses for a portrait, 1949. The philosopher’s reflections on the atrocities of the Second World War – and the motives behind them – sparked fierce debate (Image by Getty Images)" /> 7. “The banality of evil” Hannah Arendt, 1963 In May 1960, Israel took the world by surprise when its secret service agents kidnapped and abducted a German living in Argentina who gave his name as Ricardo Klement. In fact, he was Adolf Eichmann, one of the key figures in the implementation of the ‘Final Solution’, the Nazi plan to exterminate the Jewish population of Europe. He was put on a plane to Israel and in 1961 he faced a criminal trial in Jerusalem. Hannah Arendt, a Jewish German-American writer and academic, asked the New Yorker if she could cover the trial for them. They agreed. In Arendt’s eyes, the bespectacled Eichmann, wearing a cheap suit instead of his Nazi uniform, seemed like any other middle-ranking office clerk; he could just as easily have been working for an insurance company or a bank. She coined the phrase “the banality of evil” to highlight the way evil can flourish not just by good people standing by, but by ordinary people in ordinary jobs carrying out instructions without ever questioning their morality. Her analysis ran into a storm of controversy. Jews were unhappy at her criticisms of what she saw as a show trial by the State of Israel; more recently, Holocaust scholars have pointed out that the viciously antisemitic Eichmann was very far from being a small cog in the machine: he was a proactive and energetic enforcer of the Final Solution, most notably directing the mass murder of the Jewish population of Hungary. However, Arendt’s idea that evil does not need supervillains, but merely enough ordinary people doing their ordinary jobs remains a powerful insight. She gave us the words to describe it. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/BeatlesGettyImages-84999643-9c296eb-e1773405091446.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Four men pose at a busy press event as photographers gather around them. Behind them are large globe‑shaped balloons and clusters of bright red, yellow, and blue balloons. One man holds a sign that reads “LOVE.”" title="The Beatles take part in a press call to promote the Our World television broadcast, in which they performed ‘All You Need is Love’ for the first time. The song’s simple refrain was designed to have international appeal (Image by Getty Images)" /> 8. “All you need is love” The Beatles, 1967 The Beatles were at the height of their fame and influence by the 1967 ‘summer of love’. Pop music had developed into a young people’s lifestyle and outlook that their parents, of the wartime generation, found utterly bewildering. The Beatles did not just produce hit records: they put forward a new philosophy, which overturned the older generation’s assumptions about behaviour, dress and morality. When their album Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band appeared in May, it quickly took on cult status. A month later, the group unveiled a new song, ‘All You Need is Love’, as part of the first global live television link-up called Our World, which was watched by an audience of approximately 400 million. The song had been purposely written with simple repeated lyrics to appeal to the international viewers, and so summarised the new attractive, easy-to-grasp philosophy in clear terms. As the song itself says, “It’s easy”. Older heads might point out that life needs a lot more than love, but in 1967 few young people were listening. Pop music has been one of the defining cultural influences that mark the postwar world: it has overcome generational, social, political and cultural barriers with its infectious rhythms and simple messages. While ‘All You Need is Love’ may have always been an ideal, it has endured. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Neil-ArmstrongGettyImages-1512723-8b06da7-e1773405173996.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="A photograph of a ridged footprint in a grey clay-like floor" title="A close-up photograph of Neil Armstrong’s famous boot print, 1969. The astronaut’s first words after stepping onto the Moon became instantly iconic – despite a slight stumble in delivery (Image by Getty Images)" /> 9. “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind” Neil Armstrong, 1969 That, at any rate, is what Neil Armstrong meant to say when he stepped down from the lunar module onto the surface of the Moon on 20 July 1969. Either he slipped on his words, or they were obscured by a bleep in the transmission, because the version heard back on Earth did not have that crucial “a”. It did not seem to matter. Armstrong was right: it was a giant leap, though at the time no one quite knew in what direction. Space exploration had excited people around the world since the Soviet Union’s Sputnik satellite in 1957 and putting a human being on the Moon had seemed the ultimate prize. Where was all this endeavour to go after that? Science fiction suggested a world of space voyages, but the reality was to be much closer to home. Space technology moved into the world of satellites, first for telecommunications and later for everything from television to meteorology and traffic management. Inevitably, the military potential of space was quickly recognised. The Moon missions opened space up as a further area of operation for the nations of the Earth, so Armstrong was right, even if he got his words wrong. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/ThatcherGettyImages-1215188595-b93ab08-e1773405339874.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A woman with wavy, permed hair sits at a microphone, wearing a black and white patterned suit and white shirt with V neck collar. She has large pearl earrings and sits against a blue background" title="Margaret Thatcher addresses a press conference at Conservative Party HQ in 1987 – the year her interview with Woman’s Own magazine sparked controversy (Image by Getty Images)" /> 10. “There is no such thing as society” Margaret Thatcher, 1987 The Conservative government of Margaret Thatcher, Britain’s first woman prime minister, ushered in a revolution. Her immediate aim was to resolve the economic problems into which the country had sunk in the 1970s, which she did by promoting a new philosophy based on free enterprise and the rolling-back of state control. In an interview for Woman’s Own magazine, Thatcher outlined her belief that, ultimately, it is not for the government to resolve people’s problems; individuals and families must look after themselves and their neighbours. In that sense, she said, “There is no such thing as society”. The phrase provoked a storm of controversy. Supporters applauded her emphasis on individuals, while opponents denounced what they saw as her uncaring attitude towards the Welfare State, which many regarded as the most significant change in 20th-century British society. The phrase encapsulated two completely different political philosophies: a belief in the power of the state as a force for good or as an enervating drain on the people’s energies. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/ReaganGettyImages-514906046-9ed3ad8-e1773405425624.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Ronald Reagan delivers a speech at a podium surrounded by microphones, seated officials behind him. A section of the Berlin Wall stands in the background with a German warning sign." title="Ronald Reagan makes his famous challenge to Mikhail Gorbachev in 1987. The Berlin Wall was toppled two years later (Image by Getty Images)" /> 11. “Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” Ronald Reagan, 1987 The postwar Soviet Union seemed a menacing, repressive world, in the grip of its secret police and ruled by a set of grim-faced old men in coats, so the emergence in 1985 of Mikhail Gorbachev as general secretary of the Soviet Communist Party came as a pleasant surprise. Not only did he seem more human and approachable, but he was clearly open to a closer and warmer relationship with the west. Even Mrs Thatcher commented that she liked Mr Gorbachev: he was a man she could do business with. Gorbachev embarked on a wholesale reordering of Soviet life and institutions, beginning with perestroika (restructuring) and notably glasnost (openness), encouraging people to speak openly and honestly about their lives, their past and even their government. Western countries sat up and took notice. Was it changing into a western-style democracy? Were the days of tanks rolling into eastern European capitals to crush liberation movements truly over? Read more | Did Ronald Reagan 'Make America Great Again'? US president Ronald Reagan decided to test him. In 1987, the president gave a speech at the Berlin Wall, the most potent symbol of the Soviet Union’s hostile rejection of the west. He welcomed the changes Gorbachev was making, but called on him to take the most far-reaching step of all: “Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” No one really believed he would, but it was thought that it might force Gorbachev onto the defensive. What no one predicted was that only two years later a mass movement of people, taking their cue from Gorbachev’s glasnost policy and calling openly for freedom of speech and movement, would force communist governments from power. When in May 1989 a journalist asked Gorbachev if the wall might come down, he replied, smilingly, “Why not?” By the end of the year, it had. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/Hillary-ClintonGettyImages-526599660-40d8ade-e1773405542290.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Hilary Clinton, with shoulder length coiffed blonde hair, wearing a dark top and a pink, white and gold neck scarf. She stands in front of a microphone, and is turned towards the left, looking at someone out of frame" title="First Lady Hillary Clinton addresses a news conference in 1995. Her declaration that “women’s rights are human rights” helped bring the cause of gender equality into the global spotlight (Image by Getty Images)" /> 12. “Women’s rights are human rights and human rights are women’s rights” Hillary Rodham Clinton, 1995 The feminist movement had used a shorter version of this phrase since the 1980s, but it entered the mainstream when Hillary Clinton, wife of American president Bill Clinton, spoke at a United Nations World Conference on Women in Beijing in 1995. The transformation of the position of women in society was one of the most striking changes to take place in the 20th century. In Britain and the US, the century had begun with the celebrated campaign for women to have the right to vote, and by the end feminism had developed as a movement and philosophy that sought to transform human society along the lines of equality. Clinton was an apt figure to give voice to the aim. She was a lawyer who, in 1974, had been part of the Watergate investigation team that brought down President Richard Nixon. But her husband’s own presidency meant that she had to perform what was essentially a ceremonial role. She could support Bill in his duties, but could she hold office herself? As long as women’s rights continued to be regarded as a category on their own, it seemed that women would never be accepted as equals – hence her impassioned iteration that women’s rights are not just rights for women: they have always been basic human rights. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/harry-potter-and-the-sorcerers-stoneB8C7su-215cbe1-e1773405675845.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A young boy with dark hair and round glasses stands in a snowy street, dressed in a black robe with a yellow and maroon badge on his chest and a yellow and maroon striped scarf around his neck. On one arm he is holding a white owl" title="Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) with his trusty owl, Hedwig, in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (2001). JK Rowling’s wizarding franchise rapidly became a global phenomenon – despite opposition from some Christian groups (Image by Warner Bros.)" /> 13. “You’re a wizard, Harry” Robbie Coltrane (as Rubeus Hagrid), 2001 When JK Rowling’s debut novel Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was published in 1997, it was regarded as simply another imaginative children’s book from a first-time author. As word went round school playgrounds, however, the popularity of the series grew. Soon, crowds were gathering at bookshops to buy each new title as soon it appeared, along with Harry Potter audiobooks, videogames, tie-in toys and merchandise. Then in 2001, the first of a highly successful series of Harry Potter feature films made its way on to the big screen. What had begun as a series of children’s books had become a global phenomenon, with the words “You’re a wizard, Harry” (spoken by Hagrid actor Robbie Coltrane in the first film adaptation) becoming part of cinematic history. Hogwarts, Harry’s school of witchcraft and wizardry, is clearly a nostalgic throwback to the days of Britain’s famous private schools, with their uniforms, dormitories and special trains. But much of her message is more universal: a passionate defence of honesty and integrity against the dark forces of evil in the world, including those to be found in people who sit in authority. The formidable but kindly headmaster Albus Dumbledore is a sort of Old Testament prophet; the clash between Harry, whose parents gave their lives for him, and Voldemort (aka Tom Riddle), a boy who has given in to his dark side, is a modern stand-off between Jesus and Lucifer, the fallen angel. Did Harry Potter come to embody a substitute religion in the secular post-Christian western world? Certainly, fundamentalist Christians denounced the books and forbade their children from reading them. We can be sure that historians will be looking closely at the Harry Potter phenomenon for many years to come. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/For-EveryoneG5BD6F-9c59143-e1773405794351.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A packed stadium at night glows with blue and purple lighting. In the upper stands, illuminated seats spell out “THIS IS FOR EVERYONE,” while a central stage features a house‑shaped structure with projected visuals." title="Tim Berners-Lee’s cameo appearance at the 2012 Olympics ended with the words “This is for everyone” being beamed around the stadium. The words were intended to convey the democratic ideals behind the World Wide Web (Image by Alamy)" /> 14. “This is for everyone” Tim Berners-Lee, 2012 One of the most significant moments during the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics was also one of the quietest. After a stunning display that charted rural Britain’s transformation into an industrial powerhouse came a dance sequence depicting a 21st-century house party, complete with a full-size replica of a suburban home at its centre. Then, the house lifted up to reveal a middle-aged man sitting at his computer sending out a tweet: "This is for everyone.” The man was Tim Berners-Lee, and in 1989 he laid the foundations for what would become the World Wide Web. The web transformed the modern world just as totally as the Victorian industrialists had. Computers had always been huge, complex objects, the preserve of scientists and governments; until fairly recently, the most sophisticated item that people carried around with them was a pocket calculator. What Berners-Lee did was to create a way that would connect computers with each other, anywhere in the world, whether they were in people’s bedrooms or in the headquarters of international agencies. Suddenly, ordinary people had access to pretty much anything they might want to see. This was a democratic revolution as well as a technological one. As any government knows, access to information is power, and it was now in the hands of ordinary people everywhere. Tech companies grew from small gatherings of like-minded geeks into formidable multinational powers, able to face down governments. Of course, such power also brings responsibility, but Berners-Lee’s message at the Olympics was that the web should always be for everyone. A simple message – but a truly revolutionary one.
