Stockport Pub Defies Modern Malaise—Chestergate Champions True British Spirit

Paul Riverbank, 2/8/2026Stockport’s Chestergate pub fuses its storied past with a renewed spirit—karaoke, charity, and community at its core. Beloved by locals and visitors worldwide, it’s a living testament that, amid change, the heartbeat of true community endures.

Folks in Stockport, and frankly places much farther flung, know The Chestergate for its karaoke. Not the forced, sticky kind, but belting out classics while strangers and regulars nod approval, or slide a pint along to someone tackling Tina Turner. The floor has changed, though—quite literally. Now, with the bar ripped out and re-dropped closer to the action, anyone can catch the attention of staff (shout out to the ones who dart through crowds balancing drinks and jokes with equal skill).

You can see the new booths from the door; they stretch along the wall where the old dartboard lived, though there’s still one, now topped with a badge reading ‘Bullseye or Bust, 2024’. Most weekends, bodies carve out space for dancing barely any room at all. Social media got wind—of course it did. TikTok found Chestergate’s late darling, Molly Webb, mid-dance in those boots. To locals, she was just Molly, but online she became the pub’s unofficial figurehead. She died last September, though talk to the bar staff and she’s just “Molly, always up for karaoke.” There’s a shelf now, tucked away near the mural, where people raise a glass to her. Sometimes more than one.

Manager Steph Armstrong, broad-smiling veteran of glass-collecting shifts and closing time scrambles, has her own place too—usually behind the taps, though quick to join the noise when ‘Sweet Caroline’ comes on. She laughs about the pub’s claims to fame: Australians losing their voices at two a.m., Americans convincing locals to try singing country, football fans buying out all the Foster’s during a World Cup that briefly got them rebranded The Southgate. “What’s unusual?” she grins. “Anything goes in here, you know?”

And yes, there are newer faces—TV actors slouching near the windows, odd film crews angling for a backdrop that doesn’t look like anywhere else, a fresh paint smell that lingers under the aroma of chips and vinegar. Yet, regulars still take the same stools they always have, and the charity events roll on whatever the weather. A list behind the counter details collections for women’s shelters, raffle nights, and funds for the defibrillator (they like to point it out, quietly, as if it’s just as important as the jukebox). They keep a bleed kit too; not many do, says Steph with a shrug, like that’s just part of looking after the regulars.

The new design spreads the room out—calls for another round echo clearer now, and on Saturday you almost forget the past few years. Some customers still slide in, order a lager (usually Foster’s, though you’ll hear “Give us a Cruzcampo, will you?” from the braver ones), or slam down for a swift shot, just before battling ‘My Way’ in front of a half-smiling, half-teary crowd.

But that’s the point. The Chestergate, with its TikTok moments and busloads of visitors, hasn’t forgotten what kept the doors open all these years: music, laughter, someone remembering to ask about your mum. There’s a photo of Molly in her corner, and if you squint, you’ll see tiny lipstick prints on the frame.

Stockport changes; the pub gets repainted. But every weekend, the old rituals spark up—singing so loud the windows might rattle, someone missing a cue and laughing it off, neighbours catching up over chips. Places like The Chestergate remind you, not everything has to grow new walls to matter. Sometimes, you just move the bar, raise a glass, and carry on singing.

If you listen, The Chestergate sort of hums, even before you push through the door. On a damp Friday night in Stockport, with the drizzle settling on Mersey Square, it’s easy to miss the place if you’re searching for the ordinary. But inside—the air really moves. Beneath a dozen or so battered hats and the neon shimmer of freshly scrubbed signage, this isn’t just another pub. It’s almost more of an unstated invitation: all ages, all voices, no particular dress code unless you count the odd pink boots.Folks in Stockport, and frankly places much farther flung, know The Chestergate for its karaoke. Not the forced, sticky kind, but belting out classics while strangers and regulars nod approval, or slide a pint along to someone tackling Tina Turner. The floor has changed, though—quite literally. Now, with the bar ripped out and re-dropped closer to the action, anyone can catch the attention of staff (shout out to the ones who dart through crowds balancing drinks and jokes with equal skill).You can see the new booths from the door; they stretch along the wall where the old dartboard lived, though there’s still one, now topped with a badge reading ‘Bullseye or Bust, 2024’. Most weekends, bodies carve out space for dancing barely any room at all. Social media got wind—of course it did. TikTok found Chestergate’s late darling, Molly Webb, mid-dance in those boots. To locals, she was just Molly, but online she became the pub’s unofficial figurehead. She died last September, though talk to the bar staff and she’s just “Molly, always up for karaoke.” There’s a shelf now, tucked away near the mural, where people raise a glass to her. Sometimes more than one.Manager Steph Armstrong, broad-smiling veteran of glass-collecting shifts and closing time scrambles, has her own place too—usually behind the taps, though quick to join the noise when ‘Sweet Caroline’ comes on. She laughs about the pub’s claims to fame: Australians losing their voices at two a.m., Americans convincing locals to try singing country, football fans buying out all the Foster’s during a World Cup that briefly got them rebranded The Southgate. “What’s unusual?” she grins. “Anything goes in here, you know?”And yes, there are newer faces—TV actors slouching near the windows, odd film crews angling for a backdrop that doesn’t look like anywhere else, a fresh paint smell that lingers under the aroma of chips and vinegar. Yet, regulars still take the same stools they always have, and the charity events roll on whatever the weather. A list behind the counter details collections for women’s shelters, raffle nights, and funds for the defibrillator (they like to point it out, quietly, as if it’s just as important as the jukebox). They keep a bleed kit too; not many do, says Steph with a shrug, like that’s just part of looking after the regulars.The new design spreads the room out—calls for another round echo clearer now, and on Saturday you almost forget the past few years. Some customers still slide in, order a lager (usually Foster’s, though you’ll hear “Give us a Cruzcampo, will you?” from the braver ones), or slam down for a swift shot, just before battling ‘My Way’ in front of a half-smiling, half-teary crowd.But that’s the point. The Chestergate, with its TikTok moments and busloads of visitors, hasn’t forgotten what kept the doors open all these years: music, laughter, someone remembering to ask about your mum. There’s a photo of Molly in her corner, and if you squint, you’ll see tiny lipstick prints on the frame.Stockport changes; the pub gets repainted. But every weekend, the old rituals spark up—singing so loud the windows might rattle, someone missing a cue and laughing it off, neighbours catching up over chips. Places like The Chestergate remind you, not everything has to grow new walls to matter. Sometimes, you just move the bar, raise a glass, and carry on singing.