Censored by The Guardian

[Don Jeffries]

One almost feels sorry for the dinosaur mainstream media at this point. They have become largely irrelevant. Younger people understand how much easier it is to access information on the internet, without the overt filters these overpaid "journalists" provide. Here in the U.S., an Alex Jones has millions of listeners, while a Chris Matthews or Rachel Maddow is lucky to come within 500,000 of his audience.

The "official" stories these laughable "reporters" construct, at the behest of their government and corporate overlords, are so pathetic that they are deconstructed within minutes by young adults living in their parents' basements, in videos, posts and articles on the internet. These "unprofessional" works of deconstruction constitute the kind of real investigative journalism that highly paid members of the mainstream media are probably incapable of doing.

[Peter Lemkin]

[Paul Rigby]

So now we know - the Grauniad serves up pap and censors the better to tickle its readers' fancy. Really.

As ever, the true delights are to be found below the line: "The erotics of not knowing, ffs. How could someone write that without feeling a complete pillock?"

Why, for money, dear boy, for money.

For me, the thrill of history is often all about the erotics of not knowing
I'd rather not know who Jack the Ripper was. When mysteries are wide open, they become flooded with possibility

Kathryn Hughes
The Guardian, Sunday 28 December 2014 15.41 GMT

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree...-anastasia

The year 2014 turned out to be the one when history got solved, once and for all. In September, the author Russell Edwards announced he had DNA proof that Jack the Ripper was a barber called Aaron Kosminski. The same month, Canadian marine explorers declared they had finally located HMS Erebus the ship in which the British polar explorer Sir John Franklin was last seen entering Baffin Bay in 1845 in his attempt to navigate the Northwest Passage. And then, to cap it all, we learned this month that Richard III he of the beetle-black pageboy bob was actually nearer to blond.

These are all mysteries that have kept history geeks going for generations. Well, perhaps not the one about the colour of Richard III's hair although it did make a lovely coda to the discovery of his skewwhiff skeleton in that Leicester car park in 2012. So to have these conundrums solved should result in a kind of ecstatic release, a rush of pleasure. Some philosophers call it the erotics of knowing.

But actually, after that first climax of delight in being able to bang in the final bit of the historical jigsaw, a curious flatness sets in. For a few brief minutes, it's extraordinary to be able to stare into a photograph of Kosminski and imagine what it might have been like if his was the last face you saw on Earth. Or to be finally able to start to understand what happened to Franklin's expedition, a hubristic endeavour that ended up with his beleaguered crew snacking on each other once the tinned supplies ran out. But after that comes … simply the detumescence of having nothing left to learn.

The fact is, we need our historical mysteries in order to keep the past fizzing with energy. It's these tantalising, ticklish absences that pull us in as children to the idea that the olden days are not yet done and dusted. Instead, there's the lingering possibility that we might be the ones to solve the riddle or, in the case of Jack the Ripper, the crime. Until, that is, DNA came along and spoiled everything.

My obsession with the Russian revolution started when I was eight years old and saw the film Anastasia on Saturday afternoon television. It's the one in which Ingrid Bergman plays the Romanov princess, who at the time of the film's making (1956) was believed to have survived the 1918 slaughter in Yekaterinburg and be living incognito in Europe. Bergman got an Oscar for it.

I instantly became convinced that Anna Anderson, on whom the character of Anna in the film is based, was indeed the Princess Anastasia incognito. What's more, I a little girl from Sussex would be able to prove it. I would travel to America where Anderson now resided and announce the good news to her myself. Together we would live as princesses really should.

In the 1990s, DNA testing proved that Anna Anderson was an imposter. I was devastated and shocked; to be honest, I am still a bit in mourning. Which is why I'm not sure how many more solved mysteries I can bear. For whereas once upon a time it really was possible for an inspired amateur sleuth to solve historical mysteries that had left the experts scratching their heads for decades, what hope is there now? Unless you have the funds to run a state-of-the-art laboratory out of your spare bedroom, you're pretty much obliged to leave history to the professionals, and watch the results on television.

There is, though, one chink of hope. In October came the news that the identity of Jack the Ripper may not in fact be solved. There was a bungle, apparently, with the way they did the DNA testing. Don't ask me for the details, but apparently the consequence is that the murderer is no more likely to have been Aaron Kosminski than thousands of others. The mystery is wide open again. At a stroke the past has become flooded with possibility; and the erotics of knowing and not knowing are back in play.