Cautionary Tales with Tim Harford - When Muhammad Ali Met Henry’s Hammer

Episode Date: September 25, 2026

Before he became Muhammad Ali, Cassius Clay was known as the "Louisville Loud-mouth", as famous for his sharp taunts and poetic put-downs as he was for his skills in the ring. In 1963, Clay arrived in England to take down beloved British Heavyweight, Henry Cooper. Clay is the clear favourite, but the showdown will be remembered as one of boxing history's most shocking battles, changing both men forever and showing what it really means to win.  For a list of sources, see the show notes at timharford.com Join our Cautionary Club to get episodes ad-free, hear bonus interviews and get an extra Cautionary Tale every month .See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is an I-Heart podcast. Guaranteed Human. Malcolm Gladwell here. My new book, The American Way of Killing, investigates America's gun violence crisis. Why is the richest country in the world plagued by such lethal violence? Through a series of stories, interviews, and archival tape,

I confront one of today's most urgent moral dilemmas and examine why the U.S. has never quite understood its own problem and why you can't fix what you refuse to see clearly. Pre-order the American Way of Killing at Pushkin.fm slash audiobooks or wherever audiobooks are sold. Pushkin. Henry Cooper is nothing but a tramp, a bum, a cripple not worth training for. Twenty-one-year-old boxer Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. was newly arrived in London and didn't think much of the British heavyweight champ had come to fight.

To Clay, this London bout was a formality, an inconvenience even. The boxer had his eyes set on the world title. Unfortunately, the champion he'd have to unseat, Sonny Liston was already committed to fighting other challenges. Until a title shot freed up, Clay needed another lesser fixture to swell his bank balance and keep his muscles toned. Britain's Henry Cooper was no slouch.

He was ranked fifth in the whole world, but that meant little to Clay. Clay was already coining a catchphrase, telling anyone who'd listen, I am the greatest. Britons didn't quite know what to make of the young African-American who'd landed on their shores. Heavyweights normally lumbered, hunched and defensive around the ring. But Clay danced and pranced across the canvas, sometimes with his gloves down by his side, so everyone could see his pretty face. So as a boxer, Clay could be considered a clown then. And yet, he was undefeated and had won the Olympic gold. He had fought some of the hardest men in the

sport, and they'd barely laid a glove on him. One hundred and ninety-nine fights, Clay boasted, and still as pretty as a girl. And it was exactly this sort of remark that further puzzled Clay's British hosts. Clay talked and talked and talked. He described Buckingham Palace as a swell pad and mused that, since Britain had a queen but no king, maybe he should be crowned in the role. One British reporter dubbed Clay the pugilist parrot. But there was a lively mind behind that restless tongue.

Clay loved nothing more than replying to interviewers in rhyming couplets. When they queried me about the coop about, I answered with Shakespearean thrift. When they asked which round I'd knock Henry out, I answered. Henry, the fifth. Predicting how many rounds he'd take to demolish an opponent was a clay trademark. He vowed to finish world champion Sunny Liston in eight, but Henry Cooper, the tramp, the bum, the cripple,

would survive only five. Despite his incessant goading and insults, the young American warned Henry Cooper not to retaliate in kind. He's a bomb. I'm the world's greatest. He must fall in five rounds, but if you talk about me, I'll cut it three. Fight night was set for June the 18th, 1963. And at Wembley Stadium, the hallowed home of English soccer, an open-air ring was being prepared. It would be a fight that would change both men. forever. I'm Tim Harford, and you're listening to another cautionary tale. For his training base,

Cassius Clay set up in an army drill hall opposite to a tube station in an unfashionable part of West London. The drab location deterred neither the press nor the paying public from coming to see the sensation from Louisville, Kentucky. But seeing clay was only part of the attraction. Londoners really coughed up half a crown, roughly ten bucks today, to hear the man. Whether sparring, shadow boxing, or checking his own handsome reflection in the mirror, Clay kept up his ceaseless verbal assault on the British champ, Henry Cooper. For this guy, it embarrasses me to train that hard. I've been training with three sparring partners who can all lick Cooper.

The assembled reporters lapped up such quotes and prodded Clay into ever more extreme insults. Man, Cooper is in trouble, Clay went on. I'm in a mean mood and that means somebody is going to get hurt. Such pre-fight theatrics are commonplace today. But in 1963, fighters had never talked like this before. Certainly not this incessantly. Clay talked in the ring, in the gym, in his dressing room.

