One town. Sixteen pages. Four thousand copies. Thursday.Printed Wednesday night on a press two streets from the river, in thirty-one shops by seven, read by lunch. Nothing on it happened further than four miles away.
Subscribe · £60 a yearThe front page is set by five o'clock on Wednesday. What goes on it is whatever the town talked about this week, in the order it talked about it.
Four thousand copies, and each one is read by about three people, on average, one of whom didn't buy it. That's the whole readership. We know most of them by the letters they write.
You know where everything is. That's the point of a newspaper, and the thing the screen forgot.
What happened, who said what at the council, and what it costs. Written by two people who live here.
Printed as sent, spelling included. The most-read page, by a distance.
Every application, every week, with a map. The most useful page, by a distance.
What's on, from the church hall to the pub quiz. Free to list. Nobody pays to be here.
Written properly, by someone who'll ring the family. Six hundred words, no charge.
Lost cats, spare rooms, a boat. The crossword is set by a retired teacher and is harder than it needs to be.
The advertising, which is thirty-one shops and a garage, and which pays the printer.
All of it, every team, every age. The under-11s get the same space as the firsts, and mind if they don't.
Thursday, from seven, in thirty-one shops. Usually gone by Saturday.
Fifty-two Thursdays through the door before eight, by a boy on a bike, still, mostly.
For people who moved away and want to know what happened to the bench.
Or write us a letter. Two hundred words, about anything within four miles, and it'll be on page four next week, spelling included.
Subscribe · £60 a year