Pub and a fond farewell

Another of these columns recorded his passing, aged 75. Northern Cross, the diocesan newspaper, records his funeral.

After due solemnity, Fr Eamonn's body was taken from the hospital in Dublin to his native Strokestown, a two hour drive away. Halfway, the procession stopped for a meal in a pub, the cortege joined by other friends.

Fr Eamonn, a lifelong abstainer, waited, uncomplaining, outside.

Meanwhile back in Strokestown, another 13 friends were undertaking the five hour task of re-opening the family grave. It included refreshment breaks, a picnic meal and, says Northern Cross, "a golden liquid to toast the grave."

The funeral service lasted four hours, followed by another meal and more drinks. "Irish people do funerals and handle death so well," adds Northern Cross - and probably a great deal better than we do.

MEANWHILE back in Hartlepool, last Friday evening's memorial Mass lasted just 75 minutes, highlighted by a quite superb homily from Fr Dennis Tindall. Were it to be followed by golden liquid, or ruby red as probably in those parts is preferred, there was no time to wake and see.

Another function awaited in Fishburn, a third after that near Bishop Auckland.

"St John Vianney?" repeated the Hartlepool taxi driver, "Is that anywhere near the King Oswy?" (He was better at pubs than churches, he said, though the explanation appeared unnecessary.)

From Fishburn workmen's club, always welcoming, the last bus to Evenwood Cricket Club's sportsmen's dinner. "You'll put this in the paper, won't you?" they said on the service 69.

We arrived at 11pm, the tag end of the comedian and the fag end of the strippers, now known euphemistically as lap dancers.

However dressed up, or not as the case may be, it is a tawdry and a seedy affair. A dancer approached, made smalls talk, asked in a business-like sort of a way if we'd enjoyed the evening and was told of the recent arrival.

"Where've you been?" she enquired.

"Well actually," we replied - with the improbable virtue of truthfulness - "we've been to Mass."

The lady vanished immediately into the night. Sometimes, lap of the gods, the Plan seems to be working. Even now.

IN church the previous day, too, but back to York station from the Bishop of Durham's consecration in time to see 60800, a glorious green steam engine, stop with a slight shudder on platform five.

"Crumbs, the Green Arrow," we thought at once. Children of the 50s are like that, probably still have dog-eared copies of Ian Allan's Locospotters' Annual at the bottom of the wardrobe, each new sighting heavy underlined in black Bic.

60007 was Sir Nigel Gresley, 60034 Lord Farringdon, 60153 Flamboyant (but then again, aren't we all?), 60532 was Blue Peter, 61023 Hirola, 67777 the Flying Sevens - or was, at least, to us sooty-faced Shildon lads.

60860 was Durham School, 60964 Durham Light Infantry. 60835 squeezed The Green Howard, Alexandra, Princess of Wales's Own Yorkshire Regiment onto the nameplate, which unless anyone knows differently may have been the longest name in locomotive history.

In elderly care units, apparently, there are now "reminiscence rooms" to help stem memory loss. If someone simply read out the Ian Allan annual, our lot would be happy ever after.

BETWEEN York Minster and the railway station - far side of the Museum Gardens, actually, but abundantly worth the slight detour - is a splendidly tranquil little pub called the Minster Inn. It's the city's finest, without doubt, and yet better but for Radio 2 twaddling away in the background.

Radio 2 would be fine but for the music. One of the talking bits featured an elderly widow from Wakefield who'd been fined £50 for dropping a cigarette end, despite immediately offering to pick it up again.

The leader of Wakefield council was interviewed, too - a pathetic, squirming individual whom John Humphrys would have crushed beneath his boot heel like a half spent Woodbine.

Now Darlington council, it's reported, is also to have "action days" when those who drop cigarette ends will be hit with a £50 fixed penalty.

The July issue of Town Crier, the municipal newspaper, "names and shames" 11 people already fined for dropping litter - eight women, three men, are these the bold gendarmes? - and probably they deserve it.

If they're getting tough on the cigarette dumpers, however, might authority also do something about the ever-growing menace of cyclists on Darlington's town centre pavements?

At least smoking only kills you slowly.

SAME day, between Darlington station and the column base, we came across this cheery registration in the Park Place car park. Since it's a long time since we've featured one of these, does anyone know who owns it - and how many thousands he's been offered to part?

LAST week's column reported the view of a geographically challenged detective sergeant in Stockton that the Lebanon Loop - an electronic device used for illicit purposes on hole-in-the-wall cash machines - was named after the African country from which the suspected perpetrators originated.

Forever clued up, Tom Purvis in Sunderland has another theory. "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the original hole-in-the-wall gang, hailed from the USA where there are almost 30 Lebanons - almost one per state."

As the loop is a con, adds Tom, it may have originated from Connecticut - "the nutmeg state". It is something he may have to explain.

....and finally, yet another apology to the hundreds of good hearted readers still awaiting a letter. Whilst most e-mails are immediately acknowledged, other correspondence piles precipitately.

Ethel Dobson in Bishop Auckland tries a Camberwick Green postcard, instead. "Never mind Paul Dobson" she writes - Paul e-mails - "what about his mam and many others tackling the Great North Walk for a charity on July 13?"

A cheque is in the post. Though it may seem as whimsical as a Billy Bunter food parcel, some letters will be answered one day, honestly.

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