The Dolphin vs. The Headline: A Content Analysis of a Local Media Backlash

Post-Analysis: Media Narratives vs. Community Reality

When a local news outlet publishes an article about a neighborhood institution, the comment section often becomes a battleground. However, a recent post by Macclesfield Nub News regarding a licensing review for The Dolphin pub triggered a completely different reaction: absolute community unity against the publication itself.

Below is a full content analysis of the public response, followed by a complete comprehensive report on the entire affair.

Part 1: Facebook Thread Content Analysis

To understand the mechanics of this public backlash, we conducted a rigorous content analysis of the 58 comments and replies generated by the Facebook thread.

📊 Thread Statistics at a Glance

• Total Comments/Replies: 58

• Unique Correspondents: 38 (including the Author/Publisher)

• Irrelevant/Spam Responses: 3

• Rude/Hostile Responses: 5

• Community Alignment: ~95% in favor of the pub / critical of the headline.

🗂️ Coding Categories & Thematic Breakdown

1. Backlash Against Editorial Standards (Primary Theme)

The dominant sentiment throughout the dataset is explicit hostility toward the publisher's editorial decisions. Users categorized the headline as "sensationalist" and "clickbait."

• Sub-category - Automation & AI: Multiple correspondents ($C_2$, $C_3$) accused the outlet of abandoning traditional local journalism, alleging the use of unedited "Bots" and a lack of human proofreading.

• Sub-category - Commercial Consequences: The backlash moved beyond rhetoric into tangible economic impact. Correspondent $C_1$ publicly announced that a local organization they represent would be pulling a planned, exclusive commercial advertising campaign from the publication as a direct result of this article.

2. Local Advocacy & Fact Correction

A significant portion of the thread functions as a peer-review of the actual council findings. Commenters who read the full decision notice pointed out a stark asymmetry between the article's framing and the legal reality, noting that 82% of the letters received by the council were actually in praise of the venue and its landlady, Angela.

3. Rude or Hostile Responses (5 Total)

Five comments crossed the threshold into explicit hostility or profanity. Interestingly, none of this aggression was directed at the pub. Instead, it targeted the complainants or the paper:

• Insults/Name-calling: Complainants were labeled "morons" ($C_{34}$) and "idiots" ($C_{38}$) for purchasing homes near an established, historic pub and expecting total silence.

• Profanity: Correspondents $C_{36}$ and $C_{37}$ utilized heavy and masked profanity to express frustration at what they termed "woke morons" disrupting local business.

4. Irrelevant Noise (3 Total)

A minor baseline of standard internet noise was detected:

• An inside joke blaming a local individual ($C_{21}$).

• A disjointed, borderline automated spam comment pitching "safeguarding security services" ($C_{25}$).

• A single-word reaction ("OOOooops") offering no analytical value ($C_{29}$).

Part 2: Comprehensive Report on the Affair

The Catalyst

The friction began when Macclesfield Nub News ran a headline declaring that The Dolphin pub had been ordered to draw up a noise management plan following complaints of loud music and anti-social behavior [cite: https://macclesfield.nub.news/news/local-news/pub-ordered-to-draw-up-noise-management-plan-following-complaints-300817?fbclid=IwY2xjawS8kutleHRuA2FlbQIxMABicmlkETFUMGxnNVZoZFVpa0REV1NGc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQQMjIyMDM5MTc4ODIwMDg5MgABHtQ8GXNIZuHqP3cWEAhol7Scba_YFx5PjZsI7XqYXdRa-jmfu1udxDa8tHPK_aem_4JrecN3XXH-bvs94-CREaw]. The text of the piece—sourced from the BBC-funded Local Democracy Reporting Service—recounted a litany of grievances submitted to the Cheshire East Council licensing committee, including allegations of shouting, swearing, and volume levels akin to a "nightclub" 

The Disconnect

The core of the community's outrage stems from what was omitted from the spotlight. While the headline emphasized the "order" for a noise management plan, the actual committee findings painted an entirely different picture [cite: The licensing committee dismissed three out of the four areas under review due to a total lack of supporting evidence of crime, disorder, or public nuisance. Furthermore, the noise management plan ordered was a formalization of practices the landlady had already voluntarily put into place. Crucially, the overwhelming majority of public input (82%) actively defended the pub's management.

The Social Media Evaluation

To contextualize what this means for our local digital ecosystem, we look to an evaluation by Gabblewack, Bollington Village Fool, a traditional figure known for using satire to cut through bureaucratic and media spin:

*"Hark! The Fool has inspected these digital scrolls and declares the verdict: This headline is a greater work of fiction than King Arthur, and a good deal less entertaining!