"It wasn't very open about its queer connections": the hidden history of the National Trust
Michael Hall speaks to Charlotte Vosper about the long-hidden stories of LGBTQ people whose lives were connected to the properties owned by the National Trust
Charlotte Vosper: In A Queer Inheritance, you explore histories of sexual difference connected to the National Trust. What drew you to those historical figures and their stories? Michael Hall: That goes back a long way. For quite a few years I worked for Country Life magazine, and in that role I wrote articles about country houses. I actually began with one of those I mention in my book: Packwood House in Warwickshire. It was acquired in 1904 by an industrialist for his son, Graham Baron Ash, who spent years renovating and transforming the property. It struck me that he never got married – and the idea that a bachelor might do up a house and then give it to the National Trust to look after seemed quite intriguing. I didn’t really spot that it was part of a pattern until I wrote a similar article on Anglesey Abbey. That’s when I realised that there was a story about the National Trust that hadn’t really been told before. It’s important to mention that I’ve never worked for the Trust, and A Queer Inheritance isn’t an official National Trust book in any way. I don’t speak on the Trust’s behalf – and indeed they may very well disagree with a lot of what I say. The National Trust was founded in 1895, when homosexual acts of ‘gross indecency’ were still illegal in Britain – yet in your book you suggest that the Trust had queer connections from its very beginnings. Can you expand on this? That’s actually quite a complicated question. The origins of the National Trust were rooted in an anxiety about London’s urban poor and how they could be morally improved. Its founders thought that if the urban poor could be given access to architectural and natural beauty, this would do away with what they saw as their worrying vices – of which homosexuality was a rather prominent example. Yet several people on the Trust’s original council and executive committee were in fact queer. They included the 5th Earl of Rosebery, who was worried that he might be named in the Oscar Wilde trials of 1895, and Octavia Hill, who had a long and loving relationship with Harriot Yorke. Can you tell us about some queer landowners connected to the Trust’s estates? William John Bankes, who inherited the great estate of Kingston Lacy in Dorset, had to go into exile in 1841 after he was caught having sex with a guardsman in London’s Green Park. He then redecorated and remodelled the house remotely, while living in Venice. It’s a very interesting story about a gay man shaping a house even when away from home. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/2DYY3JXwebready-4a1b91d-e1772550724428.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A large historic mansion stands behind a wide green lawn, with a central dome flying a flag, tall chimneys, and symmetrical stone façades. Mature trees frame the view, and a few people walk near the building alongside a small green tractor." title="Kingston Lacy in Dorset was redesigned as a classical palace in the 19th century by its owner William John Bankes, who was forced into exile after facing prosecution for a same-sex act. The house is home to his collections of art and Egyptian artefacts (Image by Alamy)" /> In the book I also talk about Clumber Park, site of a lost house that was demolished in 1938. Several generations of the Dukes of Newcastle were based there. One of the 5th Duke’s sons, Lord Arthur Pelham-Clinton, enjoyed relationships with a famous pair of young Victorian men who cross-dressed as Fanny and Stella; later, the 7th Duke, ‘Linny’, was friends with Oscar Wilde. I should emphasise that the book is not primarily about country houses. The National Trust manages a wide range of buildings, one of which is Clouds Hill, a little cottage in Dorset that was home to TE Lawrence (of Arabia). His sexuality has been hugely debated, and I draw my own conclusions about this in the book. Read more | Challenging gender in the Victorian Age: the 'masculine' New Woman and 'effeminate' New Man A site that’s much less controversial is Smallhythe Place in Kent, home of the great 19th and early 20th-century actress Ellen Terry. Her daughter, Edith Craig, was a theatre director of considerable eminence who lived next to that early 16th-century house with two close lesbian friends. They welcomed lots of their likeminded friends there, so you can discover a lot of lesbian history in the 20th century just by visiting Smallhythe. How do we know that these people were queer? Would the historical figures you discuss have understood themselves in that way? Not particularly as queer, I don’t think. But as a historian, you have to look at the story and ask: how can I best interpret this? I think the advantage of the term ‘queer’ is that it avoids attaching very precise labels to people. The word itself goes back to the 16th century, when it just meant odd or unusual. Around the end of the 19th century, though, ‘queer’ was becoming a term of abuse, meaning homosexual. But by the 1980s, ‘queer’ was very much taken back by gay activists, particularly during the Aids crisis, as a way of reclaiming their identity. Today, ‘queer’ is the term preferred by most historians. One of the issues historians face is how to talk about people who didn’t have access to the terms we would use now, such as ‘gay’ or ‘bisexual’. I think ‘queer’ is quite useful because a modern audience knows what that means, but it’s also not imposing something on the past. I also think that the fact it’s clearly anachronistic is actually rather helpful, because it emphasises the difference between the past and the present. There is an amazing amount of argument about these terms, and you can debate these things forever, but as a historian you just have to get on and do the history. And when you do, there’s a lot of anxiety about finding evidence that people were gay – but I think the response must often be, well, what’s your evidence that they were heterosexual? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/2PAFXGXwebready-559b568-e1772551882888.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black‑and‑white portrait of a person with wavy, shoulder‑length hair looking slightly upward against a dark background. Soft lighting highlights their face, creating a dramatic, classic studio style." title="The writer and poet Vita Sackville-West’s same-sex relationships were not always acknowledged (Image by Alamy)" /> How have National Trust estates been influenced by the queer people who lived in them or were connected to them? I wanted to write about places that queer people had shaped in some way – by building them, decorating them, furnishing them or making them part of their life history. This isn’t always obvious. Today, lesbians visit Knole, a country house in Kent, because our contemporary perception of the building is shaped by our knowledge of the relationship between Vita Sackville-West, who lived there, and Virginia Woolf. Yet there’s almost no evidence of Vita’s influence that you can see on the property, other than the original manuscript of Woolf’s Orlando, which she inspired. Returning to TE Lawrence’s Dorset cottage, Clouds Hill, there are just two rooms upstairs, one of which he used as a guest bedroom. In the 1930s, he curiously lined that room with metal foil – a rather art deco look. I became intrigued by the fact that Siegfried Sassoon, a gay writer who was a friend of Lawrence, visited Clouds Hill with his lover, Stephen Tennant. Now, one of the best-known photographs of Stephen (shown above), by Cecil Beaton, shows him in his own bedroom – which he had lined with silver paper. I thought it was an interesting queer link which, as far as I’m aware, hasn’t been made before. It says something about Lawrence’s own sense of identity in terms of sexual orientation, and also about networks. Early on in my research, I began to realise that many of these houses and people linked up. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/0516118webready-d0bc43f-e1772550648873.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of a young man wearing a collared shirt, tie and a coat with a large collar. He is looking directly at the camera with a serious look on his face and has a silver foil wallpaper behind him" title="This photo of the socialite Stephen Tennant in front of distinctive silver wallpaper helped piece together the story of TE Lawrence’s Clouds Hill (Image by Topfoto)" /> A lot of the queer people associated with the Trust’s properties were connected, and many came from a privileged background. Is there a relationship here between class and queerness? Yes, definitely – though I don’t write only about elite people in the book. The 5th Marquess of Anglesey, Henry Paget, who lived at the family seat of Plas Newydd on that island, is a good example of such privilege. On the death of his father in 1898 he inherited a huge fortune, which funded his love of dressing up. He liked to put on theatrical productions and go to fancy-dress parties in a very gender-bending way. This got him into the newspapers, and he was laughed at and ridiculed relentlessly. Eventually, he went bankrupt. In a sense, Paget was able to dress up and perform because he was very, very rich. But the downside of his wealth was that he attracted an enormous amount of public curiosity. Endless stories about him appeared in the press. He wouldn’t have suffered such a blow to his reputation if he had been an obscure commoner. Clearly, although privilege could facilitate queer experiences, it could also attract much unwanted attention and expose scandal. Read more | The new radicals: how the Bloomsbury Group transformed British culture When exploring past queer experiences, we are often dealing with the feelings and emotions of historical figures. What sources did you use to explore these? Sources pose a massive question for any historian, but queer topics have always been particularly hedged with problems. Prior to 1967, all homosexual acts between men were illegal in England and Wales [even then, they were permitted only between two consenting adults over the age of 21], and this creates obvious issues with the sources from before that period. But what struck me was that if you go back to the original sources – the contemporary biographies and letter compilations of these late 19th and early 20th-century figures – it seems that many people probably knew what was going on. The Victorians weren’t fools. You just have to tune in when reading the sources, and you’ll learn a lot. The National Trust has faced some backlash for trying to reclaim minority history more widely. How has its attitude towards queer people evolved? Traditionally, the Trust wasn’t very open about its queer connections – but then nobody was terribly open about these issues for many decades. Homophobia played a role in the modernisation of the National Trust. From the 1950s, it began trying to run its houses on a more professional basis, appointing curators. There was a bit of a standoff between the land agents – the traditional men in tweeds who dealt with forestry and estates – and the curators, who dealt with hanging the pictures and arranging the furniture. This division reflected an essential binary within the Trust: whether it should be concerned primarily with places of historic interest or of natural beauty. One of the ways that people who thought the National Trust wasn’t paying enough attention to nature directed criticism against the curators was through homophobia. This made life rather tricky for any gay men within the organisation, and by the 1960s and 70s the Trust attracted considerable criticism, accused of being run by queer aristocratic men. To be fair to the critics, there was considerable truth in that. Beyond its employees, the Trust remained coy about queer connections to the houses it acquired. For example – and it’s extraordinary to say now – it wasn’t until 2008 that any official publication by the National Trust about Sissinghurst, Vita Sackville-West’s later home, also in Kent, mentioned her same-sex relationships. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-182926080webready-82eb4db-e1772551730353.jpeg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A tall brick tower with two conical roofs rises above a landscaped garden of trimmed bushes, flowers, and a wide lawn. Climbing greenery covers part of the structure, and a flag flies from the top. Tree branches and a wrought‑iron gate frame the scene under a bright, partly cloudy sky." title="The Tower at Sissinghurst Castle is set in the gardens designed by Vita Sackville-West and her husband, Harold Nicolson (Image by Getty Images)" /> So it’s only pretty recently that the organisation has been open about this kind of history. In 2017, it made a big effort to catch up and tell these stories, and I think generally there was a feeling that this was going in the right direction. It did, however, bring up an interesting dilemma. Objections were raised by relatives and friends of some of the people who were being described as queer, criticising the National Trust for ‘outing’ them. Read more | From the ancient world to the 1969 Stonewall Riots: a brief guide to LGBT+ history I don’t think that it makes any sense to talk about historical figures in terms of ‘outing’ – because, really, if you object to somebody in the past being described as queer, or raising the question about whether or not they were what we would now call gay, that might imply that you find homosexuality shameful. It’s interesting that the controversy around ‘outing’ these historical figures hasn’t applied so much to queer women. I don’t think people find women’s sexuality as threatening as they find men’s sexuality. And it’s most often men who get upset about other men being described as gay. Look at Lawrence of Arabia: dozens of biographies have been written about him, almost all by men and almost all hostile to the idea that he was gay. What impact do you hope A Queer Inheritance will have? I hope that people will realise that queer history is a very rich subject, and that there’s a huge amount more that can be said about the queer lives connected to the National Trust. Everyone I’ve spoken to about my book says: “Oh, but you haven’t said anything about X.” So, there’s lots more to explore, and different approaches that could be taken. A woman or a young person would have written a completely different book, I think. This article was first published in the February 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
