Latest news with #1970s
The Guardian
17 hours ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘People would prevail': why The Towering Inferno is my feelgood movie
Among the many reasons I'm long overdue for therapy would be that I consider a feature about a bunch of people trapped in a burning skyscraper as a feelgood movie. But there it is: the stunning effects (which hold up to this day), the sprawling, larger-than-life cast and accompanying who-will-make-it-to-the-end? suspense, the earnest, cheeseball dialogue – whenever I feel anxious or down, something about The Towering Inferno offers solace. The most obvious reason boils down to one thing: nostalgia. My parents were film enthusiasts who would usually take us to a movie every week. And this was no ordinary experience: The Towering Inferno was the crown jewel in the 1970s disaster cycle, disdained by many critics for being trashy (while acknowledging it was entertaining trash). It was the talk of the schoolyard: whose parents were cool enough to actually take their kids to see this big-screen spectacle? Thus it was one of my primal filmgoing experiences: it accompanies fond memories of my parents treating us to something that felt as exhilarating as the circus. As I began film studies at university, the case for The Towering Inferno only became stronger: a genre analysis of the film suggested people were lining up to see it (it was the box office champ of '74) because it reminded them of America itself, enduring the horrors of Vietnam, Watergate, racial strife and a flurry of political assassinations. Disaster movie casts were so full of familiar faces that everyone could find someone to identify with. But as I continued to revisit the film – and all of the 70s disaster movies – it was clear they were also about old-school Hollywood grappling with the reality of the New Hollywood. Young directors were breaking the rules, independent production was expanding, the Hays code had expired and the studio system would never be the same. Stars of yesteryear such as Fred Astaire, Jennifer Jones and (notoriously conservative) William Holden held court with the new iconoclastic superstars like Steve McQueen, Paul Newman (who had made Nixon's enemies list and declared it his proudest achievement) and Faye Dunaway (who, seven years earlier, had starred in Bonnie and Clyde, considered the breakout moment for the New Hollywood period). Each star inhabited their own mini-melodrama: would the ambitious journalist (Dunaway) leave her career to be with her lover? (He was played by Newman; did we have to ask?) Will the con artist (Astaire) reveal to his new crush (Jones) that his initial plan was to trick her into a scam? And really, is anyone actually safe when OJ Simpson is head of security? There were so many stars in this – hell, even one of the Brady Bunch (Mike Lookinland) is here as the obligatory precocious child – it was like watching Hollywood Squares goes to hell. Not only were the actors forced to endure a lot of fiery heat during filming, they also had to utter some mind-numbingly rotten dialogue. When the secretary (Susan Flannery) having a secret affair with the building's publicist (Robert Wagner) realizes they are probably going to get burned alive, she says: 'Well, I always did want to die in bed.' How did anyone survive this screenplay? These lines were undoubtedly always groaners, but they've fermented into high-level camp. The meaning of each of those actors was something I encountered in further adventures in film studies. In his landmark 1979 book Stars, British author Richard Dyer analyzes the ideological meanings of various Hollywood luminaries. When I spoke to him about developing his ideas for the book, Dyer confirmed that The Towering Inferno – with its complex, contradictory gaggle of stars of various levels of fame and clashing symbolic meanings – was part of his inspiration. If The Towering Inferno boiled over with old-versus-new tension, the people making it were clearly in the old-school camp. The film reminded us that even in uncertain times, American heroics, personified by square-jawed masculine protagonists, were alive and well. Sure, America and Hollywood had their downsides and greedy villains, but ultimately, there would be valiant survivors and people would prevail. Despite deep divisions, bad actors (real and literal) and brutal catastrophes, there are still good people around who will perform good deeds. Even in a deeply divided America, a collective challenge reminded us that we were all in this together – that something will emerge from the ruins of a tortured decade. A dozen years after the Cuban missile crisis, the idea that anyone was left standing by the film's final crane shot was in itself miraculous. Come to think of it, it feels like it's time to watch The Towering Inferno again. The Towering Inferno is available to buy digitally in the US and rent digitally in the UK
Yahoo
a day ago
- Business
- Yahoo
