PHIL Atkinson wasn't just a raggy arsed rover in Witton Park, he's written a book about his cheeky faced childhood. The rest of his life would, probably will one day, make a heck of a story, too.

Youngest of five boys, he was named after the Duke of Edinburgh - "I still haven't forgiven my parents for that" - went necessarily to the Catholic primary school and reluctantly to the church.

He grew up in the 1960s when twin tubs replaced poss tubs, immaturity replaced innocence and the Category D label was hung like a giant clemmy around communities which (says Phil) had fallen into such a state of decay that even vermin wouldn't live there.

That's not quite right, of course. There were any number of rats in Witton Park.

Stinking ship, hundreds of families were rehoused in Newton Aycliffe, which some might suppose a breach of promised land but which had mysterious attractions at the time.

"It's going to be great in Newton Aycliffe," said his friend Danny Bligh. "They've got building sites, a beck, an old rifle range and everything."

Young Phil was still a bit apprehensive, though awesome word had it that houses in Newton Aycliffe had biffies both upstairs and down. "I don't know where it is," he told another south-west Durham schoolmate, "but it's a long way from here."

School out, he served his time, became a fitter and turner at somewhere called Block and Anderson on the Aycliffe industrial estate, emigrated to Canada in his 20s - even further away than Newton Aycliffe - spent five years as a hospital porter and then went to college to learn (he says) how to fix computers.

Now he's both president of the British Columbia branch of the Campaign for Real Ale and a speech writer in the provincial prime minister's office.

"We might be talking about how to address a particular problem with the Bush administration in Washington and I'll suddenly think: 'Hold on, I'm from Witton Park'."

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was in his other official capacity that we gathered in the Britannia in Darlington the other night. Phil's researching North-East brown ales - Brown study, as it were - and needed a second opinion.

Tough work but...

He's home on holiday, family still in Newton Aycliffe. His father had been a signalman at Wear Valley Junction, might have had a station master's ticket, was finally lured to the new town by talk of £25 a week at Bakelite. His mum had those five.

"A few of us had got past the 11+ but there wasn't an A-level between us," he recalls. "I didn't think I had any brains, but I still managed to convince the Canadian government to give me a job."

The book's called The King Street Kids because that's where, if not quite like royalty, they lived. Some of the names may have changed - was the priest really Fr McShame, or the teacher Mrs Trout, or the local eccentric Nutty Wicker? - but the stories of conkering and cartying, of blocky, bully and bonfire night, ring perfectly.

There was also a family called the Wymans, so posh (or such the young Witton Parkers' perception) that they had fruit on the sideboard even when no-one was sick.

Phil writes of Kosy Kinema (aka Loppy Opera) and Quadrini's Caf, of Rose and Crown and Welsh Harp, though only with youthful nose against the cold side of the window.

His grandfather would reckon that there was no such thing as bad beer, just that some was better than others. Phil, now wiser, was inclined to agree.

"I couldn't wait to be old enough to go to the pub. It always seemed to be such an interesting place," he writes.

Thus to the Brit, beer and vittles, the table several shades of Brown and the bright idea to declare which bore the greatest similarity to Newcastle Brown, the supposed journey into space.

Mr Richard Jones, who's something in the City, had also agreed to put matters to the taste.

There was Toon Ale from Newcastle, Strongarm from Camerons, a latter day Double Maxim, Forest from Darwin in Sunderland and two or three others.

Phil's approach was infinitely more scientific, not to mention knowledgeable. He probably writes better speeches, too.

Double Maxim, named after a gun, was reckoned the winner.

They'll love it in British Columbia; Brownie points all round.

BEFORE throwing in the bar towel for another week, there was a huge response to our competition to name the second beer from the new Wear Valley Brewery in Bishop Auckland.

The brewery's behind the Grand Hotel, its first ale named Bishop's Blessing following a pastoral visit by Dr Tom Wright, the Bishop of Durham. What, though, of the second?

We asked for a local connection, ecclesiastical input, or both. Several suggested Auckland or Aclet Ale, many more remained episcopal.

Tipsy Bishop, Bishop's Bullion (a golden bitter), Bishop's Blunder, Bishop's Blinder and so forth for ever and ever. Many were from Heather Prested in Belmont, Durham.

More extensive local knowledge suggested everything from Eleven Arches - that, said Michael Gotts, being the number in Newton Cap bridge - to Lynch's Four Carriage.

Morgan Lynch, explained Michael Livermore in Newton Aycliffe, drove the last train from Bishop Auckland to Wearhead, all four carriages of it, in 1953.

Each of five runners up will receive a copy of Mr Jas. Thorneycroft's Treatise On Brewing Fine Old Ales and Barley Wine, a jolly little volume with a Derwentside flavour also written by Phil Atkinson. Simon Gillespie, enthusiastic landlord of the Grand, can have a copy, too.

They are Jenkins' Fire Brand (James Neesam, Eston), Right Reverend (Brenda Bayles, Wycliffe, Barnard Castle), Old Vinovian (Paul Dobson, Bishop Auckland), Wilson's Foundry (Michael Livermore) and Hardisty's Hammer, from a bibulous crew calling themselves The Friday Club.

Unanimously, however, the winner of the 72 pint barrel of Wear Valley ale is Ian McGrath from Durham. We shall toast his success in Grand Canny 'Un.

*The Grand's latest beer festival runs from this evening until Sunday evening, around 20 real ales from around Britain named on a Round Table theme. Live music every evening, and on Sunday afternoon.

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