STRICTLY for hard cases, the sixth World Conker Championships took place on Sunday at The Royal in Trimdon Colliery - which may come as a surprise to readers of The Guardian, which not only claimed that the world title would be contested in Northamptonshire that same afternoon but quoted Nigel Molesworth ("successful conkers are always shrivelled and weedy") and Newton's third law of motion in the southerners' support.

Perhaps there could also be an ICF title, or a Pan-Global, or one of the dozens of others for which any boxer able to hold a gum shield may now be considered a contender.

"They just stole our idea," insists Gavin Mercer, three times champion. "They don't have proper conkers down those places, anyway."

Nor, it should be added, do they have entrants from as far off as Fishburn. They do in Trimdon Colliery.

Not to be outdone by Sir Isaac Newton, someone at the Royal show also produces the Latin for horse chestnut, written on a page torn from a Basildon Bond writing pad and perfectly pronounced by Kevin Flint, who's been practising for the big day.

It's acecolishippocastarnim, apparently. "You know, hippo as in hoss," says Kevin, dressed in tattoos and a Newcastle United shirt.

Neither the rules nor their misspelling have changed much, drawn up "By order of the commity" - near enough, someone says - and endorsed "Big Kev, chairman." Sitting in the corner like a Trimdon Tyson, Big Kevin Bradley says he's only there to keep a bit order. Few would wish to argue.

Thre's a rule about ropesey, another about stamping on an opponent's conker ("instant disqualification"), a third about random drug testing - the conkers, not the contestants - and a fourth about not switching conkers during the game.

"In the event of £20 not being added," adds another rule, "the future venue could change."

The Trimdons are in east Durham, the Royal about a quarter of a mile from the Prime Minister's constituency home though he is not discernibly in attendance; reports that Cherie has been seen out conkering with little Leo are also deemed fanciful.

The lads themselves had been out conkering one Saturday, decided on a competition, set the world championship away the next day. It was won by Stephen Gillen, known as Gik, though his greatest moment in sport may have come three years later when he scored a four for Deaf Hill cricket team.

It was at Raby Castle, Darlington and District League Division C, and he'd been trying to reach the boundary for seven years. "Gik did a back flip in the middle," it's recalled.

The original trophy was a bit of skirting board from Ian Appleton's grandma's, winners' names - "the legends," says Apple - written in ball point on a bit of sticky yellow card.

"Cokers trophy," it said, another little misspellling.

It was also the custom to stick the champion conker to the trophy until someone identified only as Chunky - "something to do with pineapples" - was found guilty of trying to pinch it and banned indefinitely. Sin died, as they say in Trimdon, as in other Latin quarters.

Rules also forbid varnishing ("tampering") but not soaking in vinegar - Sarsons not balsamic - heating in the oven nor cooling them in the fridge.

"Apple's had his in the fridge for five years," says Gav Mercer. "Their lass is playing hell, it's where the eggs should go."

The principal skill, adds Gav, is still to be standing at the end of an intensive Sunday afternoon; the principal rule is that all conkers must be "virgin" - undrilled - before the championship starts.

A gentleman with "Phil the Drill" written on his fluorescent yellow jacket acts in that official capacity. Mad Frankie Fraser was similarly in the habit of carrying a Black and Decker with him, it may be recalled, though not necessarily for piercing conkers.

The pub's heaving, like New Year's Eve half struck. As if they'd never heard of Nigel Molesowrth, aspirant conkers are bright burnished, like a coal house doorknob.

Another seven pounds of conkers lie unloved in a sack marked EEC fertiliser. £1 per entry, maximum two conkers per person.

Like a schoolyard skirmish, combatants face one another in the smallest area possible for that purpose, barely room to swing a cat, never mind a king conker.

Matty Mercer, the defending champion, wears a football shirt with Krays 2 on the back and has a right forearm covered in bruises, like Brian Close after a long shift at short leg.

In Windsor and Eton, somewhere near Northamptonshire probably, cub scout leaders have this month even demanded written parental authorisation before their charges can play so dangerous a game.

Blood sport? "Oh definitely," says Matty.

Tips? "It helps to be daft," adds Matty.

Quoted 4-6 by the bookie, his brother Gavin beats one of the few women in the opening round - "it needed Semtex to shift that bugger," he grumbles - but suspects that his conker is shot. Ian Appleton and Chris Ford, last year's runner-up, both fall at the first.

"I just can't explain the feeling, worse even than Newcastle beating Sunderland that time," says Chris, who'd kept them - old chestnuts, definitely - atop the kitchen cupboard.

"The moral of the story is never leave your conkers in the fridge," says Apple.

Mr Tinsley, the photographer, is hit about the ear by a piece of conker shrapnel - "I thought ice hockey was the most dangerous sport we had to cover," he says - but is more greatly incommoded by several competitors' reluctance to have their picture taken in a pub.

It's something to do with the Nash. In east Durham they'd rather have the lash than the Nash.

The contest ends tumultuously at 5.45pm, more than four hours after it began. Peter Kane, the long-haired winner, dances a jig of jubilation, hirsute as a newt.

Perhaps the two world titles might be consolidated, they suppose, but only - come and have a go if you think you're hard enough - at the Royal.

If by their fruits ye shall know them, it's down to the soft southerners now.

FROM a Co-op carrier bag amid the all-conkering cacophony, Owen Willoughby produces a remarkable scrapbook of Trimdons life in the 1930s.

Largely it's the journalistic work of the late Harry Hardy, penny-a-line correspondent for the region's newspapers for more than half a century.

Though you could hardly graze your knee in the five Trimdon communities without Harry learning of it, he was the man for the big story, too.

A fearful number died in the pits, a jealous husband killed his wife and then himself, Wingate store burned to the ground, a woman died after cutting herself on a milk jug.

All 18 members of Trimdon Temperance Band were seriously ill after contracting ptomaine poisoning at a British Legion garden party in Sedgefield - Harry doesn't explain how - ten families were on the streets with their furniture after being evicted over a few shillings at Trimdon Foundry, 730 signatories successfully opposed a pub at Deaf Hill.

Chiefly, however, we are taken by the story of Thomas Alton, a little off Harry's usual beat in West Hartlepool.

Mr Alton had spent three years perfecting the penny-in-the-slot radio and was ready in 1835 to broadcast the good news to the world. "Some six million families in Britain alone have no wireless. The possibilities are endless," he insisted.

Since then there seems only to have been silence from Thomas Alton and his coin operated radio. We'd love to hear more...