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.

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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.