When you make shelving a feature, rather than a bland device to store clutter, the stuff you display tends to look (and get treated) better...
Last week in London, audience participation in art reached a new level – an assembled throng ate an artist. The fashionably decrepit interior of 33 Portland Place – a house whose peeling rooms are now famous for starring in The King's Speech – played host to a life-size sculpture, or golem, of the American Matthew Day Jackson that had been lovingly made in sponge cake in the south London bakery of the St John restaurant. It was consumed throughout the evening.
Liberal Democrat deputy leader Simon Hughes has reached out to anxious party members ahead of next month's local elections, insisting that the coalition is a "practical business relationship" rather than a "meeting of minds".
The Old Bailey trial of seven teenagers accused of the murder a 15-year-old boy at Victoria station ground to a halt today after jurors were discharged.
Haye v Harrison tonight could be a British belter because for once two heavyweights really want to fight, writes Steve Bunce
Thirty years since the launch of Margaret Thatcher's controversial housing policy, it still divides Britain's housing estates.
As the Lib Dems head for Liverpool for their first conference while actually in power, their deputy leader urges restraint, in a radical sort of way
WBA heavyweight champion David Haye announced his next title defence against Audley Harrison today before lashing out at his bitter rival with a string of insults.
Livebait and The Real Greek are now chains –but is it third time unlucky for the team's latest venture, More?
Shunt know all about spectacle. For this, their first company show since 2006's creepy Rear Window homage Amato Saltone, they have created a theatrical space of breathtaking ambition and invention. Having moved from their usual home in the spooky vaults underneath London Bridge station, the experimental theatre collective are currently holed up in an abandoned cigar warehouse on nearby Bermondsey Street.
It's the dog days of summer, you're stuck in London, the weather is humid, grumbly and headache-y, and no new independently owned restaurants are opening this month. You're starving and want to be transported, gastronomically speaking, from the English summer. You want to eat somewhere with a reek of charred flesh, an abrasive tang of roasted spices, a fume of bletted exotic fruits and the dirty, ashen feel of coffee grounds in tiny cups. You aren't quite sure which cuisine is calling you, but you know it's from somewhere between Marrakesh and Madagascar.
All around the country, people are discovering the joys of eating their own home-grown produce
More than 60 peers have signed a letter to the Home Secretary urging the Government to halt the deportation of a gay Iranian teenager who faces execution if he is returned to his homeland.