There is a strange kind of fame that exists in the modern social media landscape, a notoriety built less on achievement and more on presence, on being the voice that never goes quiet in an endlessly scrolling world. The man behind the Around Liverpool account has achieved this in spades, gathering a combined audience of nearly 200,000 people across platforms, including a Facebook page with 133,000 followers. To many, he is simply a source of local news, a page that feels familiar, immediate, and constantly active. But to city officials, police forces, and a growing number of residents, he has become something far more troubling: a purveyor of panic, a vehicle for unverified claims, and a constant thorn in the side of public truth. Recently, that tension reached a new peak, as the original Facebook page was suspended. In a message posted to Instagram, the account confirmed the suspension, sharing a screenshot that suggested the action was related to posts concerning adult sexual exploitation. The man behind the account denied that anything recently posted would fit into that category, but his frustration was unmistakable. “I’m done with the b###### now,” he wrote. “I’ve submitted an appeal to get it back. If not I am gonna f*** this page off now. It’s nothing but hassle anyway.”
For those unfamiliar with the history, this suspension did not come out of nowhere. Earlier this year, the ECHO published a detailed investigation into the account, laying bare a pattern of behaviour that had concerned authorities for some time. The report highlighted multiple instances in which the platform had shared misinformation to its large and trusting audience, often at moments of genuine public vulnerability. Merseyside Police and the leader of Liverpool Council, Liam Robinson, both spoke openly about their worries, using language that was unusually direct for public officials. They described the account as stoking panic and sharing information that had not been verified, and they warned that the consequences could be severe. Perhaps the most devastating example came when a number of Liverpool schools were targeted with hoax threats. Parents across the city were holding their breath, waiting for news, desperate for clarity and reassurance. It was in that atmosphere of fear that the account posted a video of a supposed bomb hoax suspect being arrested, accompanied by a voice note saying “this is not a drill,” alongside a video of a car on fire. The problem was that none of this material was related to the actual incidents. It was old, unrelated footage, stitched together in a way that made it feel immediate and terrifying.
When followers challenged the account owner, pointing out that his posts were dangerously inaccurate and could cause real harm, his response was not contrite. It was combative, dismissive, and almost proud. “Even though [I am] not perfect, I still trust the word on the street. If u (sic) don’t like it, f*** off,” he said. When someone insisted that a particular post, one that seemed designed to spread fear and panic, was completely wrong, he openly admitted: “I let the followers write the news on this page and as you can see, it’s never 100% accurate.” That statement is revealing not just for its honesty, but for what it says about his understanding of his own role. He sees the page less as a journalistic outlet and more as an open forum, a place where anything can be posted, where emotion matters more than evidence, and where being first is more important than being right. In that model, accuracy is not an obligation; it is a luxury that may occasionally be forgone. This approach has real consequences. Liam Robinson, speaking at the time, called the posting and sharing of false and inflammatory information “irresponsible and immoral,” particularly at a moment when parents were already frightened and uncertain. Merseyside Police echoed that sentiment, warning that such posts could “falsely increase fear throughout our communities” and could even jeopardise sensitive ongoing investigations.
The human cost of this behaviour cannot be easily quantified, but it is not hard to imagine. A parent sitting at home, heart pounding, watching a video of a car on fire while an unseen voice insists that this is not a drill, is not just consuming content. They are being manipulated, their anxiety weaponised for engagement. The fear is real, even if the facts are not. And in the chaos that follows, real people are affected—teachers trying to manage terrified children, police officers forced to divert time and resources to dispel rumours, and members of the public who genuinely believe they are in danger. It is a gross abdication of responsibility, wrapped in the language of community service. But it is not only the moments of crisis that are damaging. It is the slow erosion of trust, the constant drip of half-truths and conspiracy theories that makes people question what they should believe. When an account like this repeats a falsehood over and over again, it becomes part of the local fabric, woven into conversations, shared in WhatsApp groups, and repeated by people who genuinely believe they are helping. At that point, misinformation stops being an individual mistake and becomes a collective problem that affects the very fabric of the city.
After the initial wave of public criticism, there was a moment when it seemed the account might change its ways. The man behind it released a statement to the ECHO, promising to do better. He acknowledged the concerns, softened his tone, and insisted that he wanted to use the page for good. “It’s a public message board for anything to express views and opinions,” he said. “But from now on the page will be toned down and I will be placing limits on what people are allowed to post. We will be focusing more on the community help and positive things. I want to use the page for as much good as possible.” He apologised to anyone who had been offended, and pledged that the page would remain open to anyone of any belief or background. It was the kind of statement that, for a while, almost felt hopeful. But the transformation did not last. It was not long before the account slid back into its old habits, sharing unverified information and stoking fears once again. In one notable recent post, the account shared a large graphic warning that read “UK Riots Planned: Parents Be Aware,” complete with a supposed list of locations and dates for planned unrest in various cities, in the aftermath of disturbances in France. The poster appeared to be AI-generated, and there was no evidence that it was real. The man behind the account acknowledged this uncertainty in his own caption, writing: “I’ve been sent this a few times now. I can’t say if this is true or conspiracy.” But then he went further, adding his own commentary: “I do believe the disorder we’re seeing in Europe is being orchestrated by the Muslim Brotherhood and groups who are equally nefarious. I know that these ‘protests’ will come here sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.”
This is the pattern that has defined the account over and over again, despite all warnings and all opportunities to change. In another recent example, the account shared an image of a man lying on the ground in Liverpool city centre, claiming that he had tried to kidnap a child from a pram. The allegation was frightening and instantly shareable, and it raced across social media before anyone had a chance to check the facts. But those who were actually present at the scene told a very different story. There was no pram, they said. The man on the floor was not a predator; he was a person experiencing a medical emergency. In the picture itself, a paramedic could be seen tending to him, a detail that ought to have given any reasonable observer pause. Yet the account post was shared widely, and the damage was done. The man’s reputation, his safety, and his dignity were all placed at risk in service of a rumour. And when the truth emerged, it was too late for many people who had already absorbed the false version of events. This is the ugly reality of how social media misinformation works in the modern age. It does not need to be intentional to be harmful. It does not need to be malicious to cause pain. It simply needs to move fast, and it will always move faster than the truth.
What should we make of this strange and troubling story? On one level, it is easy to dismiss the man behind Around Liverpool as simply an attention-seeker, someone who enjoys the power that comes with a large audience and is unwilling to accept the responsibility that should accompany it. There is some truth to that, no doubt. But there is also something more complex at play, something that speaks to the broader challenges of our time. We live in an age where anyone can be a publisher, where a single post can reach more people than a newspaper or a television channel, and where the algorithms reward outrage, fear, and speed above all else. The Around Liverpool account is not an anomaly; it is an extreme example of a phenomenon that touches every community in the world. The man behind it is not a monster; he is a person who discovered that sharing rumours gets more attention than sharing facts, that fear spreads faster than reassurance, and that apologising is easier than improving. He promised to change, and perhaps he meant it in that moment. But the pressures of maintaining an audience, of feeding the endless hunger of the algorithm, proved too strong. And so the cycle continues, with every suspension, every apology, every fresh controversy. The real lesson is not simply about one account or one person. It is about the fragility of truth in the digital age, and the collective responsibility we all share to demand better, to check before we share, and to remember that behind every false post there is a real community, a real city, and real people who deserve better than panic dressed up as news.