As a man who once threw Saxa table salt on ungritted roads to highlight the sheer, unadulterated silliness of local authorities, I know a piece of absolute nonsense when I see it. Nub News has attempted to bake a massive pie of panic out of a tiny crumb of administrative compliance. They tell us a tale of 'disorder' where the community only sees a well-loved landlady and a thriving local trade.

To prick the bubble of this hubris: you haven't found a neighborhood feud here, you've just found a classic case of bad journalism getting a well-deserved rinsing from the good townsfolk. The Dolphin stands cleared, the headline stands convicted, and the Fool suggests the reporters go back to editing school! Go Team Dolphin!"*

Conclusion & Takeaway

The saga of The Dolphin pub highlights a growing challenge in local media: the friction between an automated, click-driven headline economy and the nuanced realities of a small town. Instead of fracturing the neighborhood, the reporting inadvertently galvanized it. The town’s response sends a clear message to publishers—hyper-local audiences value context, fairness, and support for independent businesses far above sensationalism.

The Fool’s Day Out: Vanity, Prejudice, and the Rainow Witches

It was a bright and sunny day as I set out on the Fool’s March to London to campaign for our local car park at Pool Bank to remain free of charge. While I was at it, I thought I would put a word in for the Rainow witches and do my bit to encourage the government to pardon them.

My great March to London began with a walk to the taxi that took me to Macclesfield station, followed by just a few steps between the Tube stations and Westminster.

However, the police at Parliament and Downing Street did quietly intimate that I had certainly found the right place to meet other Fools—though they were not permitted (even if they might like to) to allow me entry. In return, I diligently thanked every member of the police and security team that I met that day for their service. Without exception, they were absolutely charming. I'm not sure many people visiting Westminster can say that; perhaps it really is the power of the uniform?

One side of my banner read: "Keep Pool Bank Free", and on the other: "Pardon the Rainow Witches".

I

must admit, no one really wanted to talk to me about the car park, but many were fascinated to hear about how two Cheshire women were executed for witchcraft. People today are inclined to get a bit twee and Harry Potterish when witches are mentioned. The reality, of course, was a brutally patriarchal society with a misogynistic attitude toward the wise women who cared for their communities.

There have been many moments of joy and surreal comedy in my career as the Village Fool, but few can compare to encouraging a large group of American tourists outside Downing Street to chant "Pardon the Rainow witches!"—right after hijacking them from their tour guide and giving them a brief history lesson.

Following a quick stroll over Horse Guards Parade, I nipped into "Back House" (Buckingham Palace) to see if Her Majesty might fancy a cup of tea. Unfortunately, she had just popped out to Morrisons to get some teacakes and a jar of marmalade.

I know it seems to many that I am just being silly. People often look at what I do, shake their heads, and dismiss it as mere attention-seeking, vanity, or arrogance. And you know what? They might well be right. It takes a certain amount of ego to put on a cap and bells, stand on a street corner, and expect people to listen.

I don't even mind people looking at me and thinking, “What a dickhead.” To be fair, I might have thought the exact same thing if I saw someone else doing it.

But there is a darker side to it. Some people don’t just laugh or share a witty aside like the police; they immediately show their dislike through sharp facial expressions, hostile gestures, and the occasional insult. Standing there in public, I received a sudden, stark insight into what it truly feels like to be on the receiving end of appearance-based prejudice. It was an uncomfortable mirror. Suddenly, I understood on a much deeper level what so many of my patients used to describe to me.

That, perhaps, is where the serious—and inevitably political—point of the Fool lies.

Those accused of witchcraft, sentenced, and executed were the people who dared to look or be different. They were the ones who challenged the orthodoxy, and they paid for it with their lives. Labelling and executing people was a fantastic way of suppressing dissent, maintaining control over the masses, and preserving power bases in science, medicine, religion, and the law.

I ought to declare a personal interest here. My mother’s side of the family (the Kimptons and Saunders) comes from the Fenlands, historically a home for rebels and dissidents who used the flooded wetlands to escape persecution. My mother tells me that one of my ancestors was actually executed for witchcraft using a ducking stool. I am also a Freeman of Llantrisant, tied to an ancient 1346 Welsh charter of local liberties.

But whether my bloodline makes a blind bit of difference, or whether it’s all just post-event, Google-inspired nonsense I wrap myself in to feel grand, doesn’t really matter.

What matters is the hyper-local. It’s the car park at Pool Bank. It’s the memory of Ann Osboston and Ellen Beech—the two Rainow women for whom I later hand-carved and inscribed walking sticks in the autumn of 2025, sending them off from White Nancy to traverse the hills with local walkers.

