WHEN last the column appeared, a little challenge was set. Following the example of a Canadian newspaper, readers were invited to combine all or part of a well known place name with the name of a well known person - real or fictitious.

The idea was to create a new place name and to define its character. Ripvancouver, for example, was "a sleepy seaside resort"; Sydneycarton a city that did far, far better things than it had ever done before.

The response may most kindly be described as disappointing. A colleague nonetheless proposes Amostria - "Where the locals speak a language all of their own".

Now read on.

AFTER a dinner last Friday at Seaton Burn, north of Newcastle, a kindly soul offered a lift to catch the 22.25 train, last of the day, from Morpeth to Darlington.

Though Morpeth remains the county town of Northumberland, its station had no staff, no public address system, no direct line telephone, no other passengers and no train.

A notice offered a number for up-to-the-minute running information. "Sorry," said a recorded message, "this office is closed."

The friend rang his wife, who checked the train running website. It was 90 minutes late. We returned to his house, where further online checks revealed ever greater delays.

By 1.15am, it was deemed better to accept a lift to Newcastle and to catch the 02.10 to Manchester Airport, since it would leave the city before the 22.25 got there.

LIKE the Flying Dutchman, the 02.10 is long legendary, though like scarlet fever, I'd never previously caught it.

Particularly at weekends, it provides an overflowing conduit for those returning to Durham and Darlington from a night's clubbing in Newcastle. Any resemblance to Mr WH Auden's Night Mail is imaginary; this is more night maul.

Two conductors, male and female, guarded the door. Perhaps it's a punishment roster: other workers get written warnings, railway staff get the 02.10 to Manchester Airport.

An uncommonly inebriated young man lost his shoe between train and platform when attempting to board.

"Can I get it back?" he demanded, a vain impression of Cinderella.

"Don't be so silly," said the male conductor, no fairy godmother, either.

Some of the more vacuous had colonised first class, a rare example of confusing first class with kindergarten. A group, drunk and disorientated, sang of gannin' along the Scotswood Road to see the Sun'lan' aces.

An elderly lady with two suitcases and a worried expression seemed actually to be headed for the airport. Happy landings, or what.

In truth there was no real bother at all, one chap even attempting to kiss the hand - at least it looked like the hand, he might have just missed - of the Durham student he'd been pestering.

The flyer reached Darlington at 02.55, the screen indicating that the 22.25 was leaving Morpeth four and a half hours late. I don't know if it's a record; still sleeping on it.

DINNER a few days previously with Peterlee Lions Club to mark their 20th anniversary. Peterlee has never been on the railway; it's probably just as well.

They're a hospitable and a most generous lot - a pride, positively - someone even organising a "guess the weight of the onion" competition to add to the charitable pot. It was 9lb 10oz, enough to bring tears to the eyes.

Almost inevitably, conversation turned to our old friend George Reynolds, and to a spin around the etymological exercise yard.

George, it will be recalled, had until recent unfortunate events liked it to be known that he lived in the penthouse of a new apartment block in Nevilles Cross, Durham. Has he, however, simply swapped one Durham penthouse for another - and one, word has it, in which his snoring is keeping awake others among Her Majesty's guests?

The company was referred to the familiar lyrics by WS Gilbert:

To make each prisoner pent, unwillingly represent

A source of innocent merriment, of innocent merriment.

Originally, suggests the Oxford English Dictionary, a penthouse was simply a lean-to or covered walkway, from the French for "to slope". It went upmarket in the 20th century before finally hitting the roof.

"Pent", however, can also mean "shut up, closely confined or imprisoned".

A source of innocent merriment? It helped put a nice night in, anyway.

IN London last week, trains perfectly to time, we stumbled across a board advertising the Savoy Tup - a term for a ram familiar to all dales farmers. It's a verb, too, though we needn't go into that.

Apparently the Savoy Tup is one of a veritable flock of them - there are Tups in Marylebone, Islington and several other parts of London. Tup and under, can anyone explain why?

THE trouble with the Evening Standard is that it will venture into areas - northwards, usually - that it doesn't understand. Thus London's evening paper, describing former world heavyweight champion Mike Tyson's new "career" among the glitterati, reports that he is also building an "air conditioned coup" for his pigeons. A lofty ambition, no doubt.

BACK on the buses, as recent columns have been, and a letter from Mrs H Million in Hamsterley insisting that the Fat Ladies Flyer - the scenically routed service 88 from Barnard Castle to Bishop Auckland - really does have passengers.

"It's certainly not a phantom bus. That kind of thing could close the service," she says.

Sunderland football fan Paul Dobson, meanwhile, has been planning a trip to the away game at Fulham on January 2.

Needing to catch the 07.12 train from Durham, he asked the bus website the best way of getting to Durham from his home in Bishop Auckland.

The answer was explicit: Bishop Auckland bus station, stand F, 23.15 on Sunday January 1, arrive Newton Aycliffe 23.56. Leave Newton Aycliffe 05.47 on January 2, arrive Durham 06.19.

He's now working on Plan B.

...and finally, back to that marriage of convenience between place names and people, and some ingenious submissions from John Heslop in Durham.

Churchillingham - an estate with a bullish reputation; Witton Parkinson - village enjoying a popular revival, after years in decline; Shildon Maclean - country town; Stephenbyers Green - village on the road to nowhere; Darlingtony - town with ideas above its station and - not least - Amosmotherley, a village reportedly echoing with ghosts of the past.

Marvellous stuff; perhaps there'll be more next week.

www.thisisthenortheast.co.uk

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Published: ??/??/2004