He even opened the doors of his posh hotel suite to regale reporters with his wit and wisdom. They crowned him the Louisville Loudmouth, the Kentucky Claxon. And finally, Gaseous Clay. These journalists simply loved Clay's constant stream of quotable guff, but the stories they wrote weren't again. exactly flattering. In Britain, it's easiest to win hearts with modesty, self-deprecation, and a generous charm. But Clay was proving himself a big head, a braggot, and above all,

a bully. Belittling the quiet local hero, Cooper, and calling him rude names. Clay's swagger was starting to annoy British fight fans. But others too. found it regrettable. Civil rights activists back home in America figured a bright, erudite, successful sportsmen would be an asset in the fight against segregation. But disappointingly, Clay used his platform to insult his fellow African-American boxers,

often using terms that echoed the racist tropes of ugly, animalistic black men. When asked about their local... quacious prize fighter. The men behind Clay just chuckled. Expecting him to keep quiet, one said, was like inviting Brigitte Bardot over and asking her not to wear a tight-fitting sweater. Clay was an employee of the Louisville sponsoring group, a syndicates of Kentucky's business elite. These rich white men had each contributed a few thousand. tax-deductible, to bankroll Clay's training and pay him a salary.

And in return, they'd take 50% of everything he earned inside and outside the ring. That investment was now looking quite shrewd. The more Clay talked, the more riled up British fans became, and the faster seats at Wembley Stadium sold. But though they were benefiting from him, his showmanship, these white millionaires wished to allay fears that Clay was one of these assertive or uppity black men. Cassius is a fine boy, said one sponsor as he boarded a luxury liner for England. All these wild statements are just for the box office. We've known him a long

time. His mother used to cook for us. That was way beyond patronising. Yet Clay also used a similar line to explain himself. This is why I talk, man, he'd say, holding up a thick wad of British banknotes and counting them off. This and this and this. But in a more unguarded moment, he confided to a reporter that the talk was no gimmick. I really like it. I like telling people what I'm going to do and then doing it. It's part of me. The Louisville Loudmouth was perhaps then only just finding his voice, and 1963 would be a turning point. He'd soon be using his rhetorical flourishes to address issues other than boxing. And there were a very important. And there were a turning point. He'd soon be using his rhetorical flourishes to address issues other than boxing.

And there was nothing anyone, least of all the Louisville sponsoring group, could do to silence him. For his gym, Henry Cooper hired a pub in his native South London. The Fellowship Inn had spacious function rooms, so one was fitted out with weights and punchbacks. And here the local lad trained, as birthday parties and wedding receptions went on around him.

Wandering the streets of his neighbourhood, a 29-year-old British champion was stopped by old ladies and mothers with shopping bags. I hope you hang one on him, Henry, they'd say. I hope you shut his big mouth. Cooper was asked if Clay's insults bothered him. Not at all, he said. He was getting a share of the gate. If anything worried him, it was Clay's fighting prowess.

On paper, Cooper was the underdog. He was older and considerably lighter than Clay. Worse, the American was taller and had a far longer reach. A boxer's reach is their arm span measured fingertip to fingertip. Clay's reach was enormous, several inches greater than Cooper's. In theory, the American could stand back and land blows on his arm. opponent, without coming within range of a counterpunch. This would spell doom for Cooper.

For the Londoner had a weakness. His face cut easily. It was joked that Cooper's brows had skin as delicate as a porcelain doll, and that a mere hiccup could open up a wound. Even a tiny cut would bleed profusely, blinding Cooper, and compelling the referee to end proceedings early. Clay was said to be as quick as a cobra and no more merciful. He'd surely pummel Cooper's eyes while dancing and dodging to keep out of the Britain's reach.

So a plan was hatched. While Cassius Clay showboated at press conferences and in TV studios, Henry Cooper quietly studied the Americans' distinctive fighting style, and especially how he preferred not to raise his gloves to defend that pretty face. An American heavyweight who'd fought clay and could imitate his hands-down, backward-skipping style, was duly imported. Cooper sparred with a man over and over, all in a bid to find some way to close the distance on clay, and then unleash a potent weapon.

Henry Cooper was, you see, left-handed. He'd use the right glove to protect his chin, then jab hard with the left, until his opponent exposed their face. Cooper would launch his pet punch. A powerful left hook, one boxing writer said, induces acute discomfort. This punch was so formidable it even had a name.