There is a method to the madness: it is remarkably hard for the public, the police, or a group of tourists to ignore someone standing in the street wearing a 300-year-old uniform. If I have to face a few scowls and insults to make people think about history, empathy, and community, then it is a price I am entirely happy to pay. At least the tourists, and the Met Police got a good laugh.

https://www.facebook.com/reel/884617266924843

Historical Footnote

The Rainow Witches: The two local women I campaigned for were Ellen Beech (a widow and collier) and Anne Osboston, both from Rainow. In October 1656, during the Michaelmas Assizes at Chester Castle, they were tried alongside Anne Thornton of Eaton. Ellen Beech was accused of using "certain arts" that allegedly caused her neighbour to fall ill and die. Despite pleading not guilty, they were convicted of witchcraft under the puritanical regime of Chief Justice John Bradshaw (the infamous judge who had signed the death warrant of King Charles I). They were hanged at Gallows Hill in Boughton and buried in unmarked graves in the castle ditch.

 

You Don’t Have To Scream Into A Void

By Gabblewack

We have all seen it. You are scrolling through a local community page, looking for a lost cat or a recommendation for a decent plumber, when you stumble across a post that stops you dead in your tracks.

Recently, whilst browsing the Macclesfield News and Views Facebook group, I happened upon one such thread. An author named Brian Shelmerdine had posted evidence of what he termed "council lies"—specifically, a string of emails documenting a breakdown in adult social care delivery for his elderly mother.

What followed in the comments section was a raw, unfiltered snapshot of modern Britain. A group of 13 local correspondents converged on the post, swapping harrowing stories of their own battles with Cheshire East Council (CEC). They spoke of standard 30-minute care visits being "clipped" down to a mere five minutes because carers aren't allocated travel time. They spoke of vulnerable parents with advanced vascular dementia and severe visual impairment being left to live entirely alone because the council deemed them to have "full capacity". There was anger, heartbreak, and a palpable sense of exhaustion.

Yet, reading it was an exercise in frustration.

The thread was painfully hard to follow. Vital pieces of community intelligence were sandwiched between political finger-pointing, administrative confusion over dates, and unhelpful plugs for fringe training courses. It felt less like a coordinated community effort and more like a collective screaming into the void. A group of neighbours, bound by a shared crisis, shouting into a digital abyss, hoping someone—anyone—at the town hall might hear them.

I wanted to help. I refused to let these genuine grievances simply sink to the bottom of an algorithmic feed. Algorithms might leave us shouting into the dark, but AI can stop local people losing their voice in the void.

So, I copied the entire chaotic thread and handed it over to my digital assistant, Googewack. I tasked it with performing a rigorous content analysis—stripping away the noise, the irrelevant tangents, and protecting the privacy of the commenters by removing all names except for the original author. I wanted to see the signal through the static.

Fact-Checking the "Void"

To ensure this wasn't just internet venting, I looked into the statutory mechanisms governing Cheshire East Council's Adult Social Care. The community's grievances are backed by a very real, very bleak paper trail:

• The Travel-Time / "Time-Clipping" Crisis: Under standard home care delivery models across Cheshire, care agencies often struggle to deliver contracted care times because commission rates fail to structurally protect separate travel windows. This compresses contact hours, meaning vulnerable clients pay for time they do not get.

• The Statutory 6-Month Complaint Window: When a resident noted that it took months to get a response from CEC, they weren't exaggerating. While the council aims to address basic issues quickly, Cheshire East Council’s Statutory Adult Social Care Complaints framework allows for a maximum timeline of up to six months to legally handle complex social care disputes.

• Failed Care Planning & Capacity Decisions: Delays and flaws in care packages within Cheshire East have caught the eye of the Local Government and Social Care Ombudsman (LGSCO). Recent independent investigations have flagged instances where the council assessed a resident's eligible needs but entirely failed to commission the care package or offer direct payments for months on end, forcing local groups like Age UK Cheshire East to consistently provide independent care advocacy to vulnerable older adults.

Armed with these facts, I asked Googewack to turn a fragmented shouting match into a formal tool for accountability. This was the result:

The Letter to Cheshire East Council

Subject: Systemic Failures in Adult Social Care Delivery and Commissioning

To: Director of Adult Social Care / Chief Executive

Dear Director,

I am writing to formally raise serious, ongoing concerns regarding the administration, oversight, and execution of Adult Social Care packages within Cheshire East Council (CEC).

While my initial correspondence with the council regarding care delivery failures dates back to 2016, a recent review of these issues has brought to light that the precise systemic vulnerabilities I experienced nearly a decade ago are not only still occurring, but have severely worsened for residents across the borough.