From Stranger Things to communist cars: why we can't resist nostalgia
In our politically unstable modern world, the allure of retreating into memories – sometimes mirages – of bygone eras seems to have grown. Six historians explore how this tendency impacts our historical understanding
“The nostalgia that Stranger Things evokes is complicated” The first thing to remind ourselves is that our view of the past is definitely shaped. The way that we understand history is translated, constructed, created for us in multiple ways – the majority of which have very little to do with the actuality of what happened. We imagine and dream history across culture, making versions of it that comfort us and accord with our world views. Film, television, games, adverts, heritage spaces, novels – they all enable us to inhabit other times, to form our sense of memory, to consume the past. Nostalgia is simply one of the ways that we access these feelings of pastness. It is incredibly powerful because of its appeal to emotion beyond rationality. It is a way of connecting with the historical that ignores order and authority – and historians underestimate it at their peril. Nostalgia has become a keynote for contemporary collective memory. Global populist politics are shot through with a dangerous nostalgia for a claimed glory that has been seemingly squandered. This is not new, but it is newly dominant. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/2WX7XXY-CMYK-12a5f8b-e1772530438298.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A poster for the TV show Stranger Things, showing four children on bikes on a long road with a yellow line down the middle. They are all looking towards a red, cloudy sky" title="The hit series Stranger Things is “a confection of an imagined 1980s”, says Jerome De Groot, enjoyed by an audience of whom many have “no memory of the eighties other than a cultural hangover of tropes and clichés” (Image by Alamy)" /> In the television series Mad Men (2007), Don Draper cynically uses the past to sell product, observing: “Nostalgia – it’s delicate, but potent.” Memories of the past can be manipulated. The biggest English-language show worldwide in 2025 was Stranger Things, a confection of an imagined 1980s – Spielberg, Nike, Kate Bush and the Cold War melded to present a version of the decade. Yet the nostalgia that Stranger Things evokes is complicated. Much of the show’s target audience has no memory of the eighties other than a cultural hangover of tropes and clichés. The eighties it recollects is itself rooted in a view of 1950s US small-town life. The nostalgia at work here is culturally performative, sold as an expression of algorithmic power rather than actual choice. No one remembers in a neutral way; everyone’s version of the past is a translation enabled by culture. Nostalgia is delicate, but this fragility is a kind of pure experience – even if it is prone to commodification. Jerome De Groot is professor of literature and culture at Manchester University, and author of Double Helix History (Routledge, 2022) “Nostalgia is one of history’s greatest promoters” Nostalgia seems to be everywhere – so much so that some people argue there’s something specific about the 21st century that prompts nostalgia. But it has been around, in one form or another, for centuries – and it has profoundly shaped our relationship with the past. The term ‘nostalgia’ was coined by a Swiss physician in the late 17th century. At the time, it was deemed a disease – a kind of pathological homesickness. It wasn’t until the turn of the 20th century that it morphed into its more familiar form: a longing for a bygone time rather than a distant place. Since then, nostalgia has been our constant companion, becoming rife in popular culture, journalism and political commentary in the 20th century. The 1970s has even been dubbed the “second-hand seventies” for that reason. Psychologists have also studied nostalgia’s prevalence, arguing that it’s experienced by pretty much everyone, all of the time. Though some people might be more or less prone to the feeling, nostalgia is a core human experience with distinct evolutionary advantages. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-3259343webready-3771e14-e1772529840639.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph showing a large group of children playing on a roundabout in a playground. Some adults stand to the right, watching over them. Behind them all are some large brick walls and a few high rise buildings" title="Children play on a roundabout in a London housing estate, 1973. Thanks to nostalgia in popular culture and media, that decade has been dubbed the “second-hand seventies”, notes Agnes Arnold-Forster (Image by Getty Images)" /> Broadly, nostalgia can be divided into two types: personal and historical. The first is the nostalgia you feel about your own life; the second is nostalgia for some period in the past that you haven’t yourself experienced or lived through. Read more | Swings and roundabouts: a history of Britain's playgrounds It is the latter that poses the most problems. In political life, it is often lambasted as the emotional driver behind rightwing populist movements. Academic historians also take issue with this brand because it paints a sentimental and often inaccurate portrait of the past, and advocate detached, dispassionate and objective investigation. Yet not only is it impossible to quell nostalgia’s influence, that also shouldn’t be the goal. Nostalgia is one of history’s greatest promoters. And history is not just an academic enterprise. It is a vibrant ecosystem of period dramas, battle re-enactments, museums, documentaries and genealogists. Nostalgia might not be the only thing that draws people to the past – but where would this ecosystem be without its seductive emotional force? Agnes Arnold-Forster is chancellor’s fellow at the University of Edinburgh, and author of Nostalgia: A History of a Dangerous Emotion (Picador, 2024) “Today, nostalgia speaks in a different idiom, in ALL CAPS and acronyms” Nostalgia, as the old joke goes, isn’t what it used to be. Twenty years ago, the term was popularly associated with the embattled citizens of eastern Europe, who retreated from the shock of market capitalism into a cosy world of Trabants, Lenin statues and the evocative smell of communist-era pickle jars. Appropriately enough, it was the Russian-American scholar Svetlana Boym who came up with the era’s most perceptive analysis of nostalgia. For her, the pull of a “restorative nostalgia” – a longing for a home or homeland that has never existed – was always at play in the nationalist fantasies of the right as much as it also shaped people’s memories of communism. Today, nostalgia speaks in a different idiom, in ALL CAPS and acronyms – MAGA, MEGA, ‘Take Back Control’ – but Boym’s warnings still ring loud and clear. Here, a look at recent history can be helpful. Nostalgia for a fantasy of imagined racial homogeneity is hardly a new force in British politics. Keir Starmer’s unconscious echoing of Enoch Powell’s noxious rhetoric (in 2025 the PM said Britain risked becoming an “island of strangers”, a phrase he later expressed regret for using) highlights how the spirit of Powell is animating contemporary political discourse. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-2233375765webready-490da1a-e1772529952548.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph showing twelve tall lampposts in a line, each with a single England flag on them, blowing in the wind" title="The English flag flies from lampposts in Sheerness, 2025. The way Britons express nostalgia has changed a great deal over the past 20 years, argues Benjamin Jones (Image by Getty Images)" /> In my field, modern British history, a number of analysts have diagnosed ‘imperial nostalgia’ as an underlying cause of the Brexit-era lurch to the far right. I wonder if this is quite right. Though we might accept that some nationalists dream of resurrecting the British empire, most people’s feelings regarding our imperial past are probably messier and less coherent. Cultural theorist Paul Gilroy argued two decades ago that, rather than acknowledging the complexities of empire, the British instead retreated into “postcolonial melancholia”. Imperial pride was expressed just as colonial violence was denied. We need a cure for such morbid symptoms. Migrants – the enslaved, the indentured, the impoverished, more rarely the privileged – made empire and re-made Britain in turn. Clear vision is required to understand this past; rose-tinted lenses will only obscure our view. Benjamin Jones is author of The Working Class in Mid Twentieth-Century England (Manchester UP, 2012) “German Democratic Republic nostalgics are a minority, but a growing one” When Boris Johnson visited socialist East Germany months before reunification in 1990, he was “amazed at how far behind West Germany” it was: a land “of strange little cars with two-stroke engines and fake coffee”. Most East Germans agreed, keen to swap those “strange little” Trabant cars for VWs, and to leave behind the dictatorship and its make-do economy. Today, things are changing. Cars made in the German Democratic Republic (GDR) are seeing a revival. Restored Trabants fetch up to 7,000 Euros – close to the sum paid when new. Though half of owners are over 60, thousands are under 30, born long after the last Trabi left the factory. This fits into a wider trend of GDR nostalgia, or Ostalgie. In 2019 – 30 years after the Berlin Wall fell – a survey found that 10 per cent of East Germans wanted the GDR back. When the newspaper Nordkurier asked the same question recently, it was nearly a quarter. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1555920290webready-0db3990-e1772530085287.