This left hook was called Henry's Hammer. Cautionary Tales will return for round two in a moment. The music you love. Your favorite radio stations. Everywhere you go. The podcasts everyone's talking about. All in one place. And it's free.

High heart radio. Whatever you want to hear. Listen anytime. Anywhere. Music, radio, podcasts, unlimited audio. It's on the free IHurt Radio app. Let's go! One app, no subscription.

Always free. Grab the free app. I Heart Radio. Everywhere you go. Always free. Download the free IHard Radio app today. Malcolm Gladwell here. My new book, The American Way of Killing,

investigates America's gun violence crisis. Why is the richest country in the world plagued by such lethal violence? Through a series of stories, interviews, and archival tape. I confront one of today's most urgent moral dilemmas and examine why the U.S. has never quite understood its own problem and why you

can't fix what you refuse to see clearly. Pre-order the American Way of Killing at pushkin. fm slash audiobooks or wherever audiobooks are sold. London in midsummer, an open-air boxing match. Of course,

it's raining. dampening the 40,000 waiting spectators. It reigns on the Louisville sponsoring group. It rains on the Hollywood glamour couple, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. And it rains on the band of the Coldstream Guards and their long, silver trumpets. Henry Cooper has trained to such a pitch

that he's lost even more weight. Making his way to the ring, he now barely qualifies as a heavyweight. His crafty coach had slipped lead plates into Cooper's shoes at the way in, fearing that Cassius Clay would gain a further psychological boost if he knew the truth. But navigating the hostile crowd, there's little sign that the young American lacks confidence.

Ignoring the standards of decorum expected in 1963, Clay has donned a prop crown, a monstrous thing of velvet and gold trimmed in ermine. Despite angry spectators trying to swat it from his head, the crown remains on, even as clay climbs into the ring to begin his final warm-up. And I imagine there are a lot of people sitting around the ringside here in the opener of Wembley tonight, who may well think that by coming into the ring with that ridiculous crown, on his head, Mr Clay is doing his best to cheapen the professional fight game,

and I'm assigned trying to share those views myself. The BBC TV commentator tells viewers, With the crown finally off, the referee calls both boxers to the centre of the ring. Clay probably expected to dominate the bout from the bell, for Cooper is famous for his hesitant and cautious starts. But Cooper comes out of his corner like a tiger. He reigns blows onto Clay's pretty face. The left hook, Henry's hammer,

quickly takes its toll. The American looks dumbfounded and throws his arms around the British champ in a desperate attempt to prevent further blows. And Clay's nose is bleeding in the first minute from the left hook of Cooper. First blood to Cooper. The brash, confident Clay of the pre-fight has vanished. The clay now in the ring is part bewildered, part indignant. The American even argues with the ref

bitterly complaining that Cooper's somehow not fighting fair. But all the time Cooper advances on his man, trapping clay against the ropes and there's no escape from that hammering left hook. Round one is over. And Cooper,

is clearly in the lead. Clay's face is now slightly less pretty, with corner men stanching his bleeding nose and pressing ice packs to his battered brows to slow their swelling. As round two begins, the TV commentator dares to give voice to a thought that seemed unimaginable just four minutes ago. There's Cooper. Can he be Clay? The British champ keeps up his aggressive tempo, landing more left hooks. But Clay too is now dealing out some punishing blows, aiming particularly at Cooper's delicate eyes. Then the commentator spots the signs of an impending disaster.

And our Cooper seems to be cut slightly underneath the left eye. At first, the injury seems inconsequential. But like a shark sensing blood, Clay concentrates his jabs on the wound, hoping to open up the split further. In the interval, Cooper's corner men work on the cut. It's not good, but a bleeding wound under the eye at least won't blind their man. The rain stops as the pair come out for round three, and Cooper sticks to his strategy, taking the fight to Clay,

not allowing the American to open up the distance that would favour his longer reach. Clay launches two jabs that both graze across Cooper's left brow. They're not particularly powerful blows, but they rasp across the Londoner's skin. And now he's cut over the left eye, and Henry Cooper is cut over the left eye, and it looks to me like a very bad cut indeed.

Blood is streaming down Cooper, face and dripping onto his chest, it's oozing into his left eye, too, blurring his vision. This is what we always feared about Cooper. With the referee craning to check the severity of the wound, a clock is now ticking in Cooper's head. How long does he have to knock Clay out before the bout is stopped? He now boxes like a man possessed. But Gassius can't. Cassius, the Louisville Loudmouth, is reborn before our eyes.

