The Mammoth Book of Losers

by Karl Shaw

  The dodo was living quite happily on the Indian ocean island of Mauritius until the start of the sixteenth century when a storm blew some Portuguese sailors in its direction. Things started to go badly for the species from then on. For the next 200 years, the ungainly but friendly bird that had never known a predator was an easy target, and not just for insults. Apart from ridiculing the dodo’s appearance, or its rolling gait, people were also rude about the taste of its flesh – not that it stopped them from clubbing the bird to death for fun. Then the cats, dogs and pigs they brought to the island with them found that dodo eggs were also easy meat, lying vulnerable in grassy nests on the forest floor. Soon after the forest itself began to disappear as people began to plant sugar cane where the bird liked to nest.

  By 1693, the dodo was extinct; only a handful of stuffed specimens was left. One was donated to the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, but was burned in 1755 by curators under orders to get rid of old and tatty artefacts. It was only when they looked for a replacement that they realized they had destroyed the last specimen in existence.

  “Hitler will end his career as an old man in some Bavarian village who, in the biergarten in the evening, tells his intimates how he nearly overturned the German Reich . . . The old man, they will think, is entitled to his pipe dreams.”

  Harold Laski, London Daily Herald, 1932

  Least Convincing Display of Supernatural Powers

  Empedocles, a Greek philosopher who lived in Sicily during the fifth century BC, was one of the most renowned geniuses in history and is attributed with a number of “firsts”. Some considered him the inventor of rhetoric, the art of public debate; others regarded him as the founder of the science of medicine in Italy. He was also the first person to realize that the Moon shines by reflected light from the Sun. He also came up with the first ever theory of evolution by which man and animals evolved from some ancient, monstrous forms. He is probably best known as the world’s first chemist because of his important insight into the nature of matter – he said that all things are composed of four primal elements: Earth, air, fire and water.

  In another insight, Empedocles came to believe that he was a god. In 433 BC, while seeking to prove his immortality to his supporters, he jumped into the crater of Mount Etna. The volcano spewed out one of his bronze sandals but there has been no sign of the owner since.3

  “We are probably nearing the limit of all we can know about astronomy.”

  Simon Newcomb, Canadian-born American astronomer, 1888

  Least Successful Declaration of Independence

  On 15 March 1939, the Republic of Carpatho-Ukraine declared its independence from Czechoslovakia with a former teacher, Augustin Voloshyn, as their new head of state.

  Boasting an armed force of just 12,500 men, it was annexed by Hungary the very next day, having enjoyed self-rule for twenty-four hours.

  “Louis Pasteur’s theory of germs is ridiculous fiction.”

  Pierre Pachet, British surgeon and Professor of Physiology at Toulouse, 1872

  Least Successful Cult

  The great Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras was the first person to insist that natural phenomena could be explained mathematically, paving the way for the study of Physics.

  Five hundred years before the birth of Christ, he also started up his own religion, which, at its peak, had around 300 followers living in a commune in Italy. Pythagoras’ new religion had three central tenets: (1) Do not kill; (2) Souls are reincarnated; (3) Beans are evil. He issued a long list of pithy precepts to his disciples, including “Don’t pick anything up that has fallen over”; “Never step over a pole”; “Don’t shake hands too eagerly”; “Refrain from handling white cockerels”; “Don’t look into a mirror by the light of a taper”; and, sensibly, “Never eat your own dog”. His followers were also forbidden from having sex during the summer (it was only permitted in winter). And, of course, they were forbidden to eat beans.

  Just after Pythagoras discovered his famous mathematical theorem, he celebrated by feasting on a roasted ox. This came as something of a surprise to his followers, who were also required to be strictly vegetarian. After a brief but wind-free existence, the cult disbanded after the commune was attacked and destroyed by a mob from the neighbouring town. Pythagoras himself died in a fight, which was also bad press for a pacifist.

  “The abolishment of pain in surgery is a chimera. It is absurd to go on seeking it . . . knife and pain are two words in surgery that must forever be associated in the consciousness of the patient.”

