UK culture under scrutiny: abuse claims, art thefts and a stinking summer legacy

A true crime reckoning: when the bestselling author stands accused

The UK’s most successful true crime writer, Christopher Berry-Dee, has built a career on understanding the minds of killers. His books, which include Talking with Serial Killers, have sold millions worldwide. But a Guardian investigation now alleges that the man who profiled murderers may have committed acts of violence himself. Multiple accusations—including assault and child sexual abuse—have surfaced, with his daughter describing him as "absolute evil."

The allegations span decades, beginning in the 1990s when Berry-Dee lived in Hampshire with his second wife and their two daughters. The home, the Guardian reports, was filled with macabre memorabilia, including the clothes of a murdered child. While no criminal charges have been filed, the accusations raise uncomfortable questions about the ethics of true crime as entertainment—and the impunity of its stars.

Berry-Dee’s case is not isolated. The genre has long faced criticism for glorifying violence while rarely examining its own complicity. But the scale of his success—his books remain bestsellers—makes this reckoning particularly stark. If the allegations hold, they force a reckoning: how much should the public separate the art from the artist when the art itself trades in human suffering?

Art crime’s strange afterlife: a Picasso, a landlord, and a six-year mystery

In 2018, a signed Picasso print, Torero, was stolen from a Milwaukee art gallery. Its owner, Bill DeLind, assumed it was lost forever—until last week, when police called. A landlord had found the artwork while cleaning a vacant apartment. The print, one of only 30 signed by Picasso, is now back in DeLind’s hands, its journey from theft to recovery as surreal as the art itself.

The case highlights the unpredictable nature of art crime. Unlike high-profile heists, which often involve elaborate planning, this theft appears opportunistic. Yet its resolution was equally random: a routine apartment clean-out, not a detective’s breakthrough. Such stories are more common than the public realizes. The Art Loss Register estimates that thousands of stolen artworks resurface each year, often in mundane circumstances—flea markets, estate sales, or, as here, a landlord’s dustpan.

The recovery also underscores the fragility of cultural heritage. Torero’s value lies not just in its price tag (though signed Picassos fetch millions) but in its rarity. Its return is a rare happy ending in a field where most stolen art vanishes forever.

The Burryman’s burden: Scotland’s bizarre tradition faces a changing of the guard

While Edinburgh’s festivals dominate headlines, a quieter ritual unfolds 10 miles away in South Queensferry. The Burryman procession, part of the town’s Ferry Fair, sees a volunteer covered head-to-toe in burdock seedheads—thousands of hooked burrs clinging to his costume like Velcro. For up to 10 hours, he walks a seven-mile route, pausing at 20 stops to collect donations and sip whisky through a straw. This year, the tradition takes on added significance: the identity of the Burryman is changing for the first time in years.

The custom, which dates back centuries, blends folklore with community endurance. The Burryman’s attendants guide him, as the burrs obscure his vision and restrict his movement. Locals interpret the procession as a symbol of resilience—both the Burryman’s physical stamina and the town’s ability to preserve its identity amid modern pressures.

Yet the tradition is not without controversy. Some question its relevance in an era of climate change (burdock is an invasive species) and shifting cultural values. Others see it as a vital link to Scotland’s past. As the new Burryman prepares to take on the role, the procession remains a reminder of how rituals adapt—or fade.

London’s Great Stink 2.0: why the capital’s sewers are failing in 2026

In 1858, London’s River Thames became so polluted that Parliament was forced to act, leading to the construction of Joseph Bazalgette’s sewer system. Nearly 170 years later, the city is facing a familiar crisis. This summer’s heatwave—with temperatures exceeding 30°C for weeks—has exposed the stench of untreated waste, prompting comparisons to the original "Great Stink."

Experts warn that the problem is structural. London’s sewers, designed for a population of 4 million, now serve nearly 9 million. Heavy rainfall overwhelms the system, causing overflows into the Thames. Climate change exacerbates the issue: hotter, drier summers concentrate waste, while sudden downpours trigger sewage spills. The Environment Agency has recorded a 50% increase in such incidents since 2010.

The solution is not simple. Thames Water, the utility responsible, has proposed a £4.5 billion "super sewer"—the Thames Tideway Tunnel—to intercept overflows. But the project, already delayed and over budget, faces criticism for its cost and environmental impact. Meanwhile, Londoners are left holding their noses, a reminder that Victorian-era infrastructure is ill-equipped for 21st-century challenges.

What it means

These stories—abuse allegations against a true crime icon, the recovery of a stolen masterpiece, a fading tradition, and a city’s crumbling sewers—reveal a culture in flux. They ask uncomfortable questions: Who gets to shape narratives of violence? What happens when heritage outlives its context? And how do we reconcile progress with preservation?

The answers are not straightforward. But one thing is clear: the UK’s cultural and environmental landscapes are being tested like never before. Whether through reckoning, recovery, or reinvention, the country is being forced to confront the legacies it has inherited—and the ones it is creating.