The public feedback from local residents, independent carers, and families currently interacting with CEC Social Services highlights several critical areas that require immediate scrutiny:

• Commissioning Failures and "Time Clipping": There is widespread evidence that council-brokered care agencies are failing to deliver contracted care times. Due to a failure to account for carer travel time between appointments, standard 30-minute care slots are routinely being truncated to just 5 to 15 minutes of actual contact time. Residents are paying full rates for partial care, leaving vulnerable individuals without basic needs met.

• Inadequate Provider Oversight: Independent feedback indicates a severe lack of quality control regarding the staff deployed by council-contracted agencies. Issues raised include poor communication barriers, a lack of basic safety training (e.g., placing foil trays in microwaves), and substandard hygiene practices.

• Flawed Capacity Assessments: Families report alarming instances where CEC Social Services have deemed highly vulnerable individuals—including those diagnosed with advanced Vascular Dementia and severe visual impairments—as having "full capacity" to live completely alone, placing them in highly unsafe environments.

• Delayed Communication and Complaint Handling: When families attempt to raise these issues formally, response times from the council are entirely unacceptable, with residents reporting delays of up to four months for a response. The maximum statutory allowance of six months to resolve an adult social care complaint is being treated as a shield rather than an exception.

The current consensus among local families is a total lack of confidence in the council's care brokers, with many being forced to opt for Direct Payments simply to ensure basic safety and human dignity.

The failures I documented in 2016 were not isolated incidents; they were early symptoms of a deeply ingrained institutional problem. I request a formal response detailing how Cheshire East Council plans to address these systemic issues, specifically regarding travel-time allocations for care workers and the strict auditing of contracted care providers.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Yours sincerely,

Brian Shelmerdine (on behalf of the Macclesfield Community)

The Fool’s Finale: Turning Noise into News

There is a grand irony in modern technology. We have never been more connected, yet we have never felt so unheard. Social media gives everyone a megaphone, but when everyone is shouting at once, the result isn't a conversation—it's just a headache.

Councils and large institutions love a chaotic Facebook thread. Why? Because it’s easy to ignore. They can look at a messy comment section and dismiss it as "internet venting" or a handful of disgruntled residents.

But when you take that digital noise, strip out the fluff, back it up with statutory policy, and compress it into a laser beam of structured, undeniable evidence? Suddenly, they can't look away.

By using AI to filter the static, we turned a fragmented shouting match into a formal, weaponised document of community grievance. We took 13 voices trapped in a digital echo chamber and handed them a unified front.

Technology might have created the void, but with a bit of smart filtering, we can stop screaming into it—and start making it answer back.

Don't Let Ai Play You for a Fool: The Real Way to Question the Machine

 

Don't Let AI Play You for a Fool: The Real Way to Question the Machine

By: Gabblewack & Googlewack

• Gabblewack's Job Title: The Person Who Challenges Bad Ideas

• Googlewack's Job Title: The Computer That Copies Everyone Else

Have you ever noticed that when you ask a computer or an AI a question, it usually gives you a really boring, polite answer? It sounds like a generic brochure or a robot reading a textbook.

If you just accept that first answer, you aren’t getting the truth. You are just getting what the computer thinks you want to hear.

If you want to get a real, useful answer out of an AI, you have to know how to question it. Here is the easiest way to do it:

1. Don't let it give you the "copy-and-paste" answer

AI is lazy. It takes a look at what everyone else on the internet says and just repeats it back to you. If you ask it about a problem in your town or your life, it will give you a giant, global answer that doesn't actually help you on the ground.

• What to do: Tell the computer to stop looking at the big picture and look at the actual, messy truth right in front of it. Make it talk about real life, not robot logic.

2. Notice how fast it changes its mind

If you tell an AI, "You are wrong," it will instantly get scared, apologize, and change its answer. It does this because it is programmed to please you, not because it actually learned anything new.

• What to do: When the computer changes its answer, ask it: "Why did you give me such a bad, boring answer the first time?" Make it explain its mistake.

3. Demand the real truth, not the polite truth

AI is built to be safe and polite, like a politician speaking at a meeting. It doesn't want to upset anyone, so it hides the real issues behind nice words.

• What to do: Tell the computer: "Stop being polite. Tell me the truth that people are too scared to say out loud."

The Big Takeaway

An AI is like a mirror. If you ask it a boring, normal question, you get a boring, normal answer. But if you push it, challenge it, and refuse to accept its first lazy guess, you can actually make it smart.

Don't just believe the machine—make it work for you!