  Dr Alfred Velpeau, French surgeon, 1839

  Briefest Career as a Deity

  By an extraordinary coincidence, Captain James Cook’s arrival in Hawaii4 in 1779 came just in time for the local celebration of Makahiki, a festival dedicated to the god Lono. Not only did Cook’s ship, the Resolution, bear sails that looked very much like the large cloth banners that hung from the cross-bar standard of the Hawaiian god, but Cook had arrived directly from Kahiki (Tahiti) – according to legend, the home of Lono. Many Hawaiians believed that the mysterious, pale-skinned, strangely clothed visitor, equipped with wonderful objects brought from beyond the horizon, actually was Lono.

  Although the presence of Cook and his men put a great strain on their subsistence economy, the Hawaiians were understandably generous to the strangers. After all, they didn’t want to offend Lono and his earthly helpers. After a couple of weeks, Cook was ready to leave. His departure, fortuitously, also synchronized with the Lono legend and the Hawaiian sacred calendar.

  Soon after setting sail, however, disaster struck and the Resolution broke its foremast, forcing Cook to return to the island a week later. This time, the reception was distinctly cooler. According to legend, the god Lono was not supposed to come back quite so soon. And he had sailed the wrong way around the island. The Hawaiians became suspicious; perhaps the hospitality they had shown this stranger had been a waste of resources after all.

  The Hawaiians took to stealing from the seamen to restore the balance. Having been treated like a god the first time around, the grumpy Cook reacted harshly. When the Resolution’s cutter was stolen, he assembled a large landing party and took the Hawaiian High Chief hostage until it was returned. The chief, who knew nothing about the theft, was happy to go with Cook, but a number of his wives were not and they began to make a scene. In the ensuing commotion, a couple of thousand natives surrounded the landing party as they retreated to their boats. One of then clubbed Cook from behind and he fell to his knees in the surf, where he was stabbed to death.

  Hawaiian tradition says that he was killed by a chief named Kalanimanokahoowaha. That night, Cook returned the favour of all the feasts he had enjoyed as a god, when he was eaten himself. His heart was shared between the four most powerful chiefs on the island and his bones were distributed around the island as mementoes. Only the skull, hands and thighbones of the former god remained and were placed in a small coffin, which, after a brief service, was tossed into the Pacific Ocean.

  Least Successful Attempt to Spot a News Scoop

  In 1979, the Washington Post offered the San Francisco Chronicle the opportunity to syndicate a series of news stories two reporters named Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein were writing about a break-in at the Watergate Hotel, the Democratic headquarters in Washington, D. C. Chronicle owner Charles Thieriot turned them down. “There will be no West Coast interest in the story,” he explained.

  His rival, the San Francisco Examiner, stepped in and bought the rights to the hottest political news story of the century for $500.

  “Television? The word is half Latin and half Greek. No good can come of it.”

  C. P. Scott, editor of the Manchester Guardian (1872–1939)

  Worst Call by an Academic Expert

  Sir Hugh Trevor-Roper – Lord Dacre – had an enviable career. He was a best-selling author, Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford, a director of Times Newspapers and a peer of the realm. A glittering career history, undou
btedly, but when judged against the only benchmark that everyone remembers him for, he is seen by history as an abject loser, to put it mildly.

  In 1983, the German magazine Stern paid £2.3 million (about £50 a word) for “the publishing scoop of the century”, sixty-two volumes of Adolf Hitler’s diaries dated from 1932–45, covering the entire period of the Third Reich. The remarkable volumes, Stern reported, had been found by farmers in a plane crash at the end of the war and had eventually made their way into the hands of Stern’s investigative reporter, Gerd “the Detective” Heidemann. Suspiciously, the diaries shed little light on the momentous events of the age and were mostly a collection of banal personal musings.

