On the south bank of the Thames, opposite the smug limestone grin of Westminster, there stretches a wall of hearts. Thousands upon thousands of them — crimson, fading, repainted, imperfect. Each one stands for a life lost to Covid-19 in the UK. For three years it was unofficial, born not of policy but of heartbreak and rebellion. And now, at last, the government has conceded what grief built first: the National Covid Memorial Wall is to become a…

South London, 1987. A pub car park. A man with an axe in his head. No, this isn’t a pitch for a gritty Netflix miniseries—it’s the tragic and still unsolved murder of private investigator Daniel Morgan. Over three decades later, his story reads like a noir thriller (which it has been turned into, more on that later).The facts are chilling, the cover-ups are maddening, and the consequences are still playing out today.

Detective Constable Jayne Jones honoured for exposing ‘the darkest of human behaviour’

South London, 1987. A pub car park. A man with an axe in his head. No, this isn’t a pitch for a gritty Netflix miniseries—it’s the tragic and still unsolved murder of private investigator Daniel Morgan. Over three decades later, his story reads like a noir thriller (which it has been turned into, more on that later).The facts are chilling, the cover-ups are maddening, and the consequences are still playing out today.

If you’ve ever watched Paddington (2014) or its equally delightful sequel, Paddington 2 (2017), you’ll remember Mr. Gruber’s Antique Shop—the charming, wood-panelled haven of trinkets, teapots, and treasures, where the world’s politest bear finds both warmth and wisdom. But while Mr. Gruber himself is a fictional character from Michael Bond’s beloved books, his shop has a very real-life counterpart: Alice’s Antiques…

In the shadow of Buckingham Palace, amid the tourists and the grandeur, lay a mystery that went unnoticed for years. It is the story of Robert James Moore, an American man who crossed the Atlantic with a singular purpose: to be near Queen Elizabeth II. Unlike the countless admirers who line the Mall waving flags on state occasions, Moore’s devotion took a darker turn—one that ended in tragedy just a stone’s throw from the monarch he idolised.

London’s skyline, once dominated by pigeons and starlings, has been brightened in recent decades by flashes of emerald green and the raucous squawks of parakeets. These birds—specifically, rose-ringed parakeets (Psittacula krameri)—are not native to Britain, yet they have thrived in the capital’s parks and gardens, forming a sizeable wild population. But how did they get here? For years, a handful of colourful urban legends have offered tantalising explanations, but recent research by Dr.

In the early 2000s, amidst the bustling streets of Camden—more commonly associated with punk rock, vintage shops, and street food—a series of gruesome crimes unfolded that would later be linked to one of London’s most chilling modern-day serial killers. Dubbed “The Camden Ripper” by the press, Anthony Hardy's case shocked a city that thought it had left Jack-the-Ripper-era horrors firmly in the past.

In early December 1952, London — a city accustomed to its pea-soup fogs — found itself swallowed by something far darker: a wall of toxic, sulphurous smog that lingered for five days and changed the course of urban environmental policy forever. It began, as catastrophes often do, with something ordinary — a winter chill, a kettle’s hiss, the sound of coal crackling in the grate.

If you’ve ever ambled along Regent’s Canal on a rare sunny afternoon—perhaps dodging cyclists, lapping up overpriced coffee, or pretending not to eavesdrop on couples arguing outside houseboats—you might have spotted something decidedly unexpected: a terrapin, sunbathing like it owns the canal. Yes, really. Terrapins. In London. Not in a zoo or aquarium, but living their best semi-aquatic lives right here in the capital, quietly thriving in the murky waters between Limehouse and Little Venice.

If you were to draw a map of London’s criminal underworld in the middle of the 20th century — the real one, not the movie version — it would begin in Mile End, snake through Whitechapel, cross Petticoat Lane, and end beneath the neon buzz of Soho. And standing astride that route, somewhere between myth and man, would be one name: …

There’s a giant chunk of ancient Egypt plonked in the middle of London, and most people barely give it a second glance. Cleopatra’s Needle, an imposing 21-metre (69-foot) obelisk covered in hieroglyphs, stands on the Victoria Embankment, looking slightly out of place among the joggers, pigeons, and traffic fumes. It has nothing to do with Cleopatra, it nearly drowned on its way to Britain, and a time capsule buried beneath it contains, among other things, a portrait of Queen Victoria and a set of ladies' undergarments.

In the clatter and coal-smoke of Victorian London, amid the swirling soot of empire and exploitation, there lived a man whose story feels ripped from a penny dreadful — if penny dreadfuls had known how to tell the truth. Alec Munroe, born in Kingston, Jamaica, around 1850, was a boxer, a lion tamer, and an East End legend whose tragic end lit up the London night like a match to gaslight.

There they go again—two suited men, shuffling in lockstep through the East End fog, as if summoned by some arcane urban spell. Gilbert & George: not quite a duo, more of a double-headed myth. A singular entity split in two, eternally wandering the piss-slick pavements of Spitalfields. Victorian undertakers lost in time? Performance art pranksters? Living ghosts with excellent tailoring?

There’s something intoxicating about London’s flea markets — part nostalgia, part archaeology. They’re the city’s slow heartbeat beneath the glass towers and chain cafés: places where time frays, and the past feels almost affordable. Forget the glossy world of “pre-loved” boutiques. These markets are where the word vintage still means “someone else’s problem, now yours.” The reward is in the rummage, the haggle, the strange beauty of the slightly broken.

On a quiet patch of land off the Old Kent Road once stood a Soviet tank—yes, an actual tank—graffitied in pinks, greens, and slogans, facing down the local council like a stubborn Cold War relic th…

There’s something intoxicating about London’s flea markets — part nostalgia, part archaeology. They’re the city’s slow heartbeat beneath the glass towers and chain cafés: places where time frays, and the past feels almost affordable. Forget the glossy world of “pre-loved” boutiques. These markets are where the word vintage still means “someone else’s problem, now yours.” The reward is in the rummage, the haggle, the strange beauty of the slightly broken.