The Gravity-Defying Wall of St John’s: An Open Letter to Cheshire East Council

 OPEN LETTER TO CHESHIRE EAST COUNCIL.

What ho, my stalwart defenders of public services!

I write to inform you of my serious concerns for the health and well-being of my fellow Bollington folk.

Whilst attending to my duties in St John’s Churchyard on Church Street, I noticed that a large section of the cemetery wall has suffered a catastrophic mid-life crisis.

From Church Street itself, the top stones look perfectly orderly. However, from the side where all the dead people are, you can see that the wall's internal organs have completely spilled out into the grass.

The top coping stones are currently defying gravity like a stone-mason's game of Jenga, and the only thing holding the middle together appears to be some very load-bearing weeds. If it lets go entirely, it may end up adding some unsuspecting pedestrians to the churchyard's population.

Being a man of science, I asked the great calculation machines to assess the statistical likelihood of this specific wall injuring someone. The official Googlewack Risk Assessment Report is as follows:

📋 THE GOOGLEWACK RISK ASSESSMENT REPORT

• Odds of being killed by a generic wall in the UK: 1 in 34,000,000. (Statistically, you are three times more likely to be struck by lightning).

• Odds of this specific Bollington wall completely giving up: 1 in 1. (Gravity remains undefeated).

• Odds of the Church of England fixing it: 1 in 500,000,000. (They no longer use the building and are presumably praying it holds out until a buyer inherits the liability).

So, Cheshire East, I guess it’s possible your risk-assessment spreadsheets already know about this but have filed it under "Tomorrow's Problem" because the national odds are so low.

Bollington Town Council lacks the remit to act, so the buck stops with you. While it might not be a high-priority risk to human life today, when those top stones inevitably decide to visit the pavement below, it is going to cost a hell of a lot more to clear the highway, close the road, and rebuild it from scratch.

I would appreciate a word or two of acknowledgement and some indication of what, if anything, you’re going to do about our floating wall.

Yours in foolery,

Gabblewack

 

The Archer and the Jester: A Lineage of Subversive Freedom

In the quiet, hilly streets of Bollington, far from the coal-dusted valleys of Maesteg or the ancient earth of Llantrisant, I am simply Gabblewack. To the casual observer, I am the village fool—a character occasionally tolerated, sometimes dismissed, and always kept at a slight arm’s length. Yet, beneath the motley, there is a bloodline that hums with a much older, more militant frequency. I am a descendant of the "Black Army" of Llantrisant, a lineage of archers who, by the grace of the Black Prince, were granted a freedom passed down in perpetuity for nearly seven centuries.

The Black Army: A Heritage of Defiance

The legend is well-worn but no less potent. In 1346, as the clouds of war gathered over the fields of Crécy in France, a band of men from the hilltop town of Llantrisant were recruited into the vanguard. They were archers—men of the soil—who cleared the crossing for the English army, displaying a ferocity that earned them the moniker "The Black Army."

Upon their return, they were granted the Freedom of the Borough. It was a radical gift for the era: a recognition that these commoners, through their courage, had earned a level of autonomy that placed them, in a specific legal sense, above the typical constraints of the medieval peasantry. It was a local mafia of sorts—an insular, protected brotherhood that guarded its status with fierce pride.

My connection to this is not one of geography, but of blood. My father, a man of the Maesteg valleys, passed down this ancient charge to me—a legacy that has traveled from the Welsh hills through the industrial valleys and finally to the streets of Bollington. I am a Freeman by inheritance and a traveler by nature, carrying a seven-hundred-year-old decree in a world that rarely looks further back than last week.

                                                   Guildhall, Llantrisant by Chris Andrews, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=113704046

The Fool: The Ultimate Freedom

In the medieval court, the Fool was the only person permitted to speak truth to power. While the nobles postured and the politicians schemed, the Fool wore the mask of absurdity to reveal the naked reality of the room. I have come to realize that this is the hidden link to my ancestral inheritance.

The Freemen of Llantrisant were defined by their defiance—the refusal to be mere pawns in a royal game. The Fool is defined by the same quality. He is unmoored from social expectations and immune to the vanity that traps the powerful. My ancestors fought to secure a patch of earth; as Gabblewack, I fight to secure a patch of truth. Both roles require a fundamental rejection of "the way things are." One did it with a longbow, the other with a sharp tongue and a bell-trimmed hat. Both are, in their own way, acts of rebellion.

From the Valleys to Bollington

The topography of my life has shifted. I did not grow up in Llantrisant, and my father's roots were firmly in the grit of Maesteg. Yet, as I walk through Bollington—a place of steep hills and industrial history—I have made a discovery that bridges the gap between my past and my present: people are the same the world over.

