Podcasts, plays and biodiversity: how culture and nature collide this week

A heart that died twice: the podcast unravelling a medical and human mystery

This week, a new eight-part podcast series begins with a premise that reads like the opening of a gothic novel: a man dies from a gunshot wound, only for it to emerge that his heart had already stopped beating once before—under the same circumstances, and in another man who shared not just the same organ, but the same wife. The Fascinating Tale of a Heart That Died Twice, hosted by Karen Kilgariff, is the latest in a wave of true-crime storytelling that blurs the boundaries between science, ethics and human drama.

The series arrives at a moment when public fascination with medical anomalies is surging, fuelled by both advances in transplant technology and lingering ethical debates. In the UK, organ donation rates have risen steadily since the shift to an opt-out system in 2021, yet stories like this one—where the boundaries of life, death and identity become porous—remind listeners of the unresolved questions that persist. Kilgariff, known for her work on My Favorite Murder, approaches the subject with a mix of curiosity and restraint, avoiding sensationalism in favour of a narrative that is as much about the emotional toll on families as it is about the mechanics of transplantation.

What makes the podcast particularly timely is its exploration of the legal and emotional grey areas that surround organ donation. In the UK, the Human Tissue Authority regulates transplants, but cases like this—where a heart’s history becomes a central plot point—highlight the gaps in how we process the afterlives of donated organs. The series doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does what the best storytelling can: it forces listeners to confront the uncomfortable intersections of science and humanity.

Theatre as a mirror: Caryl Churchill’s 20-minute indictment of power

At London’s Almeida Theatre, a new play by Caryl Churchill is making waves—not for its length (a mere 20 minutes), but for its unflinching critique of contemporary authoritarianism. Triumph follows an unnamed spokesperson for a strongman leader, a character who could be read as a stand-in for any number of figures in today’s political landscape. Churchill, now 90, has spent decades dissecting power structures, from Thatcherism to global capitalism, and her latest work is no exception.

The play’s brevity is part of its power. In just two decades of dialogue, Churchill distils the essence of modern propaganda: the way language is weaponised to justify cruelty, the performative loyalty of those who enable tyrants, and the erasure of dissent. Director James Macdonald, who has collaborated with Churchill for years, describes the play as a form of "compressionism"—a term that could apply to much of Churchill’s recent work, where every line carries the weight of a broader argument.

What makes Triumph particularly resonant in 2026 is its refusal to name names. The strongman leader at the centre of the play is never identified, nor are the countries or conflicts referenced. This ambiguity allows the play to transcend specific geopolitical contexts, instead holding up a mirror to the mechanisms of power itself. In an era where political theatre often leans into didacticism, Churchill’s elliptical approach feels both radical and necessary.

The play’s reception has been polarised, with some critics praising its precision and others arguing that its abstraction dilutes its impact. Yet even its detractors acknowledge that Triumph arrives at a moment when the line between theatre and political commentary has never been thinner. As the UK grapples with its own debates over free speech, immigration and the rise of far-right rhetoric, Churchill’s work serves as a reminder that art can—and perhaps should—be a provocation.

Cop17: the biodiversity summit where the world takes stock

This month, nearly every country on Earth will gather in Yerevan, Armenia, for Cop17, the latest in a series of UN biodiversity summits aimed at halting the rapid destruction of the natural world. The stakes could not be higher: scientists warn that the planet is experiencing its sixth mass extinction, with species disappearing at a rate not seen since the dinosaurs. The goal of Cop17 is to assess progress on the 23 targets agreed at Cop15 in 2022, which included commitments to protect 30% of land and sea by 2030 and to halt human-induced extinctions.

Yet the road to Yerevan has been rocky. A recent UN report found that none of the 23 targets have been fully met, and only six are on track to be achieved by the 2030 deadline. The failure is particularly stark in areas like deforestation, where global rates remain stubbornly high, and in the protection of marine ecosystems, where industrial fishing and plastic pollution continue unabated.

For the UK, Cop17 comes at a critical juncture. The country has made progress in some areas—such as the expansion of marine protected areas—but lags behind in others, particularly in agricultural reform. The government’s recent decision to delay a ban on neonicotinoid pesticides, which are harmful to bees, has drawn criticism from environmental groups, who argue that the UK is backsliding on its commitments. Meanwhile, the devolved administrations in Scotland and Wales have taken more aggressive steps, creating a patchwork of policies that complicates the UK’s unified stance at the summit.

One of the most contentious issues at Cop17 will be the question of funding. Developing nations, which are home to much of the world’s biodiversity, have long argued that wealthier countries must provide financial support to help them meet conservation targets. The UK has pledged £3 billion to international climate and biodiversity funds over the next five years, but activists say this is not enough. As the summit approaches, the question is not just whether countries will recommit to the 2030 targets, but whether they will put the resources behind them to make a difference.

Heirloom apples and the fight to save forgotten flavours

In a quiet corner of Austria, a supermarket chain is embarking on an experiment that could change the way we think about food. Spar, one of the country’s largest retailers, has begun stocking heirloom apple varieties—long-forgotten fruits that were once staples of European orchards but have since been pushed aside by the uniform, shelf-stable apples that dominate modern supermarkets.

The pilot scheme, which launched this month, features apples like the Gravensteiner, a Danish variety known for its tart, aromatic flavour, and the Boskoop, a Dutch apple prized for its firm texture. These fruits are a far cry from the waxy, sweet apples that most consumers are accustomed to, but Spar is betting that there is an appetite for diversity. The move is part of a broader trend in Europe, where small-scale farmers and food activists have been working to revive heritage varieties as a way to promote biodiversity and resist the homogenisation of food systems.

The challenges, however, are significant. Heirloom apples are often more susceptible to disease and pests, and they don’t travel as well as their commercial counterparts. They also require more labour to cultivate, which drives up costs. Spar’s pilot is an attempt to prove that these obstacles can be overcome—and that consumers are willing to pay a premium for flavour and history.

For the UK, where apple production has declined sharply over the past century, the Austrian experiment offers a glimpse of what could be possible. The country was once home to thousands of apple varieties, but today, just a handful dominate the market. Campaigns like Orchard Revival have sought to change that, planting heritage trees in community orchards and schools. Yet the commercial viability of such efforts remains uncertain. If Spar’s pilot succeeds, it could provide a model for how to bring forgotten flavours back to the mainstream—and in doing so, help to safeguard the genetic diversity that is so critical to the future of food.