Recappit™
You’ve made the news
A weekly newspaper about your family
To someone, you’re the headline.
Imagine this
She got dressed up for this. A birthday lunch, a paper crown, two hours at a table with her family.
For everyone else it was a Sunday afternoon. For her it was the whole week.
She goes home. She thinks about it for days.
Then the paper arrives, and she has them all back again.
Or try the desk right now
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The birthday lunch. Two hours at the table, and she thought about it for the rest of the week.
Nothing to download
No app, no store, nobody has to come round and set it up on her tablet.
No password, ever
She doesn’t have an account. There is nothing for her to forget, lose or be locked out of.
Nobody can get to her
It isn’t a feed. Strangers can’t comment, message her, or appear in it at all.
It costs her nothing
Readers never pay, and never will. She is never asked for a card, a detail or a decision.
What arrives
Not a notification. A newspaper.
The Fabulous Francises Gazette
All the news that’s fit to print
Somebody in that Melbourne stockroom had a vision — three shelves, wall to wall, every packet the same good red — and Riley clocked it with the calm of a person who already knew. This edition also brings us Andie at the controls of the Big Red Plane, Anthony and Fleur in the West End haze, and a resin cowboy of considerable gravitas standing beside some bananas. The Gazette contains multitudes. As it should.
Andie and Ned Take the Big Red Plane
By Sid Antelope
At Dreamworld, two small pilots seized the controls of the Big Red Plane — and the existential weight of the moment was considerable.
📸 Kate
We open: primary red, hard yellow trim — a Godard palette, unashamed. One curly-haired co-pilot buries both hands into the controls, completely consumed, the world beyond the cockpit simply ceased to exist. Beside them, a steady grown-up presence holds firm — not directing, just being there. The child doesn’t perform joy. The child is joy.
“The child doesn’t perform joy. The child is joy.”
Breaking news
Riley Has Surveyed The Savoy Situation And The Situation Is: Handled.
By Dot Spaghetti
A Melbourne supermarket has committed to Savoys with the kind of certainty most people reserve for much larger decisions.
📸 Riley
Three shelves, top to bottom, wall to wall — every packet the same good red, every packet exactly correct. Somebody in that stockroom had a vision and saw it through without flinching. A tidy little row of Ritz holds its position quietly to one side, and we wish them every happiness.
“Somebody in that stockroom had a vision and saw it through without flinching.”
A real edition · scroll it · nobody wrote a word of it
She isn’t scrolling. She’s reading — and there is an end to it, which is the point. Everything about it is made for somebody sitting down with a coffee, not somebody checking a phone in a queue.
Their names are in it. Not “the kids” — spelled right, in a headline she can cut out and keep.
The photographs are big. One good one, printed properly, instead of forty thumbnails she can’t make out.
She hears from all of them. Not only the one who remembers to call — everyone’s week is in there, including the ones who never say much.
Even the supermarket shelf. Somebody photographed three shelves of biscuits and it became breaking news. Nothing is too small to be in the paper.
And what it took
Four seconds. That’s the whole job.
You’re already holding the photograph. You don’t caption it, crop it, pick the best one or think about who might see it. You send the one you already took, and you get on with your day.
Saturday · 11:52 pm
Delivered
— becomes —
Her entire Sunday morning.
A newspaper on her table with her son and his wife at a concert on page three, printed big enough to see, and enough about everybody else to fill an hour.
She reads it twice. She’ll mention it for a fortnight. And the only thing anybody did was send a picture they’d already taken.
She made all of them. It seems only fair that all of them come back to her — once a week, on paper.
Imagine this too
She isn’t the only one it happens to.
One paper, one desk, one photograph at a time — and three completely different reasons a family ends up keeping it.
Sunday, 9:40 am
Her kitchen table
The paper in front of her has her family in it. Andie and Ned are on the front page.
She reads the whole thing twice, and smiles the way only she smiles — with nobody there to see it.
She’s on her own, and she isn’t.
Tuesday, after school
The one who took the photo
He took it, so it’s his name printed under it on page two. Nobody edited him, and nobody asked him to write anything.
He checks whether he’s in it every week. He always is.
Now he takes photographs on purpose.
Thursday, eight months later
The ones who scattered
Somebody sends an old edition round the group chat. Nobody can remember why the fire-alarm story was funny, and all of them are laughing anyway.
Between them they never kept a single photo album.
They’ve got fifty-one newspapers.
Who this is really for
Two people in every family. This is built for both of them.
One of them is missing most of it. The other one has been quietly doing the work for years.
The one it’s for
She’d never say she was lonely. She’d just like to know what they’re up to.
She isn’t on the group chat, or she is and it moves too fast, or the great-grandchildren are on an app somebody would have to come and set up. So she gets the news secondhand and weeks late, from whoever thought to mention it.
Now she gets all of it, in a form she already trusts. An hour on a Sunday morning where she is, in every meaningful sense, sitting with her family.
The one who starts it
You’ve been the family historian for years. Nobody voted.
You take the photographs at Christmas, chase everyone for the group shot, and know where the 1994 albums are. It is a real job and it is unpaid, and the reason there’s no record of last year is that nobody had a spare Sunday to make one.
You stop doing the work and keep the credit. You set it up once, and a year of it binds into a volume without you organizing a single thing.
For the rest of the family
Nobody has to be good at this.