Why Larry DiMarzio decided to start a pickup line that would change the face of guitar music in the 1970s
When you buy through links on our articles, Future and its syndication partners may earn a commission. The surname 'DiMarzio' is now inextricably linked to the DiMarzio brand, one of the world's leading electric guitar pickup firms. Larry DiMarzio, the man behind it all, started his career as a guitar repairman in New York in the early 1970s, before his keen ears and business acumen noticed that there was a gap in the market: pickups that delivered even greater tone. 'I started working at the Guitar Lab around '71 or '72,' he tells Guitarist. 'I was going to work at a professional guitar shop around the corner of 48th Street [in New York City] and I suddenly had access to tons of guitars that were coming through the shop for repair. Or I'd go down to Manny's, pick up a Stratocaster, and say, 'This is like a dead tuna,' you know?' As DiMarzio asserts, 'Pickups seemed to be the way to compensate for the shortcomings of new guitars. When I first started working on pickups, the first pickup that got built was a Strat pickup just because I had Strats at the time.' Lo and behold, DiMarzio created the now-iconic FS-1 pickup, a replacement for the stock Fender Strat bridge pickup – and some pretty well-known guitarists flocked to it, including early adopter David Gilmour. Later, Earl Slick, Ace Frehley, Al Di Meola, Paul Stanley, and Gene Simmons all became associated with the fledgling DiMarzio brand. 'I had this fabulous old Telecaster. It was very acoustic and it rang beautifully. But it wasn't the sound that I was hearing on Eric Clapton records,' DiMarzio replies when asked how the idea for the FS-1 pickup came about. 'Being in the city with a lot of professional players, you quickly learn that – like the pros did – you could figure out hardware that worked in certain ways. 'The first solution that I came up with was, of course, to increase the output of the Stratocaster pickup. But I also EQ'd it in a different way. If you're playing in clubs, there are common problems, so what rapidly happened was – and as you said, which was spot on, I was a guitar repairman – people came in and wanted them, which eventually led to me opening my own shop.' Another of DiMarzio's inventions was the Super Distortion humbucker pickup, designed to perfectly fit into the standard Gibson humbucker mounting – creating a more-than-worthy opponent for run-of-the-mill 'buckers. For more Larry DiMarzio, plus new interviews with Bob Mould and Scott Gorham, pick up issue 525 of Guitarist at Magazines Direct.
The Sun
2 days ago
- Business
- The Sun
I tried supermarket chicken kievs – my winner was cheap and had a delicious ingredient that added an amazing crunch
GOLDEN, garlicky and oozing with buttery filling - we all love a chicken kiev. They were first introduced to the UK by Marks & Spencer in the 1970s as its very first ready meal. 4 Today, supermarket shelves are packed with options, from budget packs to 'gastro' meals. But which are best? We grabbed our knives and forks (and a LOT of napkins) to put a selection of supermarket chicken kievs to the ultimate taste test. Whether you're after an easy option to feed picky kids on a playdate, or rustling up a posh twist on a retro classic for dinner, we've picked the perfect kievs. LUCY TOBIN finds out: Tesco Breaded 4 Garlic Chicken Kievs (500g) £2.75 277 calories per 100g At just 93p per portion, this is Tesco's mid-range offering and my kids loved it. With the packet of four kievs cooking from frozen in 30 minutes, I found the pack made for a convenient family dinner. There's an average 277kcal per 100g, so on the high side for dieters. The actual meat content in this chicken kiev stands at only 53%, which explains the soft texture. The coating wasn't as crunchy as others, and the garlic butter centre is mild and creamy rather than packing a herby punch. This helped explain its popularity amongst the kids: it tastes a bit like a giant chicken nugget with a garlic butter dip, and everyone's plates were almost licked clean. Free from artificial flavours, colours, and preservatives, Tesco's chicken kievs tick the box for a fuss-free family meal, being affordable, mild, and easy to cook – but they lack the wow factor for a special dinner. 3/5 Exceptional by ASDA 2 Wild Garlic Chicken Kievs (385g) £4.98 221 calories per 100g 4 These kievs stood out for their generous size: they were far chunkier than the other chicken dinners we tried. Maybe their wonky scale comes from the fact that these chicken kievs are made with whole chicken breast, not reformed meat – it's less fast food nugget, more restaurant-style mains. The chicken is tender and juicy, and holds its shape together properly when cut. But when you do cut it, a rich, buttery wild garlic filling oozes out. It's smooth and herby, with a really strong garlic and parsley hit. You won't worry about a vampire visit with this on your breath. The breadcrumb coating on Asda's wild garlic kievs crisped up evenly in the oven, providing a satisfying brown crunch without going soggy. And it's 221kcal per 100g, if that's a concern. Visually, these kievs look posh – thick, golden, and well-filled. At almost a fiver for two, they're no bargain, but the generous size, honed recipe and well-balanced flavour justify the higher price for a special weekend dinner. 