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of several small, colourful cars parked together, in front of a large building with a central circular tower and pointed rooftops" title="Trabant cars in central Leipzig, East Germany in February 1990, shortly before that state’s reunification with West Germany. A resurgence in the brand’s popularity reflects nostalgia for the certainties of communist rule (Image by Getty Images)" /> GDR nostalgics are a minority, but a growing one. Ask them why, and most cite not socialist convictions but a feeling that life was simpler during the Cold War. The present, with its wars, economic uncertainty and rapid technological change, can feel frightening. So the small world of the GDR appears reassuringly predictable, irrespective of the Stasi’s omnipresence. The Trabi embodies this paradox: it’s a tiny, underpowered car but one that anyone can repair and on which families relied for decades. West Germans aren’t free from nostalgia. With the rise of the far right, unstable coalitions and economic pessimism, many reminisce about the postwar era and its political stability and economic miracle. West Germany was no dictatorship but it was staunchly conservative, initially limiting opportunities for women and social mobility. There is no moral equivalence, but Westalgie also views history through a soft filter. Read more | Life in East Germany: the cultural evolution behind the Iron Curtain In our uncertain times, the pull of Cold War nostalgia is seductive. Historians must stay the course of academic rigour and integrity, providing a much-needed lifeline of solid analysis until calmer days return. Katja Hoyer is a historian, journalist and visiting research fellow at King’s College, London. Her forthcoming book is Weimar: Life on the Edge of Catastrophe (Allen Lane, May 2026) “The ‘nostalgia’ label is often applied indiscriminately to almost any period film” As Agnes Arnold-Forster concludes in her recent historical work on this “dangerous emotion”, there are “many nostalgias”, not just one, so assessing whether it shapes our view of the past depends on context and specific detail. Of course, we should be concerned by nostalgia’s role as a social and political emotion – the contentious yearning for an idealised ‘lost’ place or past. Its potential for manipulation demands particular scrutiny in relation to histories, collective memory and public understandings of the present as well as the past. These are no idle fears in our present times. When it comes to period films, historical media genres and their audiences, I would question how much nostalgic pleasures and practices really tell us about the public’s relationship with British history. The ‘nostalgia’ label is often applied indiscriminately to almost any period film or media text, regardless of its genre or intentions, and also to audiences. This issue was a core motivation for my 2011 empirical study Heritage Film Audiences. Even the (few) respondents who expressed acute nostalgia were self-reflective on the subject. “We would not really swap our comfortable modern lifestyle for those days,” wrote one. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1319979896webready-5db6466-e1772530181978.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph showing a person's hands holding an old photo of a woman in a high necked dress holding a small child in a white dress. Behind the photo are several others strewn across a desk and an open laptop with a family tree on it" title="Popular factual television programmes such as Who Do You Think You Are? can act as a bulwark against idealised versions of the past, contends Claire Monk (Image by Getty Images)" /> The first two decades of the 21st century brought an unprecedented new wave of accessible public history, from free digitised resources (such as Old Bailey Online) via the rise of online family history to innovations in history television that engaged audiences with fact-based histories, primary sources and historical methods. The BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are?, launched in 2004, has now run for 22 seasons. Channel 4, particularly during the late Hamish Mykura’s tenure, excelled in innovations in primary-source-based historical drama and drama documentary. The series Georgian Underworld (2003) and City of Vice (2008), on the formation of the Bow Street Runners, were notable. However, the future of engaging public-history media for British audiences rests on institutional factors, not least the future of UK public-service broadcasting itself. Claire Monk is professor emerita of film and film culture at De Montfort University “In contemporary politics, nostalgia is playing a powerful role” Nostalgia is neither inherently good nor bad. It helps us connect to the past, remembering friendships, experiences, places. It can help us work through regrets, offering insights that benefit us in the present. But nostalgia can produce sentimentality based on mischaracterisations of how things once were, painting the past in rose-tinted hues that bear little resemblance to historical reality. Either way, it produces very strong emotions. And in contemporary politics, nostalgia is playing a powerful role. We are seeing a surge in far-right nationalism, not least in the UK. Nostalgia feeds into this, weaponising ‘great’ moments in the past. These are taken selectively from British imperial history, evoking, as cultural theorist Stuart Hall puts it, “the fantasy of a late return to the flag, family values, national character, imperial glory and the spirit of Palmerstonian gunboat diplomacy”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-526776478webready-1b1f2a8-e1772530266615.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A 17th‑century coastal scene showing a large group of men, women, and children gathered on a shoreline as they prepare to board ships. Several sailing vessels wait offshore, with small rowboats ferrying passengers to them. People wear cloaks, bonnets, and wide‑brimmed hats typical of the period. Behind them, cliffs rise to a fortified stone building overlooking the harbour. The mood suggests a significant departure or migration" title="A coloured engraving shows Huguenot refugees landing at Dover after toleration of Protestantism ended in France in 1685. Contrary to a populist narrative invoking false nostalgia, “Britain was never a homogeneous nation”, notes Anamik Saha (Image by Getty Images)" /> As Benjamin Jones notes, Paul Gilroy described this turn as “postcolonial melancholia”. The issue is not only how nationalists refabricate moments from history for their own ends, but also how they bind them to strong feelings of nostalgia. Crucially, Gilroy highlighted the racial dimension of this longing for a Britain before postwar immigration from the former colonies, when life was supposedly simpler, more peaceful and more homogeneous. Read more | Catholics vs Huguenots: your guide to the French Wars of Religion Postcolonial melancholia relies on a wilful amnesia about the past. Historians show us that Britain was never a homogeneous nation free from internal conflict. It has experienced waves of immigration over many centuries, following a familiar pattern: immigrants are initially met with fear and distrust before becoming naturally absorbed into British life and identity. Yet this is buried in popular representations of British history. Historical precision now struggles against nationalistic nostalgia that paints Britain’s past in broad, brutal strokes, obscuring important histories for political ends. Good history can salve postcolonial melancholia, helping the nation face and work through the troubled elements of its past. Anamik Saha is professor of race and media at Leeds University, and author of Race, Culture and Media (Sage, 2021) This article was first published in the February 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
Inside Britain's first refugee camp: a 300-year history of immigration
"This was the site for what may have been Britain’s first refugee camp", writes Kavita Puri
Blackheath in south-east London has a rich history. It was a rallying point for both the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381 and the Kentish rebellion of 1450. Monarchs through the ages have passed through. But what is less known is that it was also the site for what may have been Britain’s first refugee camp. In 1709, army tents were temporarily erected in Blackheath to give shelter to some of the estimated 13,000 German refugees who had arrived in Britain from the Palatinate, which is the modern-day Rhineland. There were also camps in Camberwell, Clerkenwell and Greenwich. Initially, the refugees were supported with charitable donations. Many arriving were poor and they spoke a different language, but they were viewed as Protestants fleeing persecution from oppressive Catholic regimes. English parishes raised around £20,000 to support the Palatine refugees. The Rhineland had suffered significantly during years of warfare. Most recently, it had been invaded by King Louis XIV of France in 1707. However, when the Palatine arrivals came to England, there was not a particular ongoing dispute making them flee. As part of the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648, the state was tolerant of Catholics, Lutherans and Calvinists. The ruling ‘Elector’ was Catholic, yet both Catholics and Protestants used the most important church in the city of Heidelberg, the Heiliggeistkirche (Church of the Holy Spirit), as a place of worship. Read more | Your guide to the Peasants' Revolt of 1381 When the British government took a census of the people arriving from Germany, the authorities realised that about a third were Catholic. The reasons they were coming, it turned out, were complex. Many of the refugees had indeed been affected by religious persecution. But others were travelling in search of economic opportunities. They were escaping bad harvests, high food prices, poor prospects. And there were those who wanted to journey on, to America. Britain in 1709 was also facing its own economic difficulties. The country’s involvement in the War of the Spanish Succession had disrupted trade and pushed up prices. The numbers of people relying on charity through the Poor Law had increased. There were concerns that the Palatines were draining the economy, taking jobs away from the English poor. And although the newcomers were largely Protestants, they were not members of the Church of England and so could pose a threat to the nation’s security. Tradesmen and the labouring poor were especially suspicious. Politicians amplified a sense of fear that also found expression in pamphlets and newspapers. A report in The Daily Courant in August 1709 said: “They have not left their native land because their prince’s government is more intolerable than others… No, ’tis because their country is so unhappily situate, that it has felt the invenom’d rage of the enemy, and been expos’d to the calamities of war, more than any other.” Read more | Kavita Puri's hidden histories: "A UK museum that tells the long, rich history of migration is long overdue" In the end, many of the Palatines were eventually resettled across the Atlantic. They joined other German speakers to become the largest single group, aside from enslaved Africans, to enter the American colonies between 1680 and 1780. Around 3,000 Palatines were shipped to Ireland. Some made their way back to their homes in the Rhineland, preferring to be there than left begging on the streets in England. A few towns, such as Liverpool and Perth, had agreed to take in some settlers. Others found new homes in parts of rural Lancashire, but most local corporations refused to take in any newcomers. And yet for all the suspicion directed at the Palatines, there were those who tried to emphasise the advantages in offering them a home. A publication of 1710, The State of the Palatines for Fifty Years Past to this Present Time, said: “In the whole they appear to be an innocent, laborious, peaceable, healthy and ingenious people; and may be rather reckon’d a blessing than a burden to any nation.” Debates around immigration in the 18th century, it seems, weren’t so different to today. This column was first published in the February 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
I’ve just been to Europe’s weirdest theme park – and came face to face with Josef Stalin
There aren’t many theme parks that place statues of Soviet leaders next to Snow White and her seven dwarfs, but you’ll find one in southern Lithuania. Keith Lowe takes us on a tour of one of Europe’s most bizarre – and controversial – tourist attractions
