Imagine a cobbled high street in an ancient English town, the chatter of shoppers a comfortable hum, traffic rumbling in the distance. Suddenly, a bell rings. One sharp, insistent note. Then a voice, enormous and unmistakable, cuts through the air like a warm blade. “Oyez! Oyez!” Heads turn. Conversations stop. For a moment, the world is silent, not because of silence, but because something far louder and more commanding has taken hold. That voice belongs to Brenda Willison, a town crier from Newmarket, Suffolk, and as of this year, she is officially the loudest woman in the world. The Guinness Book of World Records confirmed on September 9 that her cry of “oyez” reached a staggering 105.9 decibels. To put that in perspective, it is the equivalent of standing right next to a snowblower, or a car horn blasting directly into your ear. It is not just loud; it is surprising, joyful, and faintly theatrical. What makes Brenda’s achievement even more charming is her own reaction. She believes she could have performed better. She had a cold on the day of the attempt, and in her mind, the greatest shout was still somewhere in her throat, waiting for a healthier moment to emerge. There is something deeply human about that. She broke a world record while under the weather, and still she felt she had more to give. That combination of extraordinary talent and cheerful humility has made her a beloved figure, not only in Newmarket but across the world of town criers and traditional civic life.
Brenda’s path to this record was never a straight one, and it began with a surprise. She first became a town crier in Peterborough because her daughter entered her into a competition without her knowledge. Imagine that: someone else believing in your voice so much that they quietly sign you up for a role that will change your life. It is the kind of story that feels like it belongs in a gentle comedy, but for Brenda it became a calling. From that accidental beginning, she found herself standing in front of crowds, ringing bells, and announcing news with a voice that could carry across a market square, over the clatter of carts, and into the windows of nearby houses. Her journey reached a remarkable peak when she cried at Buckingham Palace for the Queen Mother’s one hundredth birthday. There she was, a woman from a small English town, standing at the gates of a royal palace, raising her voice in celebration of a historic milestone. It is a vivid image, full of ceremony and national pride. Town criers are not just people who shout at events. They are living links to a long and rich tradition, once the only source of news for ordinary people. Before newspapers, radio, television, and the internet, the town crier was the voice of authority and community. Brenda has taken that role and made it her own, with warmth, theatricality, and a voice that can silence a crowd with pure astonishment.
There is an art to being a town crier that goes far beyond being loud. It is about breath control, rhythm, clarity, and stamina. To shout a proclamation at 105.9 decibels requires not just strong lungs, but careful technique learned over many years. A town crier must pronounce every word cleanly, with an elegant cadence, so that even the most complex announcement can be understood by everyone listening. It is a performance, and the voice is the instrument. Brenda’s record is a powerful reminder of how much the human body can achieve with practice and passion. She is not just someone who can make a lot of noise. She is someone who understands the power of sound, the way it can draw people together, and the way a single voice can create a moment of shared attention. In an age when we are constantly bombarded by screens, notifications, and recorded voices, there is something almost magical about hearing a real person project their voice with such force and clarity. It is raw, physical, and alive. Brenda’s achievement has also brought renewed attention to the role of town criers across Britain. These are people who keep old customs alive, who add color and drama to civic events, and who remind us that public life can be joyful, theatrical, and wonderfully strange. The next time you hear a town crier, it is worth stopping to listen. Behind the booming voice is a person devoted to tradition, community, and the simplest yet most powerful form of human connection: being heard.
Brenda is not alone in her passion for this peculiar and beautiful occupation. Over the last few months, town criers from across Britain have been making headlines themselves. Among them is Christian Ashdown, a 57-year-old council worker from Haslemere in Surrey, who was crowned Britain’s best town crier at the prestigious world championships held in Chester, Cheshire. Christian placed third overall, behind an Australian and a Belgian, but his achievement was no less impressive. It made him the best in his own country, a title earned among a field of exceptionally talented competitors from all over the world. Christian has been the town crier of Haslemere for sixteen years, a job that has become a deeply woven part of his identity. He is a man who spends his days working in local government, quiet and dutiful, and then transforms into something else entirely when the bell is in his hand and the words are ready to be shouted. Interestingly, Christian did not expect to place so highly. He described his finish as a pleasant surprise, the kind of humble reaction that makes you instantly warm to him. He admitted that before the competition, he liked to think of himself as somewhere in the top thirty town criers in the world. When he found himself ahead of strong competitors, particularly from Canada, he was genuinely impressed with his own performance.
The World Town Crier Tournament is not a gentle, sleepy affair. It is a serious contest, full of skill, personality, and the occasional dose of absurdity. Twenty-five competitors took part in the event, which unfolded over five days at the end of last month in the historic city of Chester. Each contestant was judged on three separate cries. The first was about their home towns, a chance for each crier to celebrate the places they know and love with pride and imagination. The second was perhaps more unexpected: a cry about a luxury lingerie shop that sponsored the event. The third was about the hotel where the competitors stayed. These last two categories might sound comical, and in many ways they are, but they also test a town crier’s versatility, wit, and ability to turn even the most mundane subject into something entertaining and memorable. It is a wonderfully eccentric tradition, blending ancient ceremonial shouting with modern promotional sponsorships, and it is hard not to smile at the thought of grown adults in elaborate uniforms loudly praising hotel breakfasts and silk robes in the middle of a city square. The winner was Kevin Howarth, from the city of Toowoomba in Australia, whose booming voice and theatrical style impressed the judges enormously. Second place went to Joris Goens of Veurne in Belgium, and third to Christian Ashdown, making him the finest town crier in Britain. The competition was a celebration of oratory, showmanship, and the strange, enduring charm of a role that should have disappeared centuries ago, but somehow refuses to fade away.
What does it truly mean to be the world’s loudest woman? For Brenda Willison, it is not simply about power or volume. It is about being heard, truly heard, in every sense of the phrase. She has taken a traditional role and given it new voice, literally. Her record shout is a reminder that all of us have within us the capacity to make ourselves known, to speak out, to interrupt the noise of the world with something authentic and undeniable. Brenda’s cold, and her belief that she could have done even better, makes her achievement all the more inspiring. She proved that even on an off day, even when her body was not at its best, she was still extraordinary. There is a comforting thought in that: we do not always need to be at our peak to do something wonderful. Sometimes, just showing up and giving what we have is enough. Christian Ashdown’s success tells a similar story. He did not expect to win a national title, but he trained, he showed up, and he gave his voice to the occasion. The town crier tradition is ultimately about belonging. It is about a person standing in a public place, calling out to strangers, asking them to listen, and creating a moment of shared attention in a fragmented world. In an age of constant digital distraction, there is something deeply reassuring about that old-fashioned, unfiltered human voice. Brenda, Christian, Kevin, Joris, and all the other criers who gathered in Chester are not just competitors. They are keepers of a living, breathing piece of history. Their voices remind us that news was once a communal experience, and that celebration and announcement could bring an entire town together. So if you ever hear a town crier, with a bell and a flowing uniform, stop and listen. The loudest voice in the room may seem like a relic of the past, but it is also a message from the heart of what it means to be human: to gather, to share, and to make sure that no one is left out of the story. Oyez, oyez. The world may be noisy, but some voices are still worth hearing.
