IN step with history, last week’s column wondered how South Shields folk came to be known as Sand Dancers – and has had a couple of interesting theories.

One’s from a gentleman whose email address and signature are both Craggsy the Clown, the other from Janis Blower, the Shields Gazette’s resident historian.

“Mind,” says Janis, “you’re entering a very grey area here.”

Craggsy – could this be the Cockfield Craggsy? – recalls that, before the days of extensive dredging, a huge sandbank in the Tyne estuary would allow South Shields residents to plodge across to see kin on the opposite bank.

Janis doesn’t wholly dispute the theory. “Before the middle of the nineteenth century and the establishment of the Tyne Improvement Commission, the undredged river at its lowest point – the Narrows – was so shoaly and silted up that at low water it was possible to walk between the two banks. Any connection between that and “Sand dancers” is tenuous, however.”

Shields folk may also have been thus described – “not very flatteringly” – by inland miners who came to work at the coastal pits. They, in turn, knew the incomers as Hillbillies.

As might be supposed by a long stretch of beach, the theory floated in last week’s column may also hold water, however. Between the wars, locals really did spend the summer camped on the beach – known as tenters and given to laying boards so that dances might be held.

Janis has a picture somewhere, sadly can’t find it, but a grain of truth may be multiplying by the minute.

EITHER side of the Second World War, the world’s best known sand dancers were Wilson, Keppell and Betty, their popularity said to owe much to the interest in Egyptian archaeology after the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb.

The soft shoe shufflers appeared in three Royal Variety Performances, at the Palladium with Frank Sinatra and at the theatres around the world.

Joe Wilson and Jack Keppell danced; Berry Knox watched. In 1941 she left to become a war correspondent and probably saw more action.

Any connection to South Shields is thought wholly coincidental.

IF South Shields folk sway to an uncertain etymology, what of the Brompton Scorpers, a longsword dancing team exuberantly celebrating its 20th anniversary?

Context at once demands the explanation that this is the Brompton a mile or so up the road from Northallerton and, these days, almost umbilically joined to it.

The Oxford supposes “scorp” to be an obsolete term for “mock” and a “scorper” to be a tool for hollowing out bits of wood.

It’s news to team leader Vince Rutland who refers to “the annals of hearsay” instead. Back in Victorian times – “or possibly last week” adds Vince – the rougher elements among Brompton’s youth would greet visitors from Northallerton with a fusillade of stones.

“They were originally scalpers but it became corrupted to scorpers and then scorpmen. These days I think they’re quite friendly towards Northallerton folk.”

Dancing on, the Scorpers mark their anniversary with a Christmas dinner – “all the festive trimmings,” says Vince – at the Green Tree in the village.

“We just didn’t seem to have time to do anything at Christmas,” says Vince. The date, doubtless coincidentally, is April 1.

FOLLOWING the latest news of the police investigation into Sir Cliff Richard, John Winterburn in Darlington claims to have heard that they’re also checking out his backing group. “Personally,” adds John, “I think they’re just chasing Shadows.”

DRIVEN men, Bishops of Durham still have chauffeurs. Last week’s column noted as much. It reminded John Wearmouth in Darlington of a night in the late 1980s when Bishop David was due to speak at an event at Neville Parade Methodist Church in Newton Aycliffe, a congregation member assigned the job of keeping a parking place for the Very Important Parson.

It proved difficult. “Eager visitors from across the North-East would insist on driving into the reserved space nearest the entrance and have to be directed elsewhere by the increasingly exasperated steward,” John recalls.

Just as the meeting was due to start, a battered old car came around the corner and into the parking space. “You can’t park there, it’s for the Bishop of Durham,” said the steward for the umpteenth time that evening.

“But I am the Bishop of Durham,” said Dr Jenkins, waving cheerfully as he dashed from the driver’s seat – “not a minute too soon for the start.”

It was David Jenkins who, on his 80th birthday, vowed that he would never again drive a car more than ten miles or make any rail journey that involved changing at Birmingham New Street. Now in Barnard Castle, he turned 90 a couple of weeks ago.

Neville Parade Methodist church marks its golden jubilee from April 17-19.

THE bishop’s driver was also there, perchance, when – 100 years to the day since it opened – we raised a glass last Thursday to Darlington Snooker Club. Wise man, he’d come on the bus.

Back in 1915 it was a billiards hall, its patrons dressed suitably for the occasion and likely to spend a very long time over a game. Now it doubles as a real ale drinkers’ paradise – a frequent Campaign for Real Ale award winner – and pie and peas parlour.

Peter Everett, good bloke, took over the licence on December 23 1999, pinched the family whisky to boost stocks and opened for the first time on Christmas Eve.

Last weekend he offered 100 different real ales at just £2 a pint. Darlington Drinker, the local Camra magazine, advertised the festival from February 26-30. They blamed the booze.

RITA EVERETT, Pete’s mum, still has the programme from the Adam Faith Show, early 1960s, at the Globe Theatre in Stockton.

“I can’t remember how much it was to get in, but I know it was a shilling return on the bus,” she says.

The particular interest is that the supporting cast included Gerry Dorsey, whose instant reincarnation as Engelbert Humperdinck, via a telephone call to his digs in Darlington, we recorded a couple of weeks ago.

The Stockton bill also included Johnny le Roy, the Honeys (“originally known as the Liddell Triplets”) and the John Barry Seven – “surely Britain’s most successful group of musicians.”

Comedy was provided by the gentleman in the photograph. Readers are invited to identify him.

MARTIN BIRTLE, to whom everything and nothing is Pointless, notes that on one of last week’s programmes, contestants were given the name of a poet, and the initials of one of his poems, with an invitation to identify it. Rudyard Kipling’s clue simply came up as I. The hapless respectively guessed Isaac and Isobel. If only it hadn’t been voted the most popular poem of all time….

FINALLY, and to prove that we listen to the sermon, our vicar told on Sunday of the two nuns driving one snowy night through Transylvania when Count Dracula, teeth bared, appeared on the road in front of them.

Panic ensues. “What’ll we do?” asks the first nun.

“Show them your cross, show them your cross,” replies the second.

“You stupid, brainless vampire,” yells the first….