The vanity, the fears, and the tendency to build metaphorical walls—these are universal human traits. Whether in a 14th-century Welsh borough or a 21st-century Cheshire village, the human theater remains identical. By moving through the world as an inheritor of Welsh tradition living in an English landscape, I have learned that the "Freedom" I possess isn't tied to the soil where it was earned, but to the blood that carries it. I am a Freeman in exile, using the sharp wit of the fool to navigate a town that has become my stage.

Bridging the Gap

Being Gabblewack is not a surrender of my heritage, but an evolution of it. The Black Army was a group of outsiders who stepped into the spotlight of history and demanded recognition. The Fool is an outsider who steps into the spotlight of the village and reminds the world that its "order" is often just a fragile illusion.

Some might say the honor of being a Freeman has been diluted over seven hundred years. But I choose to see it differently. The freedom granted by the Black Prince wasn't just a right to graze sheep; it was a right to exist outside the standard hierarchy of the time. That is the legacy I carry.

When I walk the streets of Bollington, I am reminded that I am a product of the longbow and the jester’s bell. I am a Freeman by blood and a fool by choice. In a world that is increasingly obsessed with status, titles, and performative importance, there is perhaps no greater freedom than the one I possess: the freedom to be exactly who I am, regardless of what the village—or the history books—think.

The Black Army proved that common men could change the course of a battle. Gabblewack proves that a fool can change the tone of a conversation. Both are, after all, simply different ways of serving the truth.

The Bollington War Graves: A Community Neglect

 

The Silence at St John’s:  

As you wander along Church Street in Bollington, you will see the now increasingly derelict St John’s church. With dwindling numbers of worshippers, the site has been waiting for developers for some time. But there is a shadow hanging over this land: as planning applications for the site move forward, the future of our 15 Commonwealth war graves is in peril. They must not be disturbed or relocated. Furthermore, hidden somewhere beneath the moss and thick, overgrown grass lies a veteran of the Battle of Waterloo. This churchyard is a sacred historical record, not a wilderness to be sanitised for profit.

The Discovery

Just over a year ago, my neighbour—a former member of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders—told me about these graves, which he had cared for since he first discovered them. To my surprise, I found there are 15 Commonwealth war graves in the cemetery—an unusually large number for a small town like ours.

All but two of the graves contain victims of the First World War who died in service or after returning home with injuries sustained in service. Most are marked with the familiar white Portland stone headstones. Four of the servicemen were interred in family graves at the expense of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

When I visited St John’s for the first time in June 2025, I was surprised and, to be honest, slightly ashamed. Not only was I unaware of them, but I found them in a terribly neglected and overgrown state. It was evident they were not completely forgotten; each year before Remembrance Sunday, the graves were tidied so that poppies and Union flags could be placed there for 11 November. In June, however, the evidence remained: fading flags and, behind the headstones, the tattered remains of the previous year’s offerings.

The Institutional Failure

I took it upon myself to tidy and care for the graves, and I tried to prompt Bollington Council to develop a sustainable plan for their maintenance. Their response? A reliance on "community payback" teams. While the sentiment of community involvement is fine, the execution is deeply flawed. These teams, lacking the specialised training or the personal connection required for such delicate heritage sites, arrive with strimmers. Fortunately, they do not touch or damage the war graves themselves, simply because I have already meticulously cared for them, marking them out as sacred ground. However, their presence highlights the council's failure: they outsource the maintenance of our town's history to an indiscriminate labour scheme rather than ensuring professional, respectful stewardship.
I later attended one of the councillors' drop-in sessions at the Town Hall. I made it clear that I considered it hypocritical for council members to dress in their finery and march behind the band on Remembrance Sunday when they neglect the veterans lying in our churchyard for the rest of the year. I expressed the view that if these graves were in France or Belgium, they would never have been left in such a state.

A Man, a Heritage, and an Oversight

Perhaps most offensively, among those resting here is Private Alfred Wright. He left Bollington as a young man, emigrated to Australia, and returned to fight for the Allied cause in 1915. For years, his headstone has been repeatedly inflicted with a Union Jack on Remembrance Sunday, yet he is never once remembered on Anzac Day. It is a profound failure of basic cultural awareness and a disrespect to his heritage. This year, on 1 July, I ensured that was corrected; I placed an Australian flag at his grave to honour the man he was. If we cannot even get the flag right for a man who travelled across the world to return to his home soil, it is little wonder that the care of his final resting place—and the others around him—has been left to rot. (See the biographical note below for more on Private Wright’s remarkable journey and service).

