100 Best British TV Shows to Watch Right Now

After the successful release of The Gentlemen (2019), it would have been easy to just continue the story with the same cast of characters, but instead Guy Ritchie makes a spinoff with the same cannibis chaos, but instead expands it to a startlingly funny depiction of the British aristocracy and the criminal underworld. It has all the action-packed styling Ritchie is known for, with each episode bringing up a new inheritance issue Theo James as Eddie Halstead has to solve, with the help of a cool and cunning Kara Scodelario. While the episodic troubles do feel a bit tired after eight long episodes, The Gentlemen keeps the intrigue through never losing sight of the tension occurring between the main duo.

In Sweetpea, every element comes together to make an addictive watch. The premise is amusing on its own—a shy girl is pushed so far into the edge she sees murder as a viable option—but brought to life by stylish direction, witty lines, and an irresistibly endearing Ella Purnell, you get great TV. It’s not exactly novel (the underrated Hulu series Obituary has a similar premise) but it benefits from having more than a few twists hidden up its sleeve, not to mention a complex anti-hero in Purnell, who you know is wrong but feel bad for anyway. Who doesn’t want to root for the little girl standing up to her bully, the girl who stomps her foot down and demands her hard-earned respect at the workplace? Of course, it’s never that simple, and it’s that conflicting feeling of liking and abhorrent Purnell’s character that makes it an intriguing show.

Starring the Cate Blanchett and directed by Alfonso Cuaron, Disclaimer is every bit as cinematic and enjoyable as you’d imagine it to be. It’s juicy and well-performed (Hoyeon’s unnatural acting notwithstanding), filled with enough twists and turns to keep you seated despite the occasionally melodramatic plot. It’s designed to make you crave more: more rich acting, more pulpy mystery, more explosive secrets, and more emotional breakdowns, which Blanchett has certainly mastered. It’s not as deep as it thinks itself to be, and the script can be overwrought at times (do we really need every single movement narrated?) but the fun twists, great performances, and beautiful cinematography more than makes up for them.

How the Brits have mastered the art of making very funny shows about very grumpy people will never cease to amaze me. Belonging to that stacked category is Black Books, which follows a trio of shopkeepers as they go about their days in a semi-alcoholic haze. The situations themselves are mundane and involve everything from fixing the shops’ finances to going on dates, but it’s how they cope that makes the show hilarious. It’s more slapstick and surreal than anything, leaning heavily on the actors’ expert physical comedy and timing. The lead, Bernard (played by Dylan Morran who you might know as the book thief in Notting Hill), is a cynical drunk who abhors people, even and especially his own customers. But he’s tempered by his levelheaded accountant Manny (Bill Bailey) and the next-door shopkeeper Fran (Tamsin Greig). This isn’t the sort of sitcom that dives too deep into the psyches of its characters, but that doesn’t make them any less relatable or lovable. Though it first aired in 2000, Black Books doesn’t feel dated at all, thanks in large part to its surreal humor and its nihilistic characters, who share more than a few similarities with today’s quiet-quitting generation.

Des is a miniseries that understands viewers have had about enough with serial killers and true crime. Aware of the fatigue, it skillfully compresses the stories of Des’ multiple victims into three taut episodes without ever feeling forced or too much. The subject of Des’ sexuality (he expresses a fondness for men but never officially came out) is also sensitively handled. Des’ biographer in the series, who is an out-gay writer, makes a valid point: better he tells Des’ story no matter how terrifying than someone else outside of the community. Who knows what false and demonizing correlations will be made? But just as big a chunk of the series is rightly focused on the two detectives desperately seeking justice for the victims. Though they can seem holier-than-thou at times because of the lack of characterization, they, too, ask the right questions about justice and rightful punishment. It may be too talky for some viewers, but there’s no denying Des is a smart show, one bolstered by strong performances.

Toxic Town tells the true story of how toxic waste in the steel-making town of Corby, England led a group of affected mothers to pursue justice. Helping them out is pro-bono lawyer Des Collins (Rory Kinnear), while on the other end of the case is Corby’s local government, who (unsurprisingly) are in cahoots with the steel mill responsible for the poisoning. The show’s beats are familiar; it’s a classic legal drama with streaks of political corruption and conspiracy, while also being an underdog story about victims rising to the powers that be. But its familiarity is easily forgiven thanks to the heartwarming performances of Jodie Whittaker and Aimee Lou Wood, who play two of the mothers with disabled children. The show, though short at just four episodes, gives them ample space to grieve, celebrate, and essentially be human–as opposed to just angry women serving as plot points to a drama. Their humanization and compassion for one another, as well as the thrilling pace and intelligent back-and-forths, are what make the show worth watching.

In a TV age where dark comedies and slick satires are all the rage, The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin is refreshingly light, good-hearted fun. Its humor leans on the surreal, silly, and slapstick, but it doesn’t necessarily sacrifice smarts for a laugh. Here, the legendary robber is reimagined as a reluctant criminal who is more interested in knitting and doing his friends good, a rather sweet fool who unwittingly stands at the opposite end of toxic masculinity. There are jokes about equal pay and light commentaries on class inequality (Turpin and his so-called Essex Gang want to only rob the inordinately wealthy), and you’d think it was all too much, but the show achieves a confident, balanced tone that’s hard to question.

It’s always nice to be able to identify with a group of people on television, but it’s especially entertaining when they’re a hilarious bunch. That’s what the Jessops are, at once relatable and ridiculous, mundane and misfortune-prone. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and somehow their troubles worsen anytime they try to fix them or keep a straight face. It sounds strange, but in a TV landscape of bleak comedies and cynical dramas, it’s refreshing and validating to watch the average middle-class family struggle with the same problems we’re having, whether that’s figuring out a good career or trying to reignite the spark of a marriage. That we see all this unfold through the handheld lens of Sam, the youngest of the family, adds a layer of intimacy and charm that makes Here We Go an imminently comforting watch.

Frayed is one of those shows whose simple premise is made special by a strong script and even stronger performances. The humor is Australian dry, but it’s punctuated by surprisingly sweet moments that make you root for the growth of its complicated characters. The show is elevated, too, by its wonderfully detailed and realized setting: 1980s Australia, except it’s not Home and Away or any of the wealthy suburbias we’ve come to know via Aussie soaps, but a real place, Kendall’s hometown Newcastle, that is in the midst of an industrial recession and population diversification. As a whole, Frayed might seem like just another streaming dramedy, but there’s a lot to love here if you stick around.

Mrs. Wilson is the stranger-than-fiction tale of how a British World War II agent got away with being married to multiple women simultaneously, all while keeping in contact with them and “never missing a child’s birthday.” The women, of course, were unaware of one another. It sounds like the premise of a true crime doc on Netflix, or perhaps a cheesy reenacted drama on the Lifetime channel. Instead, it’s the basis of a BBC three-parter that unfolds in elegant and compelling ways. In an inspired move, the series stars Ruth Wilson, who is the real-life granddaughter of the protagonist Alison Wilson. As she uncovers buried truth after buried truth, the more complex Wilson’s web of lies becomes, and the more eager we are to see how everyone reacts to one another. A smart script, sensitive treatment, and skilled performances elevate this from a story of mere (but relatable) marital woes to a story of passion and determination, with some pretty period details to boot.