4/5 Sainsbury's Fresh British Chicken Breaded Kyiv with Garlic & Herb Butter x2 (260g) £3 259 calories per 100g 4 What stood out about Sainsbury's two-pack of chicken kievs was that they were almost mess-free. Unlike the others, this garlic and herb butter filling stayed inside the chicken during the oven cooking process, so there was no elbow grease required to wash up the baking tray. Still very buttery, though, and coming in at 259kcal per 100g. The chicken breast was tender and moist, while the breadcrumb coating was satisfyingly crunchy, although not quite as crisp as Aldi's kiev. The herb blend in the butter tastes fresh and perfectly garlicky. This was decent value for the portion size - it fed two adults and a child in our household, and delivers on both taste and looks for a popular midweek meal. 4/5 How to save money on your food shop Consumer reporter Sam Walker reveals how you can save hundreds of pounds a year: Odd boxes - plenty of retailers offer slightly misshapen fruit and veg or surplus food at a discounted price. Lidl sells five kilos of fruit and veg for just £1.50 through its Waste Not scheme while Aldi shoppers can get Too Good to Go bags which contain £10 worth of all kinds of products for £3.30. Sainsbury's also sells £2 "Taste Me, Don't Waste Me" fruit and veg boxes to help shoppers reduced food waste and save cash. Food waste apps - food waste apps work by helping shops, cafes, restaurants and other businesses shift stock that is due to go out of date and passing it on to members of the public. Some of the most notable ones include Too Good to Go and Olio. Too Good to Go's app is free to sign up to and is used by millions of people across the UK, letting users buy food at a discount. Olio works similarly, except users can collect both food and other household items for free from neighbours and businesses. Yellow sticker bargains - yellow sticker bargains, sometimes orange and red in certain supermarkets, are a great way of getting food on the cheap. But what time to head out to get the best deals varies depending on the retailer. You can see the best times for each supermarket here. Super cheap bargains - sign up to bargain hunter Facebook groups like Extreme Couponing and Bargains UK where shoppers regularly post hauls they've found on the cheap, including food finds. "Downshift" - you will almost always save money going for a supermarket's own-brand economy lines rather than premium brands. The move to lower-tier ranges, also known as "downshifting" and hailed by consumer expert Martin Lewis, could save you hundreds of pounds a year on your food shop. Aldi's Sourdough Breaded Wild Garlic & Jersey Butter Chicken Kievs, two pack, (375g) £3.99 221 calories per 100g I was sceptical about whether sourdough was really needed on a chicken kiev or just a bit of foodie buzzword bingo. It sounded like a marketing gimmick - until I bit into the brilliantly crunchy, deep golden crust. Oh, it was delicious. The chicken inside was succulent too, and the garlic butter oozed out perfectly. It seems the sourdough crumb wasn't just for show, as it added a toasty flavour and an extra crunch that set Aldi's chicken kiev apart from those with usual breadcrumb coating. And they come in at 221kcal per 100g. The only downside was that the garlicky interior squirted out quite violently during the baking process, leaving an oven cleaning job that I didn't want to face after opting for a quick convenience meal for dinner - next time I'll use the air fryer. Crunchy and flavoursome kievs, though. 5/5 Deluxe Lidl Garlic and Herb Chicken Kievs, (385g) £3.99 230 calories per 100g This was a chunky chicken kiev, with a generous portion and a herb-heavy filling. In fact, the centre tasted more like cooked green veg than garlic - the flavour wasn't as strong as in other dishes, so it will appeal to those who prefer milder tastes. The breadcrumb coating is crisp and evenly golden, although not as crunchy as Aldi or Asda's meals. The chicken breast meat had a good, juicy texture, and the kiev came in at 230kcal per 100g - about standard for this dish. Overall, a decent dish, but it didn't stand out like some others, and, at £3.99, it's not the bargain we sometimes expect of Lidl. 3/5 Iceland 4 Garlic & Herb Butter Chicken Breast Kievs 500g, £3.50 These chicken kievs are coated in pale breadcrumb and also look like giant chicken nuggets - they're not a posh option to wow friends over dinner, but they're brilliant value. At 87p per kiev, they are a top choice for an easy supper or when your kids have invited friends for tea. The filling is nice and green thanks to the herbs, and properly garlicky, although some parts did look a bit oily. The chicken was tasty enough but not as succulent as others and tasted a bit dry in parts. Overall, a good value option but no show-stopper. 3/5