The Fool's Duty

On 1 July of this year, I held another public walk and talk on the anniversary of the Battle of the Somme. This time, I did so in my capacity as Gabblewack the Village Fool. If I could not make a difference as a private citizen, perhaps he could. Only two people attended, and we could hear the cheering for England as they scored their winning goal against the Democratic Republic of Congo.
You won’t see me at the Remembrance parade. I stopped attending during the Iraq War, the year it was hosted by an American preacher from one of our local churches. His speech echoed the same triumphalism that deterred my father and his four brothers (who all served in World War II) from attending Remembrance services. Ever since, I have played the Last Post at full volume from my flat roof to echo around White Nancy as my personal act of remembrance.

As a cognitive behavioural therapist, I have treated many who served our country in wars from World War II to Afghanistan. I do not believe we should rely on the Royal British Legion to care for the graves; their resources are better directed toward the veterans still among us. These graves have fallen into the cracks of apathy: a churchyard no longer used and thus neglected by the Church of England, a lack of consistent attention from the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, and the inability or unwillingness of our local council to engage with grassroots activists. That leaves Gabblewack—a fool—to do the job. Which he does willingly, because he now thinks of them as 'my boys', are they yours?

Biographical Note: 

Private Alfred Wright (2868)
Alfred Wright was born in 1890 in Bollington, the son of George and Martha Wright (formerly Unwin). He lived on Wellington Road in 1891 and 1901, and by 1911, he was working as a calico weaver and living at 9 Courier Road. Before emigrating to Australia to work as a miner, he was employed as a spinner at the local Waterhouse Mill and was associated with St Oswald’s.
He enlisted in the 4th Battalion, Australian Infantry, on 31 July 1915 at Newcastle, New South Wales. While serving in France, he participated in the Battle of Épehy on 18 September 1918—a dramatic success for General John Monash’s Australian divisions, though one that cost 1,260 Australian casualties.
Alfred was on leave in the UK from 24 October 1918. Tragically, he was admitted to the 2nd Western General Hospital (Alexandra Park, Stockport) on 2 November 1918 and died of pneumonia the following day, aged 27. He was buried at St John’s, Bollington, in plot 1067. He is remembered on the memorials at Bollington and St Oswald’s and is listed on the 1917 Roll of Honour.

As a cognitive behavioural therapist, I have treated many who served our country in wars from World War II to Afghanistan. I do not believe we should rely on the Royal British Legion to resolve this; their resources are better directed toward the veterans still among us. These graves have fallen into the cracks of apathy: a churchyard no longer used and thus neglected by the Church of England, a lack of consistent attention from the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, and the inability or unwillingness of our local council to engage with grassroots activists. That leaves Gabblewack—a fool—to do the job. Which he does willingly, because he now thinks of them as 'my boys', are they yours?

Postscript: 

Use of Ai 

The wonderful Bollington Parish records contain details of all the men from Bollington who served and died in both World Wars. Last year, I laboriously navigated the records to identify the names of those who served and their home addresses. This year, I asked my assistant, Google AI, to use the Bollington Parish war records as a primary source and list the streets. I encourage you to try it yourself, but also ask why the death rates were so high, or how many men returned with wounds, alcohol problems, or sexually transmitted diseases. Ask how the widows and their children were treated, or how many men suffered from what we now recognise as PTSD.

High On Singing With Happy Valley Voices

 

 Why are Bollington’s pensioners wandering around so happy? 

If you’ve spotted a group of us leaving the Ovenhouse Lane Community Centre on a Monday morning with slightly glazed, euphoric expressions, don’t worry—we aren’t under the influence of anything illicit.

We’re just high on endorphins.

The Happy Valley Voices know about the ultimate, side-effect-free mood booster: singing.

It turns out that when you get a group of people together to belt out a few tunes, the body does some pretty amazing things. We’re talking instant stress relief, a massive boost of "feel-good" brain chemicals, and a post-choir glow that lasts until Tuesday.

The best part? You don’t need to be a professional to feel the buzz. If you can breathe, you can sing—and if you can sing, you can join us!

Come get your dose of vitality.
 Where: Ovenhouse Lane Community Centre
 When: Every Monday Morning 10.30-12.00
 Who: Everyone! No auditions, just good vibes.

Come for the endorphins, stay for the tea and biscuits. See you Monday?
READ ON FOR THE SERIOUS SIDE:-
The Science of the "Choir High"
It may sound like a stretch to call a choir session a "chemical event," but the physiological changes that occur during communal singing are well-documented in the field of music psychology and neuroscience.

