Ever since Macclesfield’s descent in to unapproachable wolf territory, not many have dared to venture there. The wolves stalk the streets night and day, rendering the, once Northern, city completely uninhabitable. We all remember that fateful day when the Pets at Home lorry jack-knifed, spilling out its contents (close to fifty wolves) near the legendary local Silk Museum. The city’s residents were soon driven out of the area by the wolves, who initially were being readied to guard The Door to Scotland. Unfortunately, after being thrown from the back of the truck, the beasts presumed Macclesfield their new home. Unable to acclimatise and fearful of wolf bites – a common symptom of wolf death – all humans evacuated to the neighbouring cities of Sheffield and Manchester.
Despite the now rough and dangerous reputation of Macclesfield, with the number of wolf gangs increasing annually, it was seen as an opportunity by someone. A brave knight in the face of pointed canines and pack mentality. TV’s Gareth Malone stepped up to bring together his most ambitious choir to date: The Wolf Choir. After the disaster of his Wives Choir Military, Malone sought retribution.
Not Yet Music here. We investigated, and in 2025 Gareth Malone started a private militia called the Wives Choir Military, made up entirely of singing married women. He sent them to battle, with the promise that, “song is the most powerful weapon,” as their motivator. The group of 30-or-so wives were gunned down instantly. Malone escaped imprisonment by claiming he only came up with the name of the show for a joke, and he nearly stopped the process at several points. “In fact,” he commented, “I was about to tell them to stay in the barracks just before they left and got themselves shot. However, my phone was dead, and even my strongest vibrato couldn’t be heard through the helicopter rotors. The producers insisted on keeping me at a more-than-safe distance from the carnage. Again – out of my hands!”
Speaking at a press conference via Skype before the wolves’ debut concert at The Buxton Opera House, a noticeably sweaty Malone told reporters, “they said I couldn’t do it, and yet here we are. Three days from the concert, and the wolves couldn’t be more excited – maybe even more than me! I’m full of anticipation; I just can’t wait to showcase the world’s first all-wolf choir. They’re a great bunch of wolves, even if they do occasionally nip at my bow tie. In fact, at points during the process they’ve had me HOWLING with laughter!” It was odd that he wasn’t there to deliver such a pre-meditated pun in person, but it failed to elicit a response, nonetheless. The call ended abruptly – technical difficulties probably – leaving the room confused, but no doubt still intrigued for the upcoming concert.
Three days had passed, the night was upon us. The audience congregated outside The Buxton Opera House in anticipation of the doors opening, but among the crowd lurked peculiar whispers:
“I hear he’s struggled to tame the beasts. Supposedly it was the wolves who hung up the Skype call.”
“Pah, this shall fall apart just like his last dismal, murdersome effort.”
“You know, apparently none of the production team have actually seen Gareth since he walked past the Silk Museum on day one of the shoot.”
The doors groaned as they opened, we all shuffled in. I hung back, hoping not to be drawn in to the centre of the mass of Malone-likers, fellow journalists and a scarce few wolf enthusiasts. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but I had a strong urge to be ready to pounce, to leave, to do anything, at any time. So I sat in an isle seat. Restrictions were most unwelcome in a scenario as uncertain as this; we had entered the wolves’ pit.
And it was truly theirs. The stage curtain lifted to reveal a long stick, atop which sat the severed head of Gareth Malone, former choir-wrangler. The audience screamed. The doors locked. The wolves covered all possible exits. They were in charge. They are in charge (Editor’s note: the switch to present tense arrives as our brave, former contributor begins to write live from the scene). They’re starting to howl and bark, but, wait, it isn’t quite that, no, they’re… singing. In perfect harmony, the wolves are singing. Lyrically, their composition is rudimentary, but the words are clear: “We’ve eaten Malone’s torso and legs because he wouldn’t stop telling us to ‘have fun with it’ and his bow tie looked like a wolf biscuit.” It may seem crass in the written form, but they’re delivering it with such sweet splendor and musical voice that it seems, almost, justified. Malone did an admirable job before his untimely digestion.
My fate is now likely sealed. I shall be paying for this article’s publication with my life (I think one of the wolves can see me furiously typing this in an email to my Editor), but so be it. The world needs to know what happened here, in Buxton, in 2029, because how many more Gareth Malones need to die before we leave the wolves alone? This reporter thinks: one, at most!
Written by, and dedicated to, Ronson Brandwidth (1999-2029)
Not Yet Music 