Yahoo
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Ray Winstone is developing a new TV show based in 1970s London
Ray Winstone is developing his own TV series. The 68-year-old British actor has teamed up with one of the creatives on 'The Departed' to create a new show which is set in London in the 1970s and carries on in the UK capital through the decades focusing on the dark underbelly of the city. In an interview with iFL TV, he spilled: 'I'm working on something with an old mate of mine; we worked together years ago on 'The Departed'. "We've put together a series about London from the '70s, all the way through up to today.' Before Ray starts filming that he is reprising his role as Bobby Glass in Guy Ritchie's Netflix crime drama 'The Gentlemen', which also stars Theo James and Kaya Scodelario. Production on the follow-up series has begun and Ray is looking forward to getting stuck into his scenes after enjoying a break from acting. He said: 'I'm looking forward to getting back into the graft. 'Bobby Glass is back. I'm still in the prison, still nicked, but that's the best place for him. 'It's nice because I can come in and out and that way my daughter runs the business. It's a good dynamic. "I've got three scripts. I think we're moving into the legalisation of cannabis and all that stuff. 'To be honest, I haven't seen the rest of the script so I don't know where the journey goes. In a way, it's a good thing. I don't mind that with this, because some of it is all over the place. 'And then Guy edits it and puts it all together and it becomes a story. It kind of worked that way last time.' 'The Gentlemen' TV series is based on Guy's 2019 film of the same name. But Ray has never watched the crime comedy film - which starred Matthew McConaughey, Charlie Hunnam, Michelle Dockery, Colin Farrell and Hugh Grant, among others - because he didn't want his own performance to be influenced by that cast and story. He said: "I'll probably watch that after I finish. 'You want to bring your own mark to it." Joining the cast of 'The Gentlemen' Series 2 is Hugh Bonneville who will be portraying a new crook. The first series of 'The Gentlemen' became one of Netflix's most-watched shows when it was released in 2024 and the new instalment is set to be released on the streaming service in early 2026. The first season saw Theo's character Eddie Horniman become the new Duke of Halstead after his father's death. Unbeknown to him initially, he also inherits an illegal cannabis farm that is located underneath his family's estate and run by the ruthless Susie Glass (Scodelario) with her crime boss father Bobby Glass (Winstone).
Yahoo
2 days ago
- General
- Yahoo
I was banned from my father's funeral
As a child I was terrified of my dad dying. He was wild and filled with creative turbulence, but he was my rock. After my parents separated when I was 11, I lived with him in a household that was chaotic and exciting in ways you'd expect in the artistic London of the 1970s. There were lots of girlfriends and I didn't always know where he was or when he'd be home. But we played piano duets and cooked together, attempting the Russian émigré food of his childhood. Peter Zinovieff was a pioneer in electronic and computer music, and his studio was in our Putney house – apparently the first home with a computer. He worked with rock stars like Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Ringo Starr and Kraftwerk, who used his EMS synthesisers. Contemporary composers like Harrison Birtwistle and Hans Werner Henze were family friends and concocted astonishing pieces using early versions of sampling. Whoever was in the studio that day was invited to lunch. Later, things went downhill. Money problems and messy relationships were exacerbated by alcohol addiction. But we always remained close. I supported Peter through the worst times and was relieved when he finally settled down, stopped drinking, married for the fourth time, and restarted a creative life that had been dormant for decades. He and his wife came to stay; I went to stay with them. We spoke frequently on the phone. He became a grand old man of electronic music – a nicely unlikely oxymoron. Then, when my father died in 2021 aged 88, I learnt that his home-made will excluded me, my siblings and anyone but his wife from attending his funeral. The ashes would go in her back garden. The shock of this rejection was awful. Why would he ban his children? A lack of imagination for our feelings? Or was he protecting his widow from the line-up of ex-wives, lovers, friends and relations – some hurt, some angry – who had also played a part in a long life that was, to put it politely, 'complicated'? I expected to feel grief for my beloved dad – but not to be devastated by the absence of a funeral. After all, who enjoys a crematorium? Yet I longed to go where his body was, to take part in a ceremony, to wear an item of his clothing, to be with others who mourned him. It was visceral. We are animals who congregate around the dead. Even elephants do it. But I also realised I was far from the first, or only, person to suffer this way. 