THOUGH by no means superlative, the column has on many occasions been asked to act as best man. More second best really, or best they can do in the circumstances.

Grooms have ranged from Mr George Reynolds - when he had nowt, or at least when a work top was still an overall - to the chap whose wedding day was marked both by York City beating Arsenal in the FA Cup, and by the wretched best man being accused of staring at a rather spare young lady's cleavage.

"Cleavage?" that gentleman shamefully riposted whilst still in shock from the Arsenal result, "I've seen more cleavage on a winkle."

We were again honoured last Friday, the happy occasion preceded three days earlier by what is generally known as a stag night, though the collective antlers are drooping a bit these days.

The plan, birds and stones as ever, was to dine at the Hole in the Wall in Darlington Market Place, about which encouraging reports have been received. The reality was that they weren't doing food.

Via one or two other pubs, in one of which the custom of chalking 12/6d on a lady's sole by way of commercial proposition seemed only lately to have been overtaken by decimalisation and by decency, we ended up in Burger King instead.

It seemed a good idea at the time.

Suffice that for four middle-aged men on a lads' night out it was probably not a good idea to eat in a place which majors on the Whopper.

There were eight tills but rather fewer customers. There were cases of Americana, pictures of James Cagney and - by way of cabaret - Mr Terry Garnett performed his party piece, which is to balance a tab on his nose and catch it right way round in his mouth.

Did they know, we said, that Tabs were a popular cigarette around 1900, when woodbine was something that still grew in the hedge back? The excitement was mounting by the minute.

Since most people know Burger King, and the sort of stuff they offer, and that each item is identified on the wrapper in which it is served, there seems little point in detailing the condemned man's hearty meal.

The clear highlight, however, was when Mr Garnett asked the assistant if the mustard were English or French.

"It's Heinz," she said, unhesitating.

There are reasons, as Thursday's John North column will reveal, why Mr John Briggs and Ms Lynn de Prator were particularly glad all over on their wedding day.

Over the years, of course, it's likely that memories of it will fade. Burger King for the day, John will remember his flame-grilled stag night for ever.

FOOD service had also just finished when we arrived at the Uplands Hotel in Crook, a reflection not upon the management but upon the speed - a circular walk from the Market Place up through Stanley Hill Top - at which we approached it.

We came, in any case, to praise them.

From January 23-29 they hold a beer festival - a real ale festival, in other words, there being more of flatulence than festivity about the other sort.

"First in Crook" it says on a blackboard, a claim inarguable in a town forever blowing bubbles.

There'll be ten hand pumps, it says, 15-20 beers, a "host" - perhaps it should be a flock - of Black Sheep. Two Saturdays ago they offered Young's celebrated Special and Castle Eden, both in good nick.

The hardest part is finding the place - left off the Crook to Stanley road, up Bank Foot and past the Aged Workers Homes (1908).

They deserve widespread support; two Saturdays ago we drank alone.

THE Breakfast Club decided in 2000 that nothing could be finer than the Wear View Diner in the morning - the year's best start. Since there was no food at the Uplands, we looked in at quarter past three.

Altogether easier to find, the Diner is alongside the A68 just North of Toft Hill, clear day views spectacular indeed.

It was as if a seagull had spotted a sprat and been followed - Mr Eric Cantona would understand the analogy - by half the gannets in south Durham. Though only two were in when we arrived, another 20 landed within five minutes.

Some, alas, brought recalcitrant offspring. For Wear View Diner read Wear View whiner.

The cafe, purpose built and immaculately kept, also sells things like Yorkshire preserves and hand-knit bairns' cardigans, which for £4 or £5 seem barely to cover the cost of the wool.

Though it took rather too long to discover that the white onion soup and the chilli - both The Boss's choices - were unavailable, she enjoyed a baked potato overflowing with tuna and salad instead. We had the corned beef pie and chips and the spotted dick, around a fiver the pair. Optimistically on a grey afternoon, a chap came in carrying binoculars; you could see it was a good place to know about, though, at any time of the day.

... and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get if you cross an elephant with the abominable snowman.

A jumbo yeti, of course.

Published: Tuesday, Janaury 15, 2002