TODAY’S column was to have raised a glass to Cameron’s Brewery, marking its 150th anniversary, and in particular to the incomparable Strongarm, celebrating its 60th.

If not quite a muse, Strongarm has for half a century been my amanuensis, my aide-de-camp, my pint-sized little helper.

How many grey days have been made lighter, their columns breezier and brighter, by a couple of lunchtime liveners in the Brit?

A wonderfully illustrated book has been produced to mark the company’s sesquicentennial, a big party held in Hartlepool, fond memories tinged ruby red.

John William Cameron must wait, however. News arrives of the death at 85 of these columns’ dear old friend Ray Gibbon – a polliss, a politician, but above all a man with a heart for his community.

He was also a lifelong Methodist, the intended toast perhaps inappropriate, though there follows a celebration of his life.

RAY was a Witton Park lad, born in Park Row – “the posh end, they told me” – spent most of his 28-year police service as a dog handler, was a proud Mayor of Durham in 2003, became an alderman five years later and since 1968 had lived in Witton Gilbert, west of the city.

“Full of enthusiasm and worked tirelessly for the community,” says the Witton Gilbert website’ “a fine policeman and a superb dog handler,” former Durham chief constable Jon Stoddart once observed.

Witton Park in his youth was still an industrial village, six or seven churches and probably more pubs. At Christmas, Ray would recall, they’d go around carol singing with a piano on the back of a lorry.

“We always got invited into the pubs. They insisted. Though we were Methodists, if we hadn’t gone in, there’d have been hell on.”

The churches worked together, too, so that Fr Walmsley, the Roman Catholic priest – “loved and feared by his congregation in equal measure” – would give Ray’s father a bottle of communion wine each month in exchange for parking in his yard.

No matter that the wine was alcoholic. “It would have been churlish,” said Ray, “to refuse a gift well intended.”

When Witton Park opened a new church in his mayoral year, he was invited as a guest of honour. When a clash of engagements was discovered, they said they’d open it when he could come.

“The mayor’s secretary said she’d never heard of such a thing,” said Ray. “I told her they’d never had a mayor from Witton Park, either.”

HE’D been a farmer for 14 years, served with the police chiefly around Ferryhill and in West Hartlepool and as dog section sergeant at Whickham.

“We didn’t have armed protection units or rapid response cars,” he recalled in his self-published autobiography. “We did have a Humber Hawk saloon, side valve, and an Austin van. Neither vehicle could be described as rapid.”

Rebel, his dog, was on duty with him in the early hours when a gentleman called Tony Hawkins – known to police, as they say – was spotted driving a Hillman through Spennymoor. Police also knew that Tony hadn’t a licence.

By the time the patrol car turned around, the suspect was leaning nonchalantly against a wall. Summoned, Ray and Rebel soon found the Hillman, its engine still warm. “Such was their high opinion of the dog,” Ray recalled, “that the motor patrol lads immediately charged him with driving without insurance and a licence.”

Tony changed the habit of a lifetime and pleaded guilty. “No one could recall a conviction for a driving offence on the evidence of a dog,” said Ray. “I thought it would be headlines in the papers. Unfortunately you lot weren’t there when you were wanted.”

IN West Hartlepool his duties included going walkies around the town to check that all had a dog licence, then 7/6d annually. His autobiography records that it wasn’t a popular shift.

“After you’d plodded across the borough in all kinds of weather and found no one at home three occasions running, you’d write ‘Dog dead’, at the same time offering a silent prayer that it wouldn’t rise before resurrection and bite one of the neighbours.”

He was on duty when the Queen visited Newton Aycliffe – and Billy Llewellyn the Punch and Judy man – back in 1960, though royal visits were usually much more fleeting.

When the royal train passed on the main line, usually in the early hours, each bridge had to be manned by police. Ray would walk the three-mile round trip to East Howle, return home, report all’s well to divisional headquarters.

“I’d then go back to bed, comfortable in the knowledge that I’d done my bit for England.”

HUGELY proud to be Durham’s mayor – and to have Margaret, his wife, as mayoress – he was also much involved with organisations like the Samaritans, the parish council, the village hall and, of course, as a local preacher in the Methodist Church.

When Witton Gilbert finally got its bypass, Ray must have felt like he’d won the Euro Lottery.

Still he found time to read and to write, once suggesting that one of these columns begin a campaign for proper salt and pepper sets, instead of those damn fool little sachets. It could be called Cruet to be Kind, said Ray.

Among his final contributions, in the penultimate Gadfly column back in 2011, was a report that at Boots in Sacriston he’d found a vitamin supplement “especially for men” but with the caveat that it shouldn’t be taken if pregnant or breast feeding.

He raised it with the assistant. “We have to cover all eventualities,” she said, which is pretty much what Ray Gibbon did. His funeral is at 10.30 on Thursday in North Road Methodist Church, Durham.

THE death last week of Joy Beverley, eldest of the singing sisters, recalled a meeting at one of their luxurious London homes in 1976.

The John North column had suggested that the Newcastle-based Barry Sisters hadn’t taken kindly to the reception once given them by the Bevs. Joy proposed I come down for a chat: here’s how the resultant column began:

“Babs Beverley tells me she prefers the simple life. ‘All right, I’ve got some mink coats – maybe eight, I never count – and we’ve a Rolls Royce and a flat in Grosvenor Square, but it’s the plain things that attract us. We don’t smoke, we don’t drink. We run a mile from servants’.”

In perfect harmony, all three were absolutely smashing.

ARTHUR Peter Pease died 75 years ago next Tuesday, in the Battle of Britain. A member of one of the North-East’s great families, he was buried 12 days later in the family grave in Middleton Tyas churchyard, near Scotch Corner.

We told his extraordinary story three weeks ago, and of the research by American professor John Oakley to perpetuate his memory and that of fellow pilots. Prof Oakley will give an illustrated talk on Peter Pease – “Here lies a hero” – in Middleton Tyas church at 7pm on Sunday, September 20, followed by light refreshments. There’ll be a small exhibition, too. Entry free, any donations to Help For Heroes.

The column returns on September 22, quite likely with another drop of Strongarm. Glass half full, anyway.