'Missing, presumed dead' provokes a hell worse than bereavement for those left waiting. And the Covid lockdowns robbed countless people of the chance to say goodbye. The sick died alone. Funerals became forlorn affairs where hugs were banned. Sterile screens replaced the warmth of drink and food that normally revive mourners after a burial or burning. Who could forget the image of the tiny, stoic Queen sitting alone at Prince Philip's funeral, obeying the rules? I asked the celebrated psychotherapist, author and podcaster Julia Samuel (Grief Works and This Too Shall Pass) why we need death rituals. 'Funerals allow people to grieve together and to mark and honour the person they love. But the task is also to face the reality of the loss. The funeral forces you to know that the person is dead, something that needs to be acknowledged by the five senses. 'You see the coffin or the open coffin, you smell the flowers and candles, you hear the music or sing, you taste the food and drink afterwards. You return to these memories later and they help you to root yourself in the reality. If you don't see the person and you have no funeral, it's like with missing soldiers in the First World War – there's a surreal sense that they haven't died. You know it but you don't feel it.' 'Death is the great exposer,' Samuel has written. 'It forces hidden fault lines and submerged secrets into the open.' I witnessed this firsthand. My siblings and I didn't all grow up together, and each of us has a different story to tell. We'd rarely met as a group – there's only one photo of us all. It's 1992. Peter is roguishly sprawled across our laps. He's been drinking. We're grinning, though I can sense the anxiety beneath it. I'm the oldest, with two younger brothers, then three sisters with a different mother, and our youngest half-brother, who would die of an overdose at 27 – six years before our dad. The dramas of Peter's life didn't end with his death. They continued, shifting the tectonic plates. Our stepmother was unequivocally committed to carrying out his wishes, so we didn't gather in Cambridge as we'd expected. Instead, we met on video calls. I was at home in Greece, the three sisters in Vancouver, New York and London, one brother in the Hebrides and another in Brighton. During the on-screen gatherings, our framed faces blurred from technical glitches and tears. A two-dimensional box set of grief and bewilderment, we wept and laughed and, over the next wretched weeks, we became family in a new way. When the author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's father died, she wrote: 'Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger.' In our own conversations and reckonings, there was rage – especially about our dad's drinking and its terrible consequences, his lack of support, his ruthlessness towards his children, and his blinkered approach to romantic relationships, which could make him forget everyone else. It was impossible not to talk about his marriage, in his 50s, to a girl of 18 – now the devastated mother of our dead brother. We also examined our dad's childhood traumas and the possible epigenetic impacts. His own mother was largely absent – the Russian 'Red Princess' I later wrote a book about, a British communist tailed by MI5, who saved Jewish lives in France while interned by the Nazis. When Peter was 18, his father was killed in a train crash and his stepmother banned him from the family home. But we also acknowledged our dad's magic: his ability to draw people together and inspire incredible creations; the adventures up mountains or camping on deserted islands; his fascination with both the sciences and the arts, which fuelled his brilliant imagination. He was a huge influence on my childhood and youth, encouraging me to read, write, play music and paint. It seemed entirely normal that, aged 12, I should sit beside him in his porch study on a remote Hebridean island, working on my own projects. While he wrote an impossibly complex libretto (complete with an invented language) for Birtwistle's The Mask of Orpheus, I drew stage set plans in felt pen. One of these was later used for the opera's CD cover. In the weeks before my father's cremation, I became increasingly distressed at being persona non grata around his death. There was no proper explanation – but we were to be kept even from his ashes. Amid the outrage and humour of the Zinovieff siblings' video calls, someone joked about staging a heist to steal the ashes in Cambridge. 