I am not neutral about Don McCullin.When I was a photography-obsessed teenager,
he was quite simply my God. I well remember sitting in the back row at maths classes 
in 1980s Yorkshire, covertly flicking through the school library’s copy of Don’s
 Hearts of Darkness, transported from a dull world of equations and trigonometry – taught, for duffers like me, in a shabby, paint-peeling Portakabin – to the war-torn jungles of Vietnam and Laos, the darkly barricaded streets of Famagusta and Beirut, the Killing Fields of Cambodia and Biafra. Don’s work was eye-opening, shocking, exhilarating, frightening and deeply disturbing all at once; and for a teenager it was utterly irresistible. Moreover, it
 spoke to a heady and thrilling world of photojournalism that I longed to be part of.

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