I am standing in a clearing in a Lithuanian forest, surrounded by guard towers and electrified fences. To all intents and purposes, it looks like I’m in a Soviet prison camp. Up above me a loudspeaker barks out orders in Russian. I hurry along a corridor of barbed wire. Up ahead, peeping ominously through the trees, I can see the barrel of an anti-aircraft gun. But all is not as it seems. It doesn’t take long to realise that the loudspeaker is playing some sort of recording on a loop. The guards in the towers are not real either, but poorly disguised mannequins in theatre costume. And who are they guarding? Beneath them, in the barbed wire enclosure, is a row of Communist statues and half a dozen grazing llamas. Further along there are emus, cockatoos, a depressed-looking brown bear, and some statues of mass murderers. As for the gun, when I reach it, I discover that the only thing it is guarding is a children’s playground. Rifles and roundabouts, cockatoos and cattle-trucks, Lenin and llamas: welcome to Grūtas Park, Europe’s weirdest open-air museum. Its combination of terror and kitsch is so controversial that it almost got shut down. I first came here in 2018 as part of my research for a study of Second World War monuments. But I felt compelled to return, because I still can’t quite believe that this place actually exists. A brutal past Grūtas Park has its roots in Lithuania’s very troubled history. Like several of its Baltic neighbours, Lithuania began the 20th century as part of Russia and only gained its independence in the chaotic aftermath of the First World War. Just over 20 years later, at the beginning of the Second World War, it was invaded by Soviet troops all over again. Then came the Nazis, followed once again by the Soviets three years later – and with each new invasion came new brutality. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/42Y7B3TJ-ac517fe-e1772189389657.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black‑and‑white historical photograph of several military trucks driving down a city street lined with bare trees and tall buildings. The open‑back trucks are filled with uniformed soldiers wearing helmets, seated closely together as the convoy moves forward" title="Soviet troops enter the Lithuanian capital, Vilnius, in June 1940. The country would be invaded by Nazi Germany a year later (Image by Alamy)" /> In 1945, the country was swallowed whole into the Soviet Union. Anyone who refused to accept the nation’s new Stalinist rulers was arrested, deported to Siberia, imprisoned or executed. Tens of thousands of Lithuanians resisted this new oppression. They took to the forests and fought pitched battles against the combined forces of the Red Army and the Soviet secret police but in the end the uprising was brutally crushed: according to the Museum of Genocide Victims in Vilnius, around 300,000 Lithuanians were sent to Soviet gulags between 1945 and 1950, where between a third and a half of them died. Read more | Why did the Soviet Union adopt the hammer and sickle, and how did it become a symbol of communist revolution? The Soviets then embarked on a program of Russification throughout the country. Russian speakers began moving into Lithuanian territories in large numbers; their descendants still live there today. Lithuanian culture was thoroughly purged of its bourgeois influences, and replaced by Socialist literature, art and architecture. Statues of Soviet heroes began to spring up in every town square, along with victory monuments and memorials to the glory of the Red Army. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/5GettyImages-839288220-170ae8f-e1772189538619.jpg" width="1500" height="1001" alt="A black‑and‑white photograph of a neatly arranged camp made up of small, identical buildings with pitched roofs and white picket fences. The buildings sit in rows on either side of a straight central path that leads to a decorative entrance structure with patterned columns. A few people walk along the paths or stand near the buildings. The surrounding landscape is flat and open, with only a few distant structures visible beyond the camp." title="A Soviet gulag in the Komi Republic, in what is now northwest Russia. Around 300,000 Lithuanians were sent to such camps between 1945 and 1950 (Image by Getty Images)" /> Marx and mushrooms When the country finally regained its independence in 1990, almost all the monuments to Lenin and other Communist figures were torn down. Countless statues were decapitated, cut into pieces with blowtorches, or crushed into rubble. Some were even dynamited. In an attempt to save some of these sculptures for posterity, the new Lithuanian government decided to rescue some of them, with the vague idea that they might one day go on display in a museum somewhere. They invited institutions to bid for the right to display the statues, but unfortunately none of the nation’s museums was willing to take the project on without some kind of state funding. There was only one bid – from an entrepreneur named Viliumas Malinauskas – that did not ask for any government money at all. Malinauskas offered to pay all the transport, maintenance and restoration costs out of his own pocket. He was duly awarded the contract. This was where the controversy began. Because Malinauskas was not a historian, an art critic or a museum professional – or indeed anyone who had any background in this kind of work. In fact, he was a former wrestling champion who made his living as a mushroom farmer. He now has a multi-million-dollar business exporting his mushrooms all over the world. Some of his proposals for the sculpture park were quite bizarre. He wanted to build a special railway line, so that tourists from Vilnius could be brought here on cattle trucks, as if they were being deported to a Soviet-era gulag. He wanted to hire actors who would pretend to be soldiers, herding the tourists onto the trains. For the full gulag experience, Grūtas Park itself would be surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers, and the monuments would be displayed as if they were part of a Siberian prison camp. Unsurprisingly, critics began to call Malinauskas’s project a “Stalin theme park”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/6GettyImages-805141-514324c-e1772189666539.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A man in a blue suit and red patterned tie sits outdoors on a large stone bust of a bearded man. His hand rests on the top of the sculpture. Beside him is another stone bust of a different bearded figure. Both sculptures are set on the ground in a wooded area with tall evergreen trees in the background." title="Grūtas Park’s founder, Viliumas Malinauskas, poses for the camera in 2001. The former wrestler wanted to build a special railway line so that tourists could travel to the park as though they were being transported to a gulag (Image by Getty Images)" /> It did not take long for the complaints to come rolling in. Local politicians opposed the building of the park. National politicians opposed the building of the rail line. A petition was drawn up denouncing the whole idea of his sculpture park, which was signed by Catholic Church officials, national NGOs, prominent academics, art professors and over a million other people around the world. “This part of history is full of suffering,” said one member of parliament, Juozas Galdikas, in 2000. “It should not be used for show business.” Read more | Nazino was Stalin’s worst labour gulag. Its inmates knew it by another name: Cannibal Island Perhaps the strongest voice of opposition came from former victims of the regime. More than 30 groups of former partisans and political prisoners banded together to protest about the sculptures going on display. They accused Malinauskas of trying to profit from their misery and described the statues as “monsters from a horror film”. Some of them even went on hunger strike. “Imagine yourself as a resident in a small village,” said one former independence fighter named Leonas Kerosierius, “and someone came and attacked your village, killed your brother and raped your daughter. Would you allow your neighbour to build a park for these executioners and rapists, or make money off these crimes?” MPs pushed for a vote in parliament to take back the statues and keep them in State hands, and their resolution was accepted by a majority. But their victory was short-lived, because it was overturned by the Constitutional Court: Malinauskas had won the government contract fair and square, and Parliament had no right to take it away from him simply on a matter of taste. The most they could do was to create a government watchdog to oversee the construction of the sculpture park. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/2GettyImages-870579120-2d552aa-e1772189931245.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of 5 stone busts of men in a line. Behind them is a forest of tall fir trees" title="A small portion of the park’s historic busts. From left to right: Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Vincas Mickevičius (Lithuanian communist leader) and Joseph Stalin (Image by Getty Images)" /> The whole controversy quickly became international news. Not only did it feature in newspapers throughout the Baltic countries, but also in other parts of Europe. It even made the newspapers in America, parts of Asia and Australia. “Miss the Soviet Era? Come to Stalin World” ran the headline in The Sydney Morning Herald. Snow White and Stalin Grūtas Park officially opened to the public in 2001 and immediately proved a hit with visitors from all over Lithuania and beyond. Even before the official opening it had already seen around 100,000 visitors. Since then, it has added to its collection and become quite a well-established tourist destination. People still occasionally call this place ‘Stalin World’, but there is actually only one full-size statue of Stalin in the whole park. I found him just beyond the zoo, peeping out between the trees like some fairytale troll. (The comparison to a fairytale is not made randomly: in a nearby glade, closer to the children’s playground, there is also a set of sculptures representing Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The difference between folk tale and reality is not always scrupulously delineated here.) <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/7P1020624-Stalin-f9456c1-e1772190254160.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A large statue of a man in a long military-style coat and cap, standing on a pedestal in a forest. Tree trunks in the foreground partially obscure the figure. The statue shows the man with a stern expression, one hand holding the lapel of his coat. Tall trees and undergrowth surround the statue, giving the scene a secluded, wooded setting." title="A statue of Stalin peers through the trees at Grūtas Park. The monument, which was removed from its original site in Vilnius 65 years ago, continues to be a source of controversy (Image by Keith Lowe)" /> It is easy to see why so many people became upset when the creation of this park was first announced. Many dissidents had spent their whole lives struggling against the Soviet system. In 1991 they had torn down these icons of Soviet power with great joy: it must have been deeply painful to see them so lovingly restored and put back on their pedestals, regardless of the setting. The resurrection of Stalin’s statue was perhaps the most painful thing of all. This man had been responsible for tens of millions of deaths across eastern Europe, and the enslavement of hundreds of thousands of Lithuanians. He had not been on public display for decades. (This particular statue had been taken down by the Communists themselves, back in 1960.) And yet here he was, standing in a sunny glade, waiting for tourists to come and take selfies with him. Read more | Cold War summits: how USA & USSR leaders worked to end the conflict Critics pointed to a worrying trend in contemporary Russia for the rehabilitation of Stalin’s memory, with brand new memorials to him being raised in many parts of Russia, particularly since the start of the current war with Ukraine. What if this trend were to spread to Lithuania and beyond? What if Grūtas Park, too, were to become a 21st-century shrine to this monstrous dictator? <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/P1020458-Snow-White-7-dwarves-ad174d4-e1772190445583.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A group of dark wooden sculptures is arranged among tall pine trees in a sunlit forest. Most of the carved figures are seated or kneeling, some with helmets or rounded headgear, while one taller figure stands upright at the center. The sculptures are spaced evenly across the forest floor. In the background, there are a few simple buildings with wooden or metal siding, one marked with graffiti. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting long shadows across the ground." title="Sculptures depicting Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs can be found close to the park’s full-size Stalin statue. “The difference between folk tale and reality is not always scrupulously delineated here,” says Keith Lowe (Image by Keith Lowe)" /> The power of ridicule Had this statue, and all the others, been given to one of the other bidders for the monument park contract, perhaps there would have been less controversy. Europos Parkas, in Vilnius, wanted to exhibit the statues purely as works of art, alongside a whole variety of avant-garde creations by artists from all over the world. Here, perhaps, the aesthetic qualities of a Stalin statue might have been divorced from its political meaning. The Museum of Occupations and Freedom Fights in Vilnius also applied for the contract. It would have displayed the monuments in its main hall and courtyard. Had Stalin’s statue been placed here, it would have been seen alongside an extensive exhibition dedicated to his crimes. Many of those who protested against Grūtas Park wanted the museum to have won the bid precisely because it would have put the benign looking statues of figures like Stalin in a much, much grimmer context. But there is something about the way that Grūtas Park displays its statues that is enormously refreshing. Seeing Stalin with a squirrel on his head takes away some of the nightmarish power he continues to exercise over us from beyond the grave. When birds are nesting in Lenin’s fingers, and children are climbing over the guns that were once aimed at Lithuanian partisans, these symbols of state power no longer seem as frightening as they once did. This seems to be exactly what Viliumas Malinauskas is trying to achieve. In an interview with the Guardian shortly before the park opened, the proprietor was unapologetic about his peculiar approach to Lithuania’s troubled history. “People can come here and joke about the sculptures,” he said. “And that will mean Lithuania is no longer afraid of Communism.