Best gift I've ever received has to be a bike when I was younger, a pedal bike.

It was a sort of slick little road bike and I remember it was all like, it was so, it was all wrapped up,

it was so obvious what it was obviously because nothing's shaped like a bike and I had a little ribbon on it and I was so

a guest. For that was a life changer and I'm still sort of big on cycling around my area now so, for that one change me a little.

Enjoy in every sip with red carp's now back at Starbucks.

It is a cold, grey, London morning in March 1952.

The east end of the city is just coming to life with traders setting up their market stalls.

As the sun rises, construction workers arrive to continue the rebuilding that is still unfinished after the devastation of the blitz.

In the grim streets, a homeless man sits coughing beside a low wall and a gang of children chase after an army truck as it pulls away from Liverpool Street Station.

Inside this truck, two young men, twins not yet out of their teens sit in silence flanked by two military policemen.

The brothers are smartly dressed but each is handcuffed to one of the officers. Opposite, a sergeant major watches their every move.

Their names are Ronnie and Reggie Cray. They were arrested at their east London home early this morning for going AWOL from National Service with the Royal Fusileers and for assaulting a corporal.

It's a minor charge in comparison to the later crimes that will earn them their notoriety as gangland bosses.

But for now, the Cray is to be returned to the Tower of London for temporary detainment under charge of their own regiment.

Defiantly, the brothers stare back at the sergeant major as the truck slows.

The driver stops and the truck rocks as the soldiers in the cab get out.

The back doors are flung open. The brothers are hauled to their feet and roughly pulled out onto the cobbles.

Adjusting their eyes to the light, Ronnie and Reggie stare up at the ramparts of the ancient fortress looming over them.

Along its walls, the tower's famous Ravens Huddle, unbothered by the comings and goings of the people below.

Watched by a small group of stopped to gorge, the men are shoved forward.

At the mouth of the old gate, the yeoman waters stand in their distinctive tunics holding their partisan's, a type of pole arm similar to a spear.

Above them, the port-colise hangs, its spikes pointing ominously downwards.

...