Clay toys with Cooper. He drops his guard entirely, a contemptuous gesture to show how little he now fears his opponent. Clay dances and pulls faces and shouts, taunts, barely bothering to fight. And he's teasing Cooper. He's trying to make Cooper look small. In the break, members of the Louisville's sponsoring group, Clay's de facto bosses, shout instructions that he should stop clowning, cut out the funny business and finish the fight. Across in Cooper's corner, enough of the Londoner's blood is swabbed away

that the referee allows the contest to resume. Despite the flow of blood resuming, now soaking into his socks, Cooper, isn't giving up. In answer to such determination, Clay's entourage are baying out more instructions. They're screaming at their man to deliver punches with his potent right hand and lay Cooper once and for all.

But Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. imperiously ignores them. He dances and prances and occasionally jabs with his weaker left fist. He's told the world he'll finish Cooper in the fifth. And that's exactly what he'll do, even if it means carrying the Britain

through the next few minutes to the bell. He's just treating Cooper, almost as a play thing. Says the commentator bitterly, as his blood splatters across the ring and onto the front rows of spectators, Cooper is also being bled of dignity by an adversary who clearly doesn't respect him. Come on, Henry son.

Comes an encouraging shout from the crowd. Come on, boy! But the mood in Wembley has darkened. It seems Cooper will soon be beaten, and in the most humiliating way imaginable. And then, it happens. Clay steps forward, his guard down, to deliver another left jab.

It lands without power on top of Cooper's bowed head. So Cooper rises up from his crouch, and there in front of him is Cassius Clay's grinning face wide open for a punch. In that instant, its possible Clay realized his mistake might have seen incoming Henry's hammer. But he almost certainly did not predict its power. For when it landed square in his face, it was less like a hammer, more like a wrecking ball. He'd wanted to win the match in his own inimitable style in the round of his choosing. But now Cassius Clay was going down. Cautionary tales will return shortly.

Now you can see it. Hello! My gosh. Watch all your favorite podcasts from start to finish. Right inside the free IHR Radio app. Gets the blood going up. Catch every laugh and eye roll on shows like the Tom Green Farmcast and park the bus. Now with full video.

We're building a ramp for Tony Hawk. It's the same hosts and the same chemistry with all the hilarious moments you've been missing. Right on your screen. Cheers. Open the free IHR radio app. Search video podcasts and tap watch. Malcolm Gladwell here. My new book, The American Way of Killing, investigates America's gun violence crisis.

Why is the richest country in the world plagued by such lethal violence? Through a series of stories, interviews, and archival tape, I confront one of today's most urgent moral dilemmas and examine why the U.S. has never quite understood its own problem and why you can't fix what you refuse to see clearly. Pre-order the American Way of Killing at pushkin.fm.fm. or wherever audiobooks are sold. What exactly is it to win?

In sports, there are two schools of thought. In one corner we have the Olympic ideal, as expressed by the Games founder Baron Pierre de Coubatin. The essential thing in life, he said, is not conquering, but fighting well. The college football coach read Sanders, thought differently. In 1950, he told his young players, winning isn't everything. It's the only thing. So should we do just about anything to triumph?

Let me share a story from a sport that don't play much in Louisville, Kentucky. Test cricket. The reputation of the game is that it should be played in a civil, gentlemanly way. Indeed, the internationally recognised rulebook begins with the warning that the game should be played not only according to the laws, but also within the spirit of cricket. And that spirit prizes respect for one's opponents. But in 1932, such respect was in short supply.

The England team was touring Australia for a series of matches, but their hopes of beating the home side seemed dim. Australia boasted arguably the greatest batsman of all time, Don Bradman. Bradman could whack the ball time and time again, racking up huge scores. But then England's rather spiky captain, Douglas Jardine, spotted a chink in Bradman's armour. The otherwise imperturbable Australian seemed unnerved if the ball was bowled very fast and aimed at his torso. And who can blame him?

Jardine, who referred to Bradman as the little bastard, instructed his bowlers to target the bodies of all the Australian batters. Such bowling wasn't exactly against the rules, but it certainly wasn't in the same. spirit of cricket. Chardine's clear delight when his bowlers deliberately struck the thigh or flank of an Australian batsman further inflamed the situation. The Australian cricket authorities were incensed at seeing their players limp from the pitch, battered and bruised, and threatened to cancel the whole tour. And even some of the England team balked at the ungentlemanliness of the tactic.