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/9P1020459-2-Playground-with-military-van-2d8059e-e1772190762404.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A colorful playground structure sits in a sandy, wooded clearing. It includes a red‑and‑green climbing frame, a curved yellow slide, and a green cylindrical tunnel element. Tall pine trees surround the area, casting dappled light on the ground. In the background, partly hidden by trees and bushes, an old green vehicle—possibly a van or small truck—rests near the edge of the clearing." title="A children’s climbing frame is sited metres away from a disused military vehicle. Does such a juxtaposition make Lithuania’s troubled past seem less frightening? (Image by Keith Lowe)" /> Grūtas Park is a bizarre mix of playground, zoo and atrocity museum. It trivialises the past in the most appalling ways, especially with its Disneyfied guard towers and barbed wire. Some of the museum displays in its barrack-style huts are more nostalgic than critical of the regime. And its commercial exploitation of Lithuania’s painful past is questionable to say the least: I managed to buy myself a Stalin mug and a Stalin keyring in the gift shop on my way out. In fact, there are so many things about Grūtas Park that could be considered offensive that I hardly know where to start; and yet somehow, through its sheer banality, it comes closer to freeing Lithuania from its history than any of the more serious and thoughtful monuments that have been so carefully produced in other parts of Europe. The magic ingredient is ridicule. I’m not sure how much this ridicule was ever intended by the park’s founder and owner, and how much is just a function of a ridiculous set-up. Nevertheless, it is there, and it is a powerful antidote to the atmosphere of fear that plagued this country for so many years. Keith Lowe is an author and former military history publisher who has spent more than 20 years writing about the Second World War and its aftermath. His most recent book is Naples 1944: War, Liberation and Chaos (William Collins, 2024)
Think the Victorians were prudes? Their filthiest jokes will shock you
Victorian audiences revelled in riddles, physical comedy and bawdy jokes that challenge everything we think we know about 19th-century respectability
The words ‘Victorian Britain’ might evoke images of men with waxed moustaches and women in high-necked dresses, sitting upright in houses drawn back from the London smog. Indeed, ‘Victorian’ has become shorthand for prudishness, referring to the long reign of Queen Victoria: a period associated with notions of strict social etiquette, restraint and rigid ideas about respectability. But this view irons out a lot of the period’s complexities. Beneath a visage of stiff morality was a culture that delighted in wordplay, physical comedy and, in private, jokes that were startlingly explicit. So what, precisely, did these people find funny? As historian Dr Bob Nicholson explains on the HistoryExtra podcast: “It’s really hard to define the sense of humour of millions of people over a generation, just as it would be now. But when I look at Victorian comedy, I guess there are certain recurring patterns or themes that they really liked.” The Victorian sense of humour The Victorian-era was defined by transformation on a vast scale, powered by world-leading industrialisation, urbanisation and expanding literacy. The population of England and Wales more than doubled during the 19th century, and cities like Manchester and London grew at rapid pace. Now, newspapers, penny weeklies and comic magazines such as Punch could reach a new, mass readership. Music halls became hugely popular too, offering working and lower-middle class audiences a place to enjoy an evening of singing and comedy. Read more | What was daily life like for 'ordinary' Victorians? It was both in print and the spoken word that the Victorian sense of humour really managed to flourish. “The first thing you’ll see when you look at their jokes is that they love puns,” Nicholson says. “They absolutely love wordplay, to a degree that I think we would look at now and think: these are some pretty laboured, torturous puns.” The increasingly literate Victorians delighted in verbal dexterity, double entendres and clever linguistic turns of phrase. Here, Nicholson says, we can see that Victorian humour ran “from incredibly erudite and witty bits of satire through to the most base form of slapstick – somebody slipping on a banana skin. So, I would say their sense of humour was pretty much as broad and varied as ours is.” Physical comedy was the most accessible, requiring no literacy at all, making it especially appealing for large, mixed audiences. Life in Victorian Britain | A short course from HistoryExtra Academy Member exclusive | This six-week course covers everything you need to know about Victorian Britain, guided by historian Ruth Goodman and filmed on location at Black Country Living Museum. Explore the course now Word puzzles and wordplay One particularly Victorian form of humour was essentially a riddle disguised as a punchline. Conundrums had earlier roots in 18th-century parlour games but flourished in the 19th century. “These types of pun jokes were really popular,” Nicholson explains. “They were treated almost like puzzles rather than jokes. In fact, they were known as conundrum jokes in the nineteenth century. “You would often have a pause between the setup and the punchline where people were invited to try to solve the riddle,” Nicholson says. “That doesn’t necessarily make for the best rhythm of joke-telling, but it can be very satisfying when you figure it out. The Victorians really enjoyed doing that.” Read more | How I uncovered Victoria's secret love: Historian Fern Riddell explains all “They even had conundrum competitions on very large scales,” Nicholson notes. “People in the town would submit their jokes, they would be read out on stage, and then judged by a committee of local gentlemen who would decide on the best pun, which would win a prize.” A private appetite for indecent jokes While Victorian public comedy was fairly harmless, more private humour could be shockingly blunt – and rude. The enduring stereotype of prudery comes largely from what was printed in the mainstream. Victorian Britain had strict obscenity laws. The 1857 Obscene Publications Act, for example, gave authorities new powers to seize and destroy material deemed immoral. But censorship didn’t eliminate people’s appetite for more risqué comedy. Nicholson points to an underground publication called The Pearl, “a pornographic magazine circulated in private among gentlemen.” Its limericks and anecdotes were explicit in ways that directly contradict many modern assumptions about Victorian social delicacy. “There are some incredibly rude Victorian limericks,” says Nicholson. One such example that Nicholson gives, among others, is: “There was a young lady of Hitchin Who was scratching her **** in the kitchen. Her father said, “Rose, It’s the crabs I suppose.” “You’re right, Pa, the buggers are itchin’.” “The reason I share these is that they seem so un-Victorian,” he says. “The idea of them using that kind of language, joking about those kinds of things – about lice, sexually transmitted diseases – it seems so unfamiliar to how we imagine the Victorians. Read more | He's the Victorian serial killer you've never heard of – and we may now know who he was “But those jokes were circulating. They were there and have survived in these fragments. They are not the kind of material you would hear in a mainstream musical or read in a magazine or newspaper,” Nicholson notes. “We have this image of the Victorians as being much more respectable and not interested in bodily humour, in part because that material was edited out for public consumption.” As for Queen Victoria, even her own sense of humour was surprising. What made Queen Victoria laugh? Victoria is often attributed with saying “we are not amused”. While it’s unlikely she actually said it, the sentiment of the phrase has stuck to her reputation. But the reality, Nicholson reveals, was very different. “What did Victoria laugh at? The answer is: loads of things,” Nicholson says. Her diaries contain frequent references to things that amused her at dinner parties and court events and, as Nicholson explains, “she is constantly talking about funny things said at the dinner table.” Victoria kept extensive journals throughout her life, leaving historians a detailed record of her private reactions and amusements. From what Nicholson can gather, she enjoyed physical comedy: “Somebody falling over, a man sitting on his hat, somebody trapping their fingers in a door. The old classics.” Read more | Who were Queen Victoria's sons and daughters? Nicholson also recounts an anecdote from a dinner conversation with a partially deaf admiral describing how he intended to recover a sunken ship. Mishearing the queen’s polite inquiry about his sister, he explained how he would “have her turned over, take a good look at her bottom and scrape all the barnacles off.” Victoria was helpless with laughter, while the admiral remained oblivious. “The image we have of her as incredibly serious does not resemble the version you see in private,” Nicholson notes. After the death of Prince Albert in 1861, it was Victoria’s prolonged public mourning that reshaped her image. For decades she wore black and withdrew from many public appearances. That visible grief hardened into our defining image of Victoria. And her seclusion contributed to a wider association between the monarchy and solemnity during the later 19th century. “In public she had to project the power, authority, and dignity of a sovereign,” Nicholson says. Despite that veneer, Nicholson says that it’s important to remember precisely what the Victorians, including the queen herself, were amused by. Bob Nicholson was speaking to David Musgrove on the HistoryExtra podcast. Listen to the full conversation.
Think your job is bad? These 17 occupations from the past were much, much worse
From digging up corpses to collecting faeces, Jonny Wilkes delves into some of the dirtiest – and most dangerous – ways that our ancestors earned a living
1. Gong farmer Medieval era Before flushing toilets and proper sewers, there were cesspits: big holes in the ground where all the human waste ended up. When these filled up, it fell to the gong farmers to empty them and take away the excrement for disposal, or to sell as fertiliser on the fields. They earned a decent wage, but the job was considered so revolting – paddling in poo using only shovels and buckets, and breathing in the foulest of stenches – that they were forced to do it at night under the cover of darkness. Gong farmers risked disease and, in the case of poor Richard the Raker, even death by scatological accident. In 1326, he fell through the rotten boards of a privy (possibly while using the convenience himself) and drowned in the stinky pool below. 2. Matchgirl Victorian era There are a lot of contenders for the title of ‘grisliest job in Victorian Britain’, but matchgirl has a strong claim. Done by young girls, it involved working 12 to 14 hours a day with minimal breaks, meagre pay and the likelihood of fines for any perceived wrongdoing (including altering a machine to prevent getting their hands cut). Most seriously, matchgirls worked with white phosphorus, a highly toxic chemical that caused terrible physical ailments, the worst of which was ‘phossy jaw’. In short, this caused the jawbone to rot entirely, causing teeth to fall out, large abscesses to form on the head and possibly brain damage. Sufferers were left disfigured and in acute pain. The working conditions got so bad that, in 1888, the matchgirls of Bryant & May in London went on strike, which eventually brought about the end of white phosphorus in the industry. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/22SBJPTX-4e0af31-e1771425220743.