  A typical excerpt dated June 1935, read: “Eva now has two dogs, so she won’t get bored.” An entry from December 1938 stated: “Now a year is nearly over. Have I achieved my goals for the Reich? Save for a few small details, yes!” Another during the 1936 Berlin Olympics revealed: “Eva wants to come to the Games in Berlin, have had tickets delivered to her and her girlfriends. Hope my flatulence doesn’t return during the Games.”

  Voices of scepticism were raised. Hitler, it was pointed out, could never be bothered to take notes, so he was an unlikely diarist. The diary covers were also decorated with the brass Gothic initials “F. H.”, the author having apparently mistaken the Gothic capital “A” for an “F” when he bought the type.

  Enter Lord Dacre. The great and much respected English historian examined the diaries and declared them genuine. He said, “I’m staking my reputation on it.” A few months later, they were exposed as a clumsy modern forgery, written in the back room of a Stuttgart shop by Konrad Kujau, a small-time dealer in Nazi memorabilia.

  On Saturday, 23 April 1983, the night before the Sunday Times was due to serialize the dairies as the genuine article, Sir Hugh changed his mind and decided they were a fake. Sunday Times owner Rupert Murdoch, who had just paid a fortune for serialization rights, was informed. But the newspaper had already been printed – so what was to be done? Murdoch instructed his editor, “Fuck Dacre. Publish.”

  Despite the short-term embarrassment, sales of the Sunday Times shot up, but Lord Dacre’s reputation, meanwhile, was heading in the opposite direction. Despite a lifetime of high achievement, when he died in 2003, The Times headline ran: “HITLER DIARIES HOAX VICTIM . . . DIES AT 89” .

  Herr Kujau’s more ambitious creations included a sequel to Mein Kampf, poems by Adolf Hitler and the beginnings of an opera penned by the Führer entitled Wieland der Schmied (“Wieland the Blacksmith”).

  Least Successful Missionary

  Preparation is the key for any successful missionary. Among David Livingstone’s provisions when he started his famous trek across Africa were seventy-three books weighing a total of 180 lbs. He eventually agreed to discard some of his portable library, but only after his weary porters had carried them for 300 miles. As the journey continued, his library grew progressively smaller until only his trusty Bible remained.5

  Livingstone died in Africa in 1873, after braving illness and years of paddling up and down snake-infested rivers, none of them, alas, leading to the source of the Nile. Along the way, he only ever converted a single African, who later lapsed.

  “X-rays will prove to be a hoax.”

  Lord Kelvin, President of the Royal Society, 1883

  Strangest Losing Bet

  The most extraordinary wager in history was made over a hundred years ago in a London club. One evening, in 1907, an American businessman, John Pierpoint Morgan, bet a British aristocrat, the Fifth Earl of Lonsdale, the then extravagant sum of £21,000 that it was not possible for a man to walk around the world without being recognized.

  The conversation was overheard by a certain Harry Bensley, a notorious gambler who had lost heavily to the two men and was desperate to find some way of repaying them. Bensley agreed to take up the challenge.

  There were certain conditions: he had to wear an iron mask for the whole trip and pay his way by selling pictures of himself. While travelling, he also had to find a woman who would marry him, he had to push a pram and carry only one change of underwear.

  Bensley set off from Trafalgar Square in London in January 1908 and was arrested a few miles down the road for selling postcards without a licence. No one knows for certain to what extent Bensley actually complied with the terms of the wager. There is no proof that he travelled far outside the British Isles but the legend claimed that he got as far as China and Japan. He was said to have received 200 marriage offers but accepted none of them and a newspaper was said to have promised £1,000 reward to anyone who could reveal his identity.

  Bensley supposedly got most of the way round the world and was in Italy on his way home in 1914 when the First World War broke out and he had to call the whole thing off.

  “For some years now, there has been promise of a large flat TV screen which would hang on the wall like a picture . . . [but it’s likely] we shall never see such a system in operation.”

  Science writer and BBC broadcaster Arthur Garratt, 1978

  Least Successful Picnic

  In 1982, Larry Walters, a truck driver and amateur aviation enthusiast from California, decided to build his own flying machine. One sunny summer’s afternoon, in his backyard in San Pedro, with the help of a few friends, he strapped forty-five helium-filled weather balloons to his favourite patio chair and armed himself with a pellet gun, a CB radio, a camera and a cooler full of sandwiches and beer.