'Or get there first at the funeral home.' I wrote notes every day; it helped, even when misery made reading peculiarly difficult. That writing eventually led to a novel. I imagined the escapade an unlikely group of resourceful siblings might undertake if banned from their father's funeral. Unlike Peter, the eponymous hero of Stealing Dad is a London-based Greek sculptor, and his sixth wife is nothing like my stepmother. His many scattered offspring bear no resemblance to me or my siblings. We didn't 'steal Dad'. But sometimes, in dreamy magical thinking – as American writer Joan Didion describes in The Year of Magical Thinking – it feels as though we did. I enjoy the blurring. At the time of the cremation, I was on a Greek island. There seemed little point in returning to England, although a few friends and family gathered for prayers in a Russian church in London. Instead, I climbed a mountain with my husband and dog, sat outside a Byzantine chapel and sobbed over the double loss – of my father and his funeral. Greeks found my situation hard to comprehend. Most follow centuries-old Orthodox traditions; funerals are a community matter and the ample memorials (at three, seven, nine and 40 days, then yearly if wanted) offer a continuing structure for powerful emotions. The bereaved congregate again and again, processing their loss, saying prayers and distributing kollyva – a 'food for the dead' that has been eaten at gravesides for millennia. The anthropologist Kate Fox (Watching the English) was also kept from her elderly father's cremation last year. However, she believes his intentions were generous – to spare his family the 'chore' of travel to the US and the ordeal of a 'sterile Western-style ceremony'. Robin Fox was not alone in requesting no funeral; perhaps David Bowie set a trend. Some don't want 'a fuss'. Eschewing ritual and religion might seem to 'keep things simple' in our increasingly secular society. Others donate their bodies to science. But these minimalists ignore the needs of the living. Like me, Kate Fox felt a void. 'Why did you feel deprived?' I asked. 'Because I'm human! The earliest known Homo sapiens from 120,000 years ago buried their dead. Archaeologists look for this ritual as a characteristic of being a 'proper' human. Look at the controversy of whether Neanderthals put flowers on graves and whether the small-brained Homo naledi [200-300,000 years ago] held burials.' Robin Fox was an influential anthropologist who forgot about the 'fundamental biological human need to matter to people and them to matter to you'. But his daughter was helped some months later, by her (and my) old lecturer at Cambridge. Emeritus prof of anthropology Alan Macfarlane hosted a day of ceremony, discussion and dinner at King's College, inviting family, colleagues and admirers. 'Did it work?' I probed. 'A hundred per cent. It was a social marking of my father 'mattering'.' I'm still sad that Peter's friends, colleagues and relations weren't given the chance to come together and make it clear that he 'mattered.' Sometimes I've felt irrationally dejected for not doing the often tedious tasks that follow a death – what Rev Richard Coles calls 'sadmin' in The Madness of Grief. I even feel a sting of envy when friends complain about the arduous sorting through a deceased parent's belongings. Caroline Lucas, former Green Party MP, says, 'We are rubbish at dealing with and talking about death… the last taboo.' We need to become 'grief-literate.' Yes! And talk about plans in advance. If we don't like the standard funerary fare, we can create our own death rituals – traditional or alternative; sacred, humanist or invented. Plumed horses and marching bands, Buddhist sky burials or 'cryomation' machinery. Gatherings in woods, at riverside ghats, or in brutalist-designed crematoria. These processes help guide us along grief's painful, unpredictable road. Without them, we are unmoored and alone. 'No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear,' wrote CS Lewis after his wife died. 'I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach…' Eventually, after a very long year, our stepmother gave us some ashes. All six siblings congregated on the Hebridean island our dad had loved. My cabinet-maker nephew, Tom Zinovieff, crafted a handsome oak box, which we buried on a peaty hill with the world's best view. Peter used to point there when we were young, saying, 'That's where you should bury me.' We lugged river stones, fossils and flowers as decoration and, since then, I've discovered the heart-soothing process of 'tending a grave'. We mourned the absence of our seventh member, our youngest brother, gone much too early. There followed a fierce conflagration on the beach with some remaining ashes and, by the time we'd eaten a picnic, slugged some whisky and drunk bonfire tea, I felt transformed – drained, but with a new sensation of peace. I don't believe in 'closure' but the rituals had worked. And they had a distinct flavour of the best aspects of my wild dad. Stealing Dad, by Sofka Zinovieff (Corsair, £20), is out now Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