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white illustration of a woman. She has her head slightly bowed, and her hair is in a bun. Her mouth is wide, with the skin around the lips has disintegrated and shows some rotten teeth" title="A medical drawing from the 1840s shows a matchstick worker suffering from the effects of ‘phossy jaw’, caused by constant exposure to white phosphorus (Image by Alamy)" /> 3. Hurriers and trappers Medieval to modern eras Working down a coal mine has always been brutally tough, with long hours underground, exhausting physical labour, breathing in coal dust, and the risk of cave-ins. Spare a thought, then, for hurriers. These were women or children sent into the mines to pull the carts laden with coal. With a leather strap around their waist or shoulders, hauling the cargo was back-breaking work and the tunnels got so hot that many chose to work naked. Meanwhile, other children – some as young as five – worked as trappers, waiting in the complete darkness for hours just to open the trap doors as hurriers passed. Read more | The ancient Mesopotamian civilisation’s weirdest job? Meet the veterinary exorcist 4. Groom of the Stool Tudor to Victorian eras The Groom of the Stool proves that not all bad jobs in history were done by the poorest and lowliest in society. Deemed a prestigious role performed by noblemen looking to make their name at court, it involved helping the monarch with their daily evacuations. It’s still unclear as to whether this meant actually cleaning up afterwards, but it certainly included carrying a portable commode around and keeping an eye on the royal diet (at both ends of the digestive cycle). It was an honour to be at the side of the monarch, no matter which throne they sat on, and the position came with perks. With all that one-on-one time with the king or queen, they could wield a lot of influence and pick up titles. One of George III’s grooms, John Stuart, 3rd Earl of Bute, became prime minister. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/4CommodeStoolcirca1650-c313df9-e1771425329227.jpg" width="1000" height="1700" alt="A photograph of a cube stool decorated with red velvet lining and a hole cut out of the top. It has a lid standing up at the back" title="King William III’s ‘close stool’ at Hampton Court Palace. Believe it or not, but carrying one of these commodes would have been seen as a huge privilege" /> 5. Lime burner Since antiquity For millennia, lime has been a useful material in construction as it can make plaster, mortar and whitewash, and is an important ingredient in glassmaking. Making lime, however, could be extremely hazardous. Lime burners heated limestone in a kiln at around 900°C (1652°F) for several days, which released high levels of carbon dioxide, to make quicklime. Given that this highly caustic substance sparked and even exploded when in contact with moisture, it was somewhat unfortunate that the next stage of the lime burners’ job was to mix it with water. Quicklime caused horrific burns if it got on the skin, and any in the eyes would result in blindness. 6. Wool fuller Since antiquity Making wool was less dangerous than making lime – but it involved more urine. To get it ready for the textile business, sheared wool first had to be cleaned of grease and softened, which was done by fullers stomping on it in a vat for hours. To really make it shiny white, though, the vat had to be filled with ammonia – particularly the type found in stale wee. The odour must have been oppressive. That said, maybe ancient fullers wouldn’t have minded, since urine was also used to clean teeth. It clearly worked, too: wool fullers were around from the Romans to the Industrial Revolution. Read more | Tales of the toilet: a historical A–Z 7. Petardier Renaissance era A petard was a short-lived weapon designed to bust into a besieged castle. Just a metal container filled with gunpowder, it could be fixed to a wall or gate and blow inwards to form a handy hole for the attackers to get through. Easier said than done, of course: the petardiers had to carry the heavy bomb into position (while defenders were doing their best to stop them), and run away before the big explosion. To make matters more dangerous, petards were highly unreliable. The name comes from the French word ‘to fart’, and there was no telling when one could let off. Now you know why it was short lived. 8. Leech collector Regency era Although blood-sucking worms do not sound like the ideal workplace colleagues, leech collectors did their utmost to form a close bond with them. Leeches had long been used in medicine – and still are today, in some cases – but the medical fascination hit a peak in the 19th century. With demand at an all-time high, collectors – mostly women – would wade into leech-heavy ponds, bogs and marshes and allow their legs to get covered in the things. Ironically enough, this put them at risk of infectious diseases. It was not only the collectors at risk here, either: so many leeches were caught that the species used in medicine almost went extinct in some places. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/8GettyImages-537586865-f6d8e08-e1771425725791.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A coloured engraving of three women working by a shallow stream in a rural landscape. One woman stands in the water washing clothes, another stands on the bank holding a stick and looking into the distance, and a third walks through the water carrying a bucket. Trees, a fence, and a distant church steeple sit in the background." title="A coloured engraving depicts a trio of leech finders somewhere in rural Yorkshire. Those involved in the trade could suffer blood loss as they sought out specimens (Image by Getty Images)" /> 9. Tosher Victorian era Surely, there are fewer jobs that better illustrate how hard it could be for the poor of Victorian London than that of the tosher. These people spent their days deep underground, inside sewers, and scavenged for anything valuable or worth selling. A haul could include coins that had washed into the drains and the occasional bit of silverware or jewellery, but mostly it was scraps of metal and material. Even when it was made illegal to enter the sewers without permission, gangs of toshers continued at night to sieve out what treasures they could from the excreta. All the while, there was the chance of catching a disease, getting lost, or being swept away by the (truly disgusting) water. Read more | What did Victorians do with their poo? The battle over the 19th-century excrement explosion 10. Powder monkey Age of Sail Picture this: you’ve been abducted from a port town and pressganged to serve on a Royal Navy ship, spending years at sea and facing death every time an enemy vessel comes over the horizon. Now picture that happening when you’re a child. Warships needed ‘powder monkeys’, or young boys no older than 14 who transported gunpowder from the magazine to the cannon crews in the heat of battle. They had to be small enough to squeeze between the adults, artillery and, hopefully, avoid enemy fire. In truth, there was no safe place on a ship, and powder monkeys were essentially on the frontlines of a war zone. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/102Y7JPAM-07b9754-e1771425896496.jpg" width="1500" height="1121" alt="An illustration of five men in black and red uniforms standing around a large black cannon, which is angled out of a window. On the far left is a younger boy, also in uniform, looking stressed with his hands up as the cannon goes off" title="Powder monkeys didn’t have time to monkey around: keeping a ship’s cannons firing was tiring – and extremely dangerous – work (Image by Alamy)" /> 11. Spit boy Tudor era Preparing a Tudor banquet required hundreds of people bustling for long hours in vast kitchens, with cooks at the top of hierarchy and spit boys at the bottom. The job of the latter was simple enough: to keep the spits turning over the fire and make sure the meat was cooked evenly. The difficult bit, however, was being next to a roaring blaze all day, often perched within the hearth itself. If the fire was hot enough to cook meat, imagine what it would have done to a spit boy’s skin? Eventually, the job was taken out of human hands as it became common to get dogs, running in a wheel, to turn the spits instead. 12. Chimney sweep Victorian era While the so-called master sweeps were dancing on rooftops (if Mary Poppins is to be believed), their apprentices, known as climbing boys, were in the chimneys having a lousy time. With chimneys too narrow for adults, young children were sent up to clean the flues. Six was apparently a good age to start. Their diminutive size did not prevent them from getting stuck, however, and it was far from guaranteed that help would come for them. Those who did not suffocate to death would at least get burned, since the fires below were not necessarily put out first, and they likely suffered from serious health problems in later life thanks to all the noxious fumes they breathed in. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/12GettyImages-2667291-ff6157f-e1771426036359.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white photograph of a man dressed in dirty clothing, carrying a large broom with a round bristled head. To the right, there is a very small boy leaning against the wall" title="An 1877 photograph shows a London chimney sweep and his ‘climbing boy’. Children risked suffocation as they scrambled up filthy flues (Image by Getty Images)" /> 13. Plague bearer Restoration era When the Great Plague ravaged London from 1665–66, around a fifth of the city’s population perished. Traditional burial practices had to be abandoned, and in their place, plague bearers spent the nights walking the streets, announcing their arrival with the call of “Bring out your dead!” and taking the bodies to mass graves. They were powerless to stop catching the disease, despite some of the ‘cures’ being touted at the time, including drinking crushed emeralds or rubbing the bottoms of live chickens on their skin. Even if they stayed healthy, no one wanted to be near them. As such, they often ended up living in the graveyards alongside the dead. 14. Resurrectionist Regency era Medical understanding made huge strides in the 19th century, and a big part of that was increasing knowledge of human anatomy gained through dissection. Since only executed criminals could be scientifically cut up, however, there was a supply shortage at medical schools. That was until a lucrative bodysnatching trade sprouted up among those unscrupulous enough to desecrate recently dug graves. These people were known as resurrectionists. It became such a problem that families began laying their loved ones to rest with added protections, such as coffins encased in metal cages. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/14GettyImages-517453470-6c250a5-e1771426240587.jpg" width="1500" height="1003" alt="A black and white illustration showing a four men in a cemetery. On the left, two men are pulling on a rope which is tied around the neck of a female corpse, which they are pulling out of a grave. On the back right, a man in a long black coat and har is looking back over his shoulder, into the distance. On the front right, a man is turned away from the viewer, holding a lantern and also looking into the distance" title="Body snatchers – or resurrectionists – haul a corpse from a grave. Growing demand from medical schools led to an illicit trade in human remains (Image by Getty Images)" /> 15. Sin eater Early modern era How does a Christian in early modern Europe give themselves the best chance of getting to Heaven after death? Well, there’s the life of good deeds and worship, of course, but there was something their families could do, too: hire a sin eater. Usually a destitute outcast who would do anything for a couple of pennies or a meal, a sin eater would eat some bread placed on the deceased’s chest and so take on all their sins. In that way, the job itself was not that bad – but the consequences could be eternal. Read more | “Literally whipped”: the boys who took the beatings meant for royal bottoms 16. Whipping boy Medieval era A challenge facing the tutors of a prince, or even a young king, was how to deal with them when they had been naughty. Corporal punishment was off limits – or, at least, it could not be used directly. Instead, it has been claimed (although evidence is admittedly sketchy) that they came up with the idea of the whipping boy. This was another boy who went through schooling with the royal student and received any necessary reprimand. In return, they could form a friendship with their regal classmate in the hopes that they would be rewarded in later life with titles and honours. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/16D888E0-cc93184-e1771426372807.jpg" width="1500" height="1080" alt="A black and white image showing two young boys with their elderly guardian. One boy is standing in front of the old woman, with her hand on his shoulder. They are both looking towards the other young boy as the woman hits him with a broom-like object" title="A 19th-century image depicts King Edward VI and his ‘whipping boy’. Whether or not the role truly existed is a matter of debate (Image by Alamy)" /> 17. Pure finder Victorian era There is no denying that a common theme throughout this list is poo, and here’s one more. Don’t be misled by their name: pure finders got their hands dirty. They collected as much dog muck from the streets as they could, often foregoing gloves, to sell it to the tanning industry. Faeces were a vital component in the softening of hides to turn them into leather – ‘pure’ referred to its purifying qualities – so there was money to be made as a finder. Yet the tanners themselves deserve a mention on this list too. As well as dog poo, they had to handle animal hides and dangerous chemicals all day.