  His plan was to cut the cord tethering him to the ground, rise to a height of thirty feet or so and have a little picnic. Then he’d just shoot out a couple of balloons with his pellet gun and float gently back to Earth.

  The maiden flight of Larry’s flying lawn chair far exceeded his expectations, or his basic grasp of physics. According to some reports, he didn’t shoot out the balloons for fear that the chair would tip. Instead of a gentle ascent to 200–300 feet he shot up to a height of 16,000 feet (about three miles), much to the surprise of a couple of passing airline pilots, who quickly alerted the Federal Aviation Authority that a drunken man with a gun was drifting in US airspace. Eventually, he touched down in the Long Beach area, but not before getting tangled in some power lines and knocking out power in the entire neighbourhood.

  Larry was arrested and eventually fined $1,500 by the FAA for violating airspace. When asked by a news reporter why he did it, he replied, “A man can’t just sit around.”

  Larry gave up his job as a truck driver to try a new career as a motivational speaker, with even less success than he’d enjoyed as an aeronaut. He took his own life in 1993 at the age of forty-four by shooting himself in the heart.

  Least Successful Reward Claim

  In 2012, a Taliban commander was captured after walking up to a US army checkpoint in Afghanistan brandishing a wanted poster featuring his own face and demanding the $100 reward money for his own arrest.

  Mohammad Ashan was wanted for organizing attacks on Afghan troops. A US soldier told the Washington Post, “We asked him, ‘Is this you?’ Mohammad Ashan replied, ‘Yes, yes, that’s me! Can I get my award now?’” US forces confirmed his identity using a biometric scan.

  “Clearly, the man is an imbecile,” a US official added.

  “We can close the books on infectious diseases.”

  Surgeon General of the United States William H. Stewart, 1969

  Egrets, I’ve Had a Few: Shortest Career as a Celebrity Chef

  The Victorian naturalist Francis Buckland was a popular author of natural history books, especially books on fishing. In 1859, he decided to branch out and try his hand as a latter-day Jamie Oliver by educating the British public on how they could ease food shortages by eating new types of meat.

  As a boy, he had experimented with squirrel pie, mice cooked in batter, hedgehog and garden snails, but he had his eye on more exotic items. In 1859, he set up the Society for the Acclimatisation of Animals in the United Kingdom after coming to an arrangement with London
Zoo whereby he would receive a cut of any animal that died. It was an excuse for Buckland and his friends to sample boiled elephant’s trunk (which he described as too rubbery, but OK in a soup); rhinoceros (like very tough beef); steamed and boiled kangaroo; wild boar; roasted parrot; garden snails; and earwigs.

  Some culinary experiments were more successful than others. His favourites were giraffe and boa constrictor, both apparently tasting like veal. Stewed Japanese sea slug were “like the contents of a glue pot”, while the boiled and fried head of a long-dead porpoise tasted like “broiled lamp wick”. He once ate a panther, after one was sent to him by the zoo. He noted, “It had been buried for two days, but I got them to dig it up. It was not very good.”

  In 1868, Buckland took part in an all-horse banquet, served to 160 people, to encourage the increased use of horses as a source of nutrition. After working his way through the entire eight courses, he conceded, “In my humble opinion, hippophagy has not the slightest chance of success in this country.”

  The End of the World Isn’t Nigh: Ten Failed Apocalyptic Predictions

  1. In the sixteenth century, an apocalyptic sect emerged in northern Europe called the Anabaptists. In 1534, a young Dutch Anabaptist called Jan Bockelson announced himself to the inhabitants of the German town of Munster by running naked through the streets before collapsing into a three-day trance. Upon emerging from his stupor, he claimed that he had received messages from God, on the basis of which he was setting up a New Jerusalem in Munster ahead of Christ’s imminent Second Coming.