THE day after the announcement that North Sea cod was again sustainable, the column headed – research purposes, understand – for the new Colmans Seafood Temple in South Shields.

It is a truth universally acknowledged – unilaterally propounded, at any rate – that more tosh is talked about fish and chips than almost anything on earth, or in the waters over the earth. Whitby’s the codswallop capital of Great Britain.

Colmans, whose possessive apostrophe appears also to have been filleted, has nonetheless been outstanding on any argument. Begun in a beach hut in 1905, landlocked on Ocean Road since 1926, it has won countless awards, visited by the great and lauded even by the curmudgeonly old Eating Owt column.

“Magnificent,” we said in 2008; “without equal” a 2011 column concurred.

Now they’ve expanded into a £1m conversion of the former sea front bandstand heading out towards Marsden, frying these past three months.

The day was moderate, as they say in those parts, the walk from the Metro station squelching directly down the curry house collective that now is Ocean Road. It was shortly before noon, elderly folk with plastic macs and walking sticks sighting Colmans with the sort of rapture with which pilgrims might fall upon the Holy City.

The new place is a mile further on, through South Marine Park – where the miniature railway remains small-time big time – and past Signor Minchella’s ice cream parlour, shuttered against the storm.

Maybe two dozen were already paying homage at the Temple, grumpy grey sea fretting outside the panoramic windows.

My mate Hodgy had been there a couple of weeks earlier, began with a couple of aphrodisiac oysters (£2 apiece) was miffed when their Gary pinched one – “greeded it,” said Hodge.

Though the spellcheck disapproves, there is much to be said for the use of “greed” as a verb, never more expressively than by the late Bobby Thompson.

Anyway, the crispy oysters were OK, though these days it takes more than two, and the mushy pea fritters might have been a more realistic bet.

The menu’s very much shorter than it had been at Ocean Road, the enormous seafood platter a notable absentee. There’s stuff like Malaysian fish curry and haloumi salad – even a 16oz steak – though a survey might suggest that at least 90 per cent still go for cod or haddock.

The battered cod (£8.75) was fine, but lacking the coruscating, caressing, mind-blowing magnificence of that 2008 lunch in Ocean Road. Love is lovelier the second time around? That’s a load of tosh, an’ all.

The chips? Thick, fresh, pale. The mushy peas – £1.50 extra – had a bit of a kick about them, but might have been better in a fritter. Overall, good but not outstanding, as an Ofsted inspector might conclude.

At 1pm on a drookit day only a couple of tables remained unoccupied. A couple of minutes later the fire alarm sounded, rang for around 90 seconds and fell silent. None had moved, nor barely paused between forkfuls.

Two minutes later the Temple was again alarmed, and with the same unconcerned response. Who cares if a few lunches are kizzened: as now we know, there are plenty more fish in the sea.

WHEN the Eating Owt column reported on Colmans in 2008, it ended with the brilliant joke about which birds fly in formation and trail red, white and blue smoke. The Red Sparrows, of course.

THE column two weeks ago told how Shildon local historian Alan Elwood bamboozles the bairns on his school talks by showing them a lump of coal. None has seen one before.

It reminded June Luckhurst, that great stalwart of the historic Methodist church at Newbiggin-in-Teesdale – finally closed in May – of a talk given by her late colleague Mary Lowes to visiting youngsters.

Mary showed them the old pot bellied stove, told them it had run on coke. “There was a giggle,” says June. “They thought it was either Coca-Cola or cocaine.”

Solidly fuelled, Mary recounted the story for years.

HAPPILY speechless, I am invited last Tuesday to the weekly meeting of Bishop Auckland Rotary Club – Park Head Hotel, New Coundon, beer £4 a pint, lemonade £2.70.

The speaker’s Frank Sanderson, in the year above at King James I Grammar School and clearly set to be a high achiever, since he was pretty near in orbit at the pole vault.

He became a professor at John Moores University in Liverpool, retired in 2011, has since written two family local history books – one based around Weardale, the other around Hamsterley.

Who otherwise – save, let’s be honest, the many who read Chris Lloyd – might have known the story of the Hamsterley village shopkeeper who in 1908 bumped off his wife, thought he’d got away with it, and was no doubt similarly mortified when her body was ordered to be exhumed

Despite his protests, Matthew James Dodds was sentenced to death at Durham Assizes. The scarf found tightly pulled around his wife’s neck may not have helped his case.

Frank even recalled details of the hanging, Pierrepoint father and son executing their task with well-practised and accustomed alacrity. Dodds, as the Echo somewhat graphically put it, was launched into eternity.

REACHING 100, even half a century ago, was remarkable. Now it’s relatively commonplace, though 104 – especially for a chap – remains, as they say, a canny shift.

“He truly had seen the seven ages of man,” said the humanist officiant at Albert Hawman’s funeral at Darlington crematorium last Friday.

A full chapel also heard that Albert kept fit by working hard, a fact confirmed just a few weeks before his 100th when he’d been spotted up a 14ft ladder, cleaning out the gutters.

He was born in Brusselton, near Shildon, attended Timothy Hackworth school – as did all the best folk – followed that railway line by starting work as a greaser at West Auckland shed.

He became a senior engine driver, steamed the main line between York and Newcastle, twice drove the royal train with the Queen Mother comfortably out the back.

Albert also drove the Locomotion replica between Shildon and Darlington in the 1975 Cavalcade of Steam – “his proudest moment,” said the officiant.

Long in Darlington, he was also a champion chrysanthemum grower and, with his late wife Vera, would often go dancing six nights a week.

His 1969 Robin Reliant, now painted Fools and Horses yellow, still stands outside a motors business on Albert Hill.

Music at the crematorium included Glenn Miller playing String of Pearls and (of course) Chattanooga Choo Choo. It ended with Nat King Cole singing Unforgettable, which seemed pretty appropriate, really.

...AND finally, a fraternal beer at Wetherspoons in Billingham last week suggested that that lengthy pub chain no longer lists the calorie count of everything on its menu. Is this now universal, or just a sop to the calorie unconscious folk of north Tees?