He's the Victorian serial killer you've never heard of – and we may now know who he was
By 1889, Jack the Ripper’s grisly murders had sparked terror across London. So when a woman’s headless, mutilated body was found near the Thames, a coded alert was dispatched to police: “Another Whitechapel.” But her killer wasn’t Jack. Lucy Worsley investigates the horrifying crimes of the ‘Thames Torso Murderer’
In the final years of the 1880s, it truly wasn’t safe for women to venture out alone onto the streets of London. Extraordinary though it seems, there was not one but two serial killers on the loose in the same corner of the capital. We’ve all heard of Jack the Ripper, the notoriously brutal criminal who cut the throats of at least five women in and around Whitechapel – and, in doing so, triggered a firestorm of speculation over his identity that continues to rage to this day. But another murderer was plying his grisly trade along the banks of the Thames. He is the scariest Victorian serial killer you’ve probably never heard of – a man who became known as the ‘Thames Torso Murderer’. Because the Ripper slayings attract so much attention, that contemporary killer has been almost completely forgotten. There may be several reasons for this. The Ripper victims were all identified, the killings took place in a shorter time within a close community, and there were various ‘clues’ and ‘sightings’. In addition, the Ripper was clearly motivated by a hot rage against women. The Torso killer, much colder and better at planning, seems less knowable. Yet though he had a very different character and method, his crimes against women were every bit as shocking. In both cases, studying the evidence for their crimes and the lives of their victims reveals a wealth of information about life on the fringes of society in 1880s London, the most populous city in the world at the time. And now, nearly 140 years since the first of the Thames Torso Murders was committed, the culprit in this very cold case has – to my satisfaction, at least – at last been identified. The evidence I’ll lay out here, which I share in my new BBC Two series, would not stand up in a court of law. But researchers using modern techniques and, in particular, analysing large sets of data, have come up with a compelling theory. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/1362213-2webready-0141b36-e1771417616576.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Black-and-white Victorian newspaper illustration about the Whitechapel murders. At the center is a circular portrait of a curly-haired woman labeled “The Berner St. Victim.” Surrounding panels show scenes from the investigation: on the left, two men stand over a covered body on a table; below, a man discovers a woman’s body lying on a dark street. In the middle foreground, a uniformed police constable raises his arm to signal for assistance while two men crouch beside another woman’s body on the ground. On the right, small panels depict a police inspector in profile, a meeting of officials seated around a table, and a nighttime street scene marked as the “fatal spot” in Mitre Square, Aldgate. A bold headline across the center reads, “Two More Whitechapel Horrors. When Will the Murderer Be Captured?”" title="Jack the Ripper’s killing spree makes the front page of The Illustrated Police News, September 1888 (Image by Topfoto)" /> Gruesome discovery On 10 September 1889, a woman’s body was found by a police constable in Whitechapel, beneath railway arches bordering Pinchin Street, placed there in the early hours of the morning. Those arches are still there; in fact, you can still walk along many of the streets, riverbanks and water-stairs that form the backdrop for this story, which unfolded mainly in central London, along the Thames between Tower Bridge and Battersea Bridge. Distressingly, only the torso was discovered beneath the arches; the legs and head had been removed. Read more | Nell Darby's historical cold cases: murder in the year of the Ripper She was the fourth such mutilated victim to turn up. Three more, also women, had already been found in and around the Thames. Each had been dismembered, their severed limbs and other body parts being discovered piecemeal by horrified members of the public. There was a torso in the river at Rainham, Essex in 1887, followed by more remains left in the city. Then, in 1888, parts were dumped at spots around Whitehall. The torso of that victim was carefully placed for discovery in the unfinished new headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, which looks very much like jeering at authority: ‘catch me if you can.’ And in June 1889, various remains from another victim were found, mostly in and around Battersea. None of the women’s heads were located. Why did police conclude at the time that all were victims of one killer? As well as the strange disposal of body parts along the Thames, there was a common method to the way the bodies were cut up. The Irish pathologist Dr Marie Cassidy, one of our experts in the series, points out that such dismemberment was slow, skilled work that must have been done in a place of privacy, perhaps a house or workshop. But a new factor in the fourth case was the placing of the torso away from the river and – perhaps not coincidentally – on territory by then deemed to ‘belong’ to the Ripper. Perhaps the Thames Torso Murderer was jealous of the media attention that ‘Jack’ had attracted. Perhaps he even wanted to taunt the Ripper by working on ‘his’ patch. A recent Dockers’ Strike, which saw 75,000 workers walk off the job, had prompted the deployment of 2,000 extra policemen into the East End. So the torso in Pinchin Street must have been placed in the railway arches very quickly and precisely between half-hourly police patrols. Carrying a torso through the streets was risky: the killer must have had nerves of steel. But this was his pattern: he’d managed to place the torso of his second victim in the middle of a busy building site without being detected. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-1645164483webready-c056b98-e1771418656980.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of a large brown brick wall curving from the right to the left, with several arch imprints on it. There is a white road sign that reads PINCHIN STREET on the right hand side. Behind this large wall, there is a tall grey and brown tower block" title="The mutilated body of a woman was found near Pinchin Street. To do this, the killer must have carried the torso through busy streets patrolled by police (Image by Getty Images)" /> The fourth murder was a little different, though, maybe because the third hadn’t gone to plan. Clearly contrary to the killer’s intentions, that victim was identified. One of the body parts had been wrapped in fabric from a distinctively checked coat. The friends of a woman who’d gone missing came forward to say they’d recognised descriptions of the garment as one belonging to Elizabeth Jackson. Elizabeth’s life story demonstrates something that was probably true of the other victims, too: that women living precariously on the fringes of society were very vulnerable. Poor Elizabeth was pregnant without being married. She had left her job in domestic service and became estranged from her Catholic family, turning to the workhouse rather than asking them for support. In the last days of her life she had been sleeping rough by the river. She had a friend called ‘Ginger Nell,’ who was described at the time as “an unfortunate”, which means she probably sold sex. Ginger Nell warned Elizabeth to look out for bad men down by the river. It was wise advice that proved sadly prescient. Read more | These are four of the most brutal Victorian murders. Were women really the perpetrators? The identity of the person who’d killed Elizabeth and her unborn child, along with the three other unnamed victims, remained a mystery. The case stumped those investigating at the time. Modern analysis of the police surgeons’ reports shows that they didn’t do a bad job of seeking clues from the human remains, but they lacked two advantages we have today: the science of psychological profiling, and the ability to search large sets of data. A history of violence The person who I believe has identified the Thames Torso Murderer is researcher and author Sarah Bax Horton. She decided that the killer must have had a close connection to the Thames, where so many body parts were found. She also thought that he likely had a history of violent crimes against women. Her real act of genius, though, was to search the online database of British newspapers within the timeframe of the four murders, looking for crime stories containing mentions of the river Thames and violence against women. Among the names emerging from her search, one stood out: James Crick (1862–1907). Crick, Bax Horton’s research reveals, was a waterman, ferrying passengers across the Thames in his skiff. His boat could have provided the private place that the murderer required in which to kill and dismember his victims. Crick operated from Horselydown Old Stairs leading to the water near Butler’s Wharf. These water-stairs are now a hotspot for tourists and Instagrammers because they offer a wonderful view of Tower Bridge. At the time of the murders in the 1880s, the bridge was still under construction. Enabling rapid river crossings, it would eventually steal watermen’s livelihoods. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/BAL2801843webready-8207f7d-e1771417994352.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white illustration depicting a man in a long black coat and a tall black hat, rowing a boat in a river. To the left are two other men in sitting in the boat. Behind them all are some sketches of tall buildings with lots of rectangular windows" title="An 1857 illustration of a London waterman ferrying passengers on the Thames. Might the killer have been such a man, using his boat to carry off, kill and dismember women? (Image by Bridgman Images)" /> Crick was first mentioned in the papers for an alleged assault against his wife, Rosina. He’d kicked her, causing her to scream loudly enough to bring the police to their house. Rosina said that her husband was often mysteriously missing at night. But he was not convicted of any crime. Basically, Rosina wasn’t believed. Next came a report that Crick had been accused of raping 31-year-old Jessie Miller. She had a low-skilled job folding paper for the book trade, she was separated from her husband, and she was short of money. On 1 July 1889, the Shah of Persia arrived in London aboard his yacht to visit Britain’s royal family, his progress up the Thames being observed by huge crowds. On this festive day, Crick tempted Jessie into his boat with the offer of a free ride. He then “did ravish and carnally know” Jessie in his boat, but she jumped into the water and escaped. Again she was not believed in court – and, again, Crick got off. Three of the Thames torsos had been discovered before Jessie’s ordeal. The fourth was discovered that September in Pinchin Street, across the river from Horselydown Old Stairs. That October, a 39-year-old named Sarah Warburton, whose poorly paid job was to sew fur trimmings onto clothes, had the misfortune to accept a lift in Crick’s boat. An illiterate mother of three, Sarah was, like Jessie before her, separated. On this occasion, though, Crick’s luck failed. To assault Sarah, he took his skiff to an out-of-the-way spot alongside a steamer moored underneath the half-finished Tower Bridge. But she hit him on the head with an iron bolt and fled, screaming, onto the ship’s deck. There she was heard by a passing police boat, and Crick was apprehended by Inspector Charles Ford as he tried to row away. At last, James Crick was convicted. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/dreamstimexxl150941857webready-75f4182-e1771418129790.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A photograph of Tower Bridge in London, lit up at night. Taken from below, there is a set of stone steps and a railing in the foreground, with the two towers of the bridge standing in the middle of the images. The bridge is lit up with yellow lights and the sky is a dark blue behind it." title="The remains of Horselydown Old Stairs leading to the river at Tower Bridge, which was being built at the time of the murders. It was from here that waterman James Crick worked – and perhaps picked up women to kill (Image by Dreamstime)" /> I suspect that was only because Sarah’s witness statement was backed up by that of a Metropolitan Police inspector. With his support, her testimony, so bravely given and so cleverly recovered by Sarah Bax Horton, was enough to put Crick behind bars. And once he was in prison, the bodies stopped appearing along the Thames. Chillingly, Sarah also reported something Crick had said to her during the attack: “I intend to settle you, as I have done other women that have been found in the Thames.” Was that a confession? I believe so. Read more | Hallie Rubenhold: “To most people, the women killed by the Ripper are just corpses. I want to tell a different story” Unmarked graves What became of the victims? Elizabeth Jackson was given a pauper’s burial in Brookwood Cemetery, Surrey, the largest graveyard in the world at the time. The torso found in Whitehall was also buried at Brookwood; neither grave is marked. The woman found in Pinchin Street was buried in the East London Cemetery, where she didn’t even get a funeral. Records do roughly indicate where their bodies lie, and these burial grounds are moving places to visit. In death, we can give these women the remembrance and respect they deserve. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/02/GettyImages-90748470webready-76d630c-e1771418795616.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black and white illustration showing an arched entrance to a train station, with ornate gates across the arch. Over the arch, the words CEMETERY STATION are written. At the top of the building, the word NECROPOLIS is written. To the left of the station entrance, there is a three storey building with four windows visible" title="The London terminus for the Necropolis Railway serving Brookwood Cemetery, where third victim Elizabeth Jackson was given a pauper’s burial (Image by Getty Images)" /> I believe that the Thames Torso Murderer claimed more victims than the four we know. If he truly was James Crick, then his abused wife, Rosina, and his rape targets Jessie and Sarah were also his victims. Rosina and Sarah managed to get on with their lives. The unfortunate Jessie did not. After a spell in the workhouse, she died at the age of 43 as “a drunkard and an unfortunate under the wheels of an omnibus”. She was a casualty not only of a terrible man but also of a society offering no safety net for women who fell on hard times. Three in the frame Which of these men might have committed the Thames Torso Murders? Jack Fairclough was a one-time partner of Elizabeth Jackson, and possibly the father of her child. They lived an itinerant life together, building up debts, and witnesses report that Jack had “unnaturally used” her. The police were obviously interested in this itinerant stonemason and army deserter, but Jack could prove that, at the time of Elizabeth’s death, he’d been away from London looking for work. James Hardiman was a cats’ meat man, a door-to-door pet-food salesman who worked with a barrow that would have been ideal for transporting a torso through London’s streets. The body of Ripper victim Annie Chapman was found in his mother’s backyard in Hanbury Street, Whitechapel, leading some to speculate that Hardiman was both Jack and the Thames Torso Murderer. However, their methods of killing seem too different. James Crick was a waterman who rowed passengers on the Thames in his boat Ally Sloper. Crick had the physical strength to commit the crimes. He also had the perfect means of distributing the body parts by water, and his boat could have provided a place where he could have dismembered the bodies out of sight. He had a history of violence against women, too. After Sarah Warburton, the target of his final identifiable rape attempt, gave testimony at trial, he was convicted and imprisoned – and the killings on the river ceased. (He was released in 1902, and died in 1907.) Crick, then, must be considered the prime suspect. This article was first published in the February 2026 issue of HistoryExtra magazine