DURHAM Miners’ Gala, that annual extravaganza of preaching to the converted, begins in the Voltigeur at Spennymoor with beer and bacon butties at 7am.

The following day, perchance, marks the 60th birthday of these columns’ dear old friend Paul Hodgson, hereinafter Hodgy, former Spennymoor Boxing Academy secretary and world champion dole drawer.

Over breakfast we fall to recalling his finest moments, not least when the Backtrack column reported that Hodgy and his family were just back from a cruise down the Rhine.

The dole manager went in off the deep end. The following week’s Backtrack recorded – solemnly, spuriously – that there had been a mishearing. It was a cruise down the Tyne, we said.

Elsewhere in the Volti’s bar, a couple of the womenfolk are essaying a checklist of Big Meeting essentials: “Sun cream, sun hat, plasters, crisps, cool box...”

By 7.45am they’ve joined others for a short service in the immaculately kept Jubilee Park, the minister praying that they might be proud of who they are and where they’re from.

Half way through the silence, Hodgy’s mobile eructates into action. It plays Elvis: He Aint Nothing But A Hound Dog.

There’s a band and two banners, one representing the old Spennymoor Lodge (“Unity is strength”), the other Ox Close Primary School (to which the same principles doubtless apply.)

They march the quarter mile to the town centre, replenish the cool box, board a couple of double deckers to the memorial in Tudhoe cemetery to the men and boys killed in the 1882 pit disaster there.

Gresford, the miners’ hymn, is played for the third time that morning.

Hodgy wears a cap the size and shape of one of Grandma Batty’s Yorkshire puddings, though the latter may taste better with gravy. Durham’s fast filling. “Isn’t it wonderful,” he says, “all this fuss for my birthday?”

THE Big Meeting’s very well organised, not least by the Durham Miners’ Association and by Durham Constabulary (of whom more shortly.)

We’re at the starting point by 9am, bump into Middlesbrough South and East Cleveland MP Tom Blenkinsopp who’s looking for North Skelton band. North Skelton lead in the Coxhoe contingent: these days there are more banners than bands.

Nearer the city centre, cans clutched, Spennymoor are halted outside the J&R Convenience Store and Off Licence. Convenient? It’s synchronized to the second.

Among the marchers is Lord Foster, former Bishop Auckland MP and lifelong Salvationist. Many of the cans appear to be Foster’s, too. “No connection,” says Derek.

A photographer, from the Mirror it transpires, asks for a picture of me and Lord Foster. It seems prudent, however, to decline the proferred copy of Socialist Worker.

From the Royal County Hotel balcony, aloft with the unrecognisable, a single national flag is draped. None recognises that, either, but the best bet appears to be Cuba.

THEY’RE in, as they say, by 10am and in the Dun Cow by five past. Everyone says it’s quieter than last year. This is the 131st Gala and for the previous 130 they’ve been saying it’s quieter than last year.

The sun shines, the banners stream. As a deep-rooted community celebration the Big Meeting is wholly without equal; as a remembrance of lives lived and lives lost it’s impressive, oft awesome.

As a political statement, usurped by the extreme left, it’s anachronism, as relevant to the 21st Century as are the Tolpuddle Martyrs.

The fairground’s in full vigour, hook-a-duck cheek by jowl with the tents of the trade unionists and the stands proclaiming that Marx was right. In 2015, which is the greater sideshow?

A second-hand bookstall offers something called Labour at the Crossroads – published in 1981 – another stall is devoted to showing solidarity with Palestine.

A banner at the front of the stage proclaims: “Read the Morning Star: the Durham miners do” – a claim, long overtaken by events, which may say little for the Morning Star’s circulation department.

Large on the side of the RMT union tent is emblazoned a quote from Arthur Scargill: “What you need is not marches, demonstrations or rallies. What you need is direct action.”

It may be the thought for the day.

THE atmosphere’s greatly convivial, nonetheless, though it’s £2.50 for a go on the trampoline and £4 for a pint in many of the city’s overflowing pubs.

Capitalism, see: jumping, pumping capitalism.

As always, the speeches start late. The warm-up man’s bemoaning the fact that large swatches of the traditional county of Durham were lost to local government reorganisation. “All we have left is Tow Law,” he says.

What’s particularly noticeable is the number of people, young and old, wearing plastic policeman’s helmets. Aunt Sally, or what?

All’s revealed in the big community tent, where the polliss have set up a family friendly, cuddle-a-copper stall along the lines recently outlined by Mike Barton, Durham’s chief constable. They’re giving the helmets away.

About six feet away, another stand still demands a full investigation into what happened at Orgreave, scene of the worst allegations of police brutality during the 1984 miners’ strike. “State storm troopers,” says one of the platform speakers.

It all seems different now. Polliss and protestors appear to be ignoring one another completely.

ANOTHER apparent oddity is that while a number of visitors wear T-shirts supporting Tom Watson for the deputy leadership of the Labour Party – that and “I’d rather be a picket than a scab” – none, not one, offers thoughts on the leadership itself.

Tosh McDonald, Aslef’s president, tells the gathering that until the left winger Jeremy Corbyn threw his red hat into the ring, his executive couldn’t for the life of them whip up enthusiasm for anyone. “A saviour with the initials JC,” he adds.

The Lambton Lodge banner depicts JC (insert as appropriate) calming the waves. “O ye of little faith. Wherefore didst thou doubt?” says the text beneath.

From the first vantage point some of the speeches are barely audible, partly because the PA’s a bit iffy and partly because the shows must go on. Irresistible force and immoveable object, the rush to get out meets the queue to get in.

The second most-used word is “struggle” – hubble, bubble, toil and struggle – the most used is “Thatcher”. McIntosh tells them that he hated her with every bone in his body and every breath that he breathed.

“When she was alive, I used to set the alarm clock an hour early so I could hate her even longer,” he adds. Those who attend sportsmen’s dinners would recognise a very old joke.

Hodgy didn’t like the former Prime Minister, either, blaming her – probably personally – for him losing his last job. It was 1984. “She sent the Nash around,” he says.

Fire Brigade Union leader Matt Wrack – “We rescue people, not banks” – talks of the previous week’s strike action on London Underground and on Great Western railways. “Four unions brought London to a standstill,” he says. “Just think of what we could all do together.”

The Spennymoor lads have headed for the cricket club, the Dun Cow, the Court Inn ("an urban oasis") and the Half Moon.

It seems like a good idea to join them. Why spoil a very good day?