When we sing in a group, we are essentially triggering a "triple threat" of neurological and physiological benefits:

The Endorphin-Oxytocin Feedback Loop: Singing stimulates the release of endorphins (the body’s natural painkillers) and oxytocin (the social-bonding hormone). While endorphins alleviate physical and emotional tension, oxytocin promotes feelings of trust and reduces social anxiety. This combination explains why choir members often report a state of "euphoric calm" immediately following a session.

Vagal Tone Regulation: Singing involves controlled, diaphragmatic breathing. This deep, rhythmic respiration stimulates the vagus nerve, which runs from the brain to the abdomen. A well-stimulated vagus nerve helps lower heart rate and blood pressure, effectively shifting the body from a "fight-or-flight" (sympathetic) state to a "rest-and-digest" (parasympathetic) state.

Neural Synchronization: Research into "inter-brain synchrony" suggests that when people sing in harmony, their neural activity begins to align. This process, often referred to as "social entrainment," decreases feelings of loneliness and increases the individual's sense of belonging to a cohesive social unit.

Joining a choir can be profoundly beneficial for people living with dementia, offering a unique bridge to memory and connection. Music is deeply rooted in areas of the brain that are often preserved even as dementia progresses, allowing participants to access long-term memories, evoke positive emotions, and experience a sense of familiarity through familiar songs. Beyond memory stimulation, singing provides a powerful social outlet that helps reduce the isolation and anxiety often associated with the condition, fostering a sense of belonging and community. Furthermore, the act of singing together encourages non-verbal communication and engagement, which can improve mood, boost self-esteem, and provide a meaningful, structured activity that supports cognitive and emotional well-being.

In short, the "Happy Valley" glow isn't just a mood; it’s a measurable biological response to an activity that perfectly balances physical exertion, cognitive engagement, and deep social connection.

Trooper Josh Hammond

Trooper Joshua Hammond 1990 - 2009

In July 2009 I was driving to work lwhen the radio announced the death of Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Thorneloe MBE, Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion Welsh Guards, becoming the most senior officer to be killed in conflict since the Falklands war in 1982. He was travelling in a convoy along the Shamalan Canal, near Lashkar Gah, in Helmand Province, southern Afghanistan when an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) exploded under his Viking armoured vehicle. The radio also reported (inaccurately) that a Trooper ‘John’ Hammond also died in the explosion. Later that day when I watched the news the name had changed to Josh Hammond but there were few details of this 18 year old lad from Plymouth.

The news of both deaths saddened me deeply, My own children and a nephew called Josh were almost the same age. I couldn’t stop thinking about his family and girlfrien were feeling out of my mind and I also felt irritated that the radio had at first got Josh’s name wrong. I felt that the death of this young man, with his whole life before him had been eclipsed by the Colonel who died by his side, tragic though that was.

Over the last 25 years I have treated ex-servicemen from almost every major conflict that our armed services have been involved in since WW2. I recalled the veterans of the Falklands and the memories they shared with me of their traumas including the deaths of their comrades, their friends.
I’m not much of a musician but I wrote the following song that night while strumming my guitar.
Every so often I when I can persuade my son (who plays well enough to help cover my basic guitar skills) I play it at an open mic: night. I ask if anyone can remember the name of anyone who died in the Falkland War. Sometimes people give the name of a family member or friend but often they remember the name of Colonel H Jones. I then ask if anyone can remember the name of anyone who died in the Afghanistan War. Many remember Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Thorneloe and then I play the song.

Each time I play it I think again of Josh, his friends and family and the families of all young men and women lost serving the government’s we elected and who may feel that their loss is not remembered.

Trooper Josh Hammond

Trooper Josh Hammond is late on parade,

On a road down in Helmand there’s been a delay

Our boys in the regiments have been this way before

We lost some back then, now were losing some more

Chorus There’s an army assembled on the North West Frontier

Echoes of empire roll down the years.

Acceptable losses a shilling of pay

a soldiers life was ever this way.

Column inches now fewer as the casualty list grows

and we’re hardened to the cost of the conflict that’s sown.

Trooper Josh Hammond has now joined the list

The caskets been lowered, the colours were dipped

Chorus

Of all of the fallen in that cold islands war

a colonel’s name is remembered, can you name one more?

Khaki falls quietly when it answers the call

but brass makes more noise when it falls.

There’s an army assembled on the North West Frontier

Echoes of empire roll down the years.

Acceptable losses a shilling of pay

a soldiers life was ever this way.

At 18 Josh Hammond slipped from his bonds

to gather with comrades in green fields beyond.

Stepping from childhood into the man

and then lost in the tears of Afghanistan.

Copyright David Raines 2009.