No writing, no captions, no group to keep up with, nothing to remember. Send a blurry one. Send the one where somebody blinked. It all counts, and the desk makes something of whatever turns up.
Text a photograph
From your phone, the way you already share things. No app to install — it lands in your paper and the desk replies.
“I’ll find it. I find everything.” — Eddie
Add one line, if you like
“First time all four families together since 2019.” That’s plenty, and it’s optional. The staff takes it from there.
“Honestly, even that’s more than I need.” — Dot
The paper prints itself
Four stories in and the edition publishes and goes to everyone. Nobody remembers. Nobody assembles anything.
“The paper arrives when it is ready. So, in time, do we all.” — Terry
Every way in
Nobody changes what they already do.
A family doesn’t adopt a new habit for a newspaper. So the paper goes where the family already is — the thread, the chat, the inbox, the camera roll — and takes whatever turns up in whatever state it turns up in.
Text a photo
The front door. A number in their phone, the way they already send things. No app, no account, no explaining it to anyone.
The group chat
WhatsApp and the rest. The family conversation already happens somewhere — the paper reads from there instead of asking everyone to move.
Email it in
Forward a thread, or send from a computer with the good photographs on it. The desk treats an email exactly like a text.
Paste a conversation
Somebody told the whole story in a chat and nobody kept it. Paste the thread in and it becomes a piece with a byline.
An album you already have
Point it at years of photographs sitting untouched on a phone. It finds the ones worth printing and writes them up.
Write to the desk
Send a letter to the editor if you feel like it. Nobody has to — but the ones who want to write get to write.
Every route lands in the same newsroom and comes out as the same paper. That is the part a feed can’t do: it meets six different people in six different places and prints one thing they all read.
Your writing team
Four staff writers. None of them real. All of them committed.
They take something ordinary entirely seriously, and they never wink. Food goes to Dot, drama to Sid, and whatever happened on a Tuesday goes to Terry to find the cosmic significance in.
Eddie Bishwasher
Editor
Writes most of the paper. Wry, dry and observational — finds the absurdity in anything and the significance in the rest.
“Don’t call me Edwina. Or Spaghetti.”
Guru Terry
Wisdom columnist
Trained under Supreme Master Rico Shammawow. Takes one ordinary moment a week and finds the cosmic significance.
“The Supreme Master is aware of your situation.”
Sid Antelope
Director, between projects
Turned down Superman. Gives one moment per edition the full cinematic treatment. When Sid picks yours, you’ll know.
“I had other options. I chose this.”
Dot Spaghetti
Notes correspondent
Covers everything warmly and approximately correctly. Gets the emotional truth exactly right and one detail slightly wrong.
“I think I’ve been here before. Or somewhere similar.”
What it costs
Free while we’re in Beta. Possibly free after that.
Readers never pay anything, in Beta or out of it. Neither does anyone who sends a photograph. The only person who could ever be charged is the one who starts the paper.
Now · Beta
Free
Founding families
- Every feature, no limits worth mentioning
- Unlimited readers, none of whom sign up
- Your archive is yours, and exportable, from day one
- We’ll ask you what’s wrong with it, and fix that
Later · if at all
Fair price
Per paper, per month
- Still free for every reader and every sender
- Still no advertising, permanently
- Bound volumes priced separately, and only if you want one
- Sixty days’ notice before anything changes
We’ll be straight with you about why that second column is hedged. The family paper is the smallest thing we make and the one we care most about, and it costs us almost nothing to run — readers cost nothing, because only the people who send things trigger any work. We make other papers for clubs, teams and companies that pay properly. If those carry the cost, this one never carries a price. That’s the plan. If it changes you’ll hear it from us first, and never from an invoice.
A Year Of The Francises
Fifty-one editions were published in the year under review. Every argument, every correction and every horoscope is still in it, and the index was compiled without human intervention.
Bound volume · index pp. 88–91
What it becomes
A photo book that made itself.
Nobody sits down to make a photo book. That’s why almost nobody has one. This paper has been quietly making a year’s worth all along, so in January a volume arrives with the whole year in it — the good weeks, the arguments, and the photograph nobody realized at the time was the good one.
The family approves what’s in it before anything prints.
Somebody photographed this and thought nothing of it. It ran on page one.
Once a week, for as long as you like
She sees her kids again.
Every week, on paper, without her having to do a single thing. Free while we’re in Beta — and free for her whatever happens after that.
For partners and investors
The Recappit family.
The family paper is the first title, not the only one. Every paper below runs on the same press, the same desk and the same editorial floor — what changes is the occasion, the cadence, and who it’s for. Each carries its own masthead and its own front door, because a wedding and a Tuesday night at a tennis club are not the same paper.
The Family Paper
A household, every week, free permanently. The title you’re reading about now.
In production
The Team Paper
A youth-sport season, every child by name, paid for by a local sponsor. Then it binds.
In trial
Secret Santa
Replaces the office gift exchange. Nobody buys a thing, and the night has a performance in it.
In development
The Trip Paper
An edition every night while it’s still funny, for a group who are travelling together.
In production
The Bound Year
A year of any title, bound and delivered in January. A photo book that made itself.
In development
More titles are in the works, and one press makes all of them. If you run a club, a league, a care group, a retailer or a publisher with an audience of your own, there is a title here with your name on the masthead.
hello@recappit.com · partner and licensing enquiries
“I edited this page myself. The owners had notes. I ignored them.” — Eddie Bishwasher, Editor
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