You’ve heard the warnings. You’ve seen the headlines. Ever since Sadiq Khan took the keys to City Hall, London has become a lawless, post-apocalyptic wasteland where only the bold dare tread.
Isabel Oakeshott was reminded of why she was forced to flee to Dubai on a recent visit to the capital, where yards and yards of police ticker tape greeted her on arrival from the crime-less streets of the UAE, while other social media loudmouthed have also tweeted from afar at what they perceive to be a city on the brink of collapse.
So, in the spirit of journalistic bravery (and because our editor said we had to), we decided to venture into London’s “most dangerous” postcodes to find out what is really happening on our patch… and what we found shocked us to our core.
Take Shoreditch, where we expected at least a hint of its rough-and-ready past. Instead, what we found was lawless Londoners enjoying small plates and orange wine in the pubs that were once reserved for proper tear-ups. A brawl nearly did break out, mind, between two influencers disputing the optimal lighting angle for their burrata. But even they patched things up before the cheese had stopped oozing.
In Hackney, we braced for an old-fashioned East End showdown. Instead, we found a queue – and an orderly one at that – outside a bakery selling £7 croissants. The Cray twins have been replaced by crayfish, usually served on brioche with a dill aioli.
South of the river, the danger levels remained disappointingly low. In Brixton, we wandered the streets scanning for menace, only to find a group of twenty-somethings debating whether kombucha pairs better with bao buns or bánh mì. A dog wearing a neckerchief barked once, but only because we brushed the baguette protruding from its owners tote bag.
By the time we reached Peckham, allegedly a hotbed of peril, we were practically begging for danger. A glare, a shove, even someone tutting loudly. Nothing. Just rooftop bars, oat-milk flat whites, and couples comparing houseplants.
Finally, we made our way to Millwall, hoping – praying – for at least one Dickensian dust-up. We even tried to orchestrate a bust-up ourselves, but found the locals too busy debating the merits of serving beer in schooners under the arches that were once reserved for organised crime. One man did look at us suspiciously, but only because we ordered a full pint of the triple hazy. It was, frankly, devastating.