England won what became known as the Bodyline series, but Jardine's strategy soured the victory. The sports governing body outlawed what they saw as a dangerous and disrespectful bowling technique, and then the captain and one of his most talented bodyline bowlers were dropped from playing for England. Jardine's victory might then fall into the category of a short win, a phrase coined by the Olympic medalist and world champion rower, Catherine Bishop. In her book, The Long Win, Bishop argues that the thrill of taking a title or raising a trophy can be short-lived and hollow. To get caught up with winning and losing, she says, is to lose the

point, in sport and in life. She cites examples of champions who endured abusive and toxic training regimes, sacrificed important relationships, and neglected other life goals, all to win competitions. One Olympian ended up contemptuously snorting cocaine off his gold medal, blaming the medallion he'd strived so hard for for the mess his life had become. Catherine Bishop says that increasingly athletes are questioning the win-at-all-costs culture, seeking to find a lasting meaning in their sport that transcends mere trophies. Finding reasons why sport matters can look different for different athletes, Bishop says.

but it typically involves the awareness of the person that you're becoming through the pursuit of sporting excellence. As Henry's hammer slammed into his face, boxer Cassius Clay was about to have just such an epiphany. What a beauty, thought Cooper of his punch. Clay was standing at the edge of the ring when the blow struck. So rather than crashing heavily to the canvas, his fall was broken by the ropes. Still as he slithers to the floor and lays there, Clay's head is swaying drunkenly,

and his eyes are vacant. Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr., the greatest, is about to lose. Cooper hovers near the fallen figure, ready to pounce if heapsed. the weakened Clay gets back to his feet. Finish him, Henry! Finish him! yells Hollywood star Richard Burton from the crowd. It's the bell that saves Clay. It rings before the referee can count him out. Reprieved, the American totters over to the stool in his corner.

Where am I? He grogily asks his trainers. He's really not sure. sure if he's in London or Louisville. Clay's team are Ashen. A loss here would delay or even end his hopes for a world title match, derailing the Cassius Clay gravy train. They have just 60 seconds to bring him back to his senses.

And it's not looking good. And he still doesn't know where he is. Shouts the TV commentator as Clay inexecis. He explicably rises from the stool and then slumps back down. He's still half up, Clay. In a flurry of wet cloths, flapping towels and slapping palms, Clay's team struggled to bring their fight around. In this melee of movement, some observers see something else.

A small file is wafted beneath Clay's nose, causing him to wimps and recoil. Smelling salts are banned in British boxing, and if Clay's corner men are using them to revive him, their man could be disqualified with the win going to Cooper. But the referee's attention has been diverted elsewhere. Clay's head trainer has spotted a split in the stitching of the American's left glove. He works on the hole, widening it,

then asks the ref if they should delay the next race. so Clay can don a new one. Every extra second benefits clay and disadvantages the still-bleeding cooper. The referee ponderes the hole as the allotted one minute of the interval ends. Is it really that bad? The referee decides to go on.

The delay extended the interval by less than 10 seconds, but it seems to have given Clay just enough respite for him to come out swinging. But the American now barely needs to box. For, according to one sports writer, Cooper's cut eye is now a scarlet Niagara. The Londoner is used to the feel of his own blood dripping down his face, that this cut is different. To Cooper, it feels like he's under a pouring tap. Elizabeth Taylor, who had been covering her eyes,

now screams for the fight to be ended. Finally, Cooper's trainer throws a towel over the ropes, and the referee pulls Cooper aside. Sorry, chum, he says. The fight's over. Didn't do too bad for a cripple and a bum, replies Cooper. Drowned out by booing and pelted with programs, Cassius Clay celebrates his victory. But something has subtly changed in him too.

Clay's brother attempts to place the prop crown back on the victor's head, but the fighter refuses, pushing it away. Tonight, in Wembley Stadium, the greatest has been humbled. He knows it. In post-match interviews, Clay expresses nothing but respect for Henry Cooper and his hammering left hook. I've been on the floor before, but not hurt so much, began Clay. Cooper's a real fighter, great.

The toughest nut yet. He's no longer a bum. In the dressing room, awaits an emissary from the world champion, Sunny Liston. Clay will get his title shot. Clay had portrayed himself as non-political. Saying civil rights, activists and Klansmen alike paid to see him fight.

