AMONG the funny things about Tuesday night was that at Scotch Corner a blizzard was raging - getting quite upset, anyway - whilst 15 miles to the south the sky was clear. Among other funny things, 15 miles to the south, was the appearance - direct from Durham Jail - of the Rev Roly Bain, the self-styled Clown of God.

His grandfather was a Methodist minister who appeared on wartime Children's Hour as "Romany". His mother had been an actress, his father a theatre critic who wrote a biography of the great Joey Grimaldi, the early 19th Century clown - said so greatly to have amused George IV that the king broke his stays laughing.

Roly's annual Christmas treat was to visit Bertram Mills' circus in London. "From the age of eight I wanted to be like Coco, but I wanted to do it for nothing, to visit hospitals and to make people laugh."

He became a Church of England priest instead, was ordained in 1978 but left his London parish 12 years later to spend a year at clowns' school in Bristol. It was called Fool Time; Roly learned the ropes and very much else beside.

He is now a full time, freelance clown - "a holy fool" he says. In 1994 he was named Clown of the Year, in 1999 won the Clowns International Slapstick Award. "I've also got to throw custard pies at eight bishops; they enjoy it really," he says.

On Tuesday night, dressed for the part and with a Great Dane of a dog collar, he entertained at Kirklington, one of the villages near Bedale where the Rev Clive Mansell is parish priest.

"He sees clowning as a high calling and an enormous privilege," says Clive, and clearly it was true.

The performance, probably, has all the ingredients of classic clowning, every trick in the good book. There are the boots, the baggy trousers, the busted bicycle, the painted face... Who said you couldn't make it up? There are occasional sideswipes at the church hierarchy - "I look lousy in sequins, I'd never make a bishop" - one or two vaguely biblical jokes like the one about what John the Baptist said to the cowboy painter.

Repaint and thin no more.

In need, heaven knows, of something to cheer them up, the country folk loved it, fell about at his falling about. That it was the night before Lent was coincidental; as a clown might, he has carefully to juggle his diary.

"The response has been worldwide, absolutely ridiculous," he says. "I'm travelling 30,000 miles a year; still utterly amazed by it."

There is, of course, much more to it. There is imagery, undertone and an ever-present sub-text - "We speak of the truth, as the jesters of old."

The finale of the 75-minute one-man show, the "slack rope of faith", is rich in slapstick symbolism, of wrestling with the cross. "The slack rope is narrow, it's risky, it wobbles and if you can make it you'll be the envy of all your friends."

The hardest trick of all, perhaps, is for a man of 46 doing three of four performances a day not to collapse in an exhausted heap or to avoid a season ticket to casualty.

That afternoon he'd performed (what else?) within Durham's walls."They were a bit apprehensive at first, but it's a wonderful achievement if you can make a prisoner laugh or cry," he says. He was at schools, and a retirement home, in the Bedale area. On Tuesday night, the storm edging nearer, the Clown of God unwound over a couple of pints at the Black Horse - the Rector recommends the food - in Kirklington.

He is still a passionate man, but it's clowning for which he lives. Whilst he enjoyed being part of a parish community, he misses neither the trivia nor the politics of committees, rejoices that it's ten years since he sat on one.

His new book, Playing the Fool, will be out in the autumn. The first, Fools Rush In, sold out.

"I think that all priests are clowns and all clowns are priests, they just don't realise it," says Roly. "I see this as an extension of my vocation. I am paid for the privilege of making people laugh, and of preaching the gospel at the same time. It seems to me a very good combination."

As they once said of James I, he may be the Wisest Fool in Christendom.

SUCCINCTLY headlined "From Horden to Hollywood", last week's column told the remarkable story of John Alderson, who vowed never to follow his father down the pit, became an Army major and has now celebrated 50 years in the American film industry.

Though Paul Stradling's marvellous little snapshot of Horden Colliery's first 100 years was unable to provide a photograph, two readers have now obliged.

John Carter in Darlington has Alderson with Errol Flynn in the 1952 film Against All Flags - Anthony Quinn and Maureen O'Hara were in it, too - whilst the diligent Colin Jones in Spennymoor brings the screenplay up to date with a shot of him at Motion Picture and TV House, the actors' retirement home in Hollywood where, fit and well at 84, he now lives.

We've also heard from Durham born Gordon Alderson, now in Lincolnshire and newsletter editor of the Alderson Family Historical Society. Could he use last week's column to help fill a little space? For the Aldersons, anything to oblige.

AMONG all the black diamonds in that Horden history, the most lustrous reflects a visit by the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh to Co Durham on May 27 1960. It began at Horden railway station.

"Flowers were imported, planted and taken away after the visit," Paul Stradling records. "Dandelions in nearby fields" - get this bit - "were painted green to give a good impression."

The column has heard, of course, about painting the town red. But painting the dandelions green? The archives offer little assistance, merely chronicling that "the little station had been transformed with red carpeting, a glass roofed canopy and a fine display of flowers arranged by British Railways, York."

Horden folk crowded the station railings, even perched on nearby roof tops. They were also afforded the first glimpse "in the provinces" of the new royal car, a £10,000 maroon Rolls Royce.

The day long visit embraced Peterlee, Durham City and Newton Aycliffe, the Queen wearing primrose yellow with dove grey accessories to avoid a colour clash with the fine and dandelion. In Peterlee they visited Jeremiah Ambler's factory - "the Duke set the factory girls' hearts aflutter by speaking to them," the Echo reported - and in Durham were greeted by Jennifer Bell, the 17-year-old Mayoress, who showed them an exhibition of clothing worn by "Count" Joseph Boruwlaski, a Polish dwarf who lived thereabouts in the early 19th Century.

Who on earth was Count Boruwlaski and what became of his wardrobe? Perhaps in a small way readers may be able to help. Cheered through Ferryhill cut, the Queen and Duke took tea in Barrington Road, Newton Aycliffe with Mr and Mrs William Llewellyn - "an ordinary Newton Aycliffe family in an ordinary council house" - and were treated to Mrs Llewellyn's home-made fruit cake.

Would that have been "Professor" Billy Llewellyn, the Punch and Judy man - then much celebrated, now probably politically incorrect? "The Queen must have been enchanted by the welcome in Co Durham and Co Durham was certainly enchanted by the Queen" reported the Echo, though none of it explains how the dandelions became royal green.

"They certainly did the station up, but to say they painted the dandelions is stretching it a bit," says Elsie Howden. "I was there and remember nothing of that," adds Ronnie, her husband of 52 years.

Parish council chairman's wife Linda Haddick, who lived just 40 yards from Horden station, believes the story to be true, however. "They wanted more colour," says Linda. "It sounds incredible, but they did it."

Other memories would greatly be appreciated. Perhaps there will be more on the case of the prettified pittley-beds quite shortly.

...and finally, back to Lent and to Collop Monday. We missed it.

Plodging the Internet in response to last week's musings, Colin Jones discovers a talk given in Hollywood - small world - on Palm Sunday 1994.

In England, said the speaker, Collop Monday was the day before Pancake Tuesday. "Collops are sliced meat or bacon, mixed with eggs and fried in butter. The last chance for the greasy stuff before Lent."

Much else is explained, too: Shrove Tuesday, Ash Wednesday and Maundy Thursday, when early Christians were expected to take a bath but - since bathing was considered so injurious to health - were excused fasting for the duration.

Of Carlin Sunday - April 1 this year - and of the day which so remorselessly follows it, there is curiously no mention whatsoever.