I don't identify with anybody, he declared. Anybody except Cassius Clay. Back in the United States that summer, Clay was drawn deeper into the struggle against racism. He forged a particularly close friendship with the nation of Islam's Malcolm X, piquing the interest of the FBI. The promoter of the Liston Championship match threatened to cancel the bout unless Clay renounced Malcolm X and the nation. But Clay called the Moneyman's blood.

and the fight went ahead. The Louisville Loudmouth didn't win in the eighth round, though. It took him just six. Now undisputedly the greatest, the fighter declared his allegiance to the nation of Islam, cut ties with the Louisville's sponsoring group, and asked to be called Cassius X from then on, rejecting Clay as a name imposed on his family by a Kentucky slave owner.

When two years later he returned to London to give Henry Cooper a chance at the world title, he had a new name, Muhammad Ali. And whereas Cassius Clay had blustered, Ali now used his platform with care. The days of hollering are over, he now told reporters, and proceeded to explain his moral opposition to the Vietnam War then raging and why he wouldn't join the US Army. Of Cooper, Ali was cordial and complimentary.

That Cooper can take a punch. I never take anything away from him. This maturity showed itself in the ring, too. Ali had clearly learned from his previous encounter with Henry's hammer. After offering up a prayer, Ali stayed out of Cooper's reach, until in the sixth round he once again created a cut over the Britain's left eye. Ali said it was like a zipper opening. This gash required 16 stitches.

Ali had won fair and square and well. No insults, no smelling salts, no ripped gloves. A worthy champion. But the days of Ali's reign were numbered. His opposition to the war in Vietnam became ever more trenchant. Why would he go drop bombs on brown people over there? he asked, while black people in Louisville were being treated like dogs. When in 1967, he referred.

refused to be inducted into the army. His boxing licence was revoked and wouldn't be returned to him until 1971. That robbed him of his prime fighting years and a fortune. Muhammad Ali became a global sporting icon. For many people, the greatest sporting icon. Not because he won boxing matches. Instead, he earned the long win.

Ali was an explosive and entertaining talent inside and outside the ring, but it was his defiance and willingness to sacrifice everything for his principles that inspired the millions who to this day, a decade on from his death, regard him as a hero. Over the course of the 1960s, Ali began a journey from pantomime villain to a secular saint. That journey was shaped by the cultural tumult of the time and by the complexities of the man himself. But would it be wrong to suggest that the journey got a jump start, courtesy of Henry's hammer?

Certainly something did change that rainy June night in Wembley Stadium. Ali himself said so. When the boxer was honoured on a 1978 edition of the TV show, This Is Your Life, a greying Henry Cooper was brought on as a surprise guest. The men warmly embraced and traded sincere compliments. But Ali, always wanting the final word, held his hand up to silence Cooper. You, I never told you this. Well, I'm retired and you retired.

You hit me so hard, you jog my kinfolks in Africa. Sources for this episode include Ali, A Life by Jonathan Eig, Henry Cooper, a hero for all time, by Norman Giller, and Ali in Britain by Michael Tanner. For a full list of our sources, see the show notes at Tim Harford.com. Cautionary Tales is written by me, Tim Harford, with Andrew Wright, Alice Fines, and Ryan Dilley.

It's produced by Georgia Mills and Marilyn Rust. Sound design and original music is by Pascal Wise with drumming by Jay Davis. Ben Adaf Haffrey edited the scripts. The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Greta Cohn, Eric Sandler, Carrie Brody, Christina Sullivan, Kira Posey and Owen Miller. Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. If you like the show, please remember to share, rate and review. It really does make a difference to us.

And if you want to hear it, add free and receive a bonus audio episode, video episode and members-only newsletter every month, why not join the Cautionary Club? To sign up, head to patreon.com slash cautionary club. That's Patreon, P-A-T-R-E-O-N dot com slash cautionary club. Malcolm Gladwell here. My new book, The American Way of Killing, investigates America's gun violence crisis. Why is the richest country in the world plagued by such lethal violence? Through a series of stories, interviews, and archival tape,

I confront one of today's most urgent moral dilemmas and examine why the U.S. has never quite understood its own problem and why you can't fix what you refuse to see clearly. Pre-order the American Way of Killing at pushkin.fm. slash audiobooks or wherever audiobooks are sold. This is an I-Heart podcast. Guaranteed human.