Io,io,io and some plate expectations

What was the carol we'd just joined in? "And io, io, io, by priest and people sungen." Do priest and people really go around singing io, io, io and, if they do, what's it all about?

The Oxford English suggests that, classically at any rate, it is entirely possible. Though an io may be a large yellow north American moth or the daughter of the river god Iacchus, it is also "a Greek or Latin exclamation of joy or triumph" and not a lamentation from the general direction of Carey Street.

Io! It's good to be back.

THE meaning of "io" may not be all that worries today's congregations, if a Church Times survey is a guide.

The Church of England's weekly newspaper asked its readers for examples of bad manners in church but hadn't, they admit, "expected so much rudeness and ineptitude."

Clergy are often the worst offenders, newcomers the principal victims. At a sadly unnamed church in North Yorkshire, an early arrival discovered just two other people, sorting out books at the back.

Finding a pew half way down the empty church, he was immediately asked to move. "It's somebody's seat," they insisted.

Today's churches are generally warmly welcoming, though clearly there are exceptions. Another Church Times reader recalls that the choir in his church were violently opposed to "passing the peace" - the communal handshake half way through the service which can cause so much hostility.

Before the bishop's visit, the vicar advised him of the choir's stance. Unabashed, the bishop marched towards the choir stalls with outstretched arm.

"The peace of the Lord be always with you," intoned the Right Reverend Father in God.

A chorister slowly lowered his music, glared at the bishop and replied with due solemnity. "Bugger off," he said.

A FEW days after Christmas, snow falling fecklessly and the lady of the house none too clever, we'd to yomp up to Scotch Corner services to get the morning papers. Some families' entire weekly shopping weighs less than our morning papers.

Relentlessly, though not entirely festively, the PA system reminded us that Moto had Britain's best motorway netties - and that, of course, was official.

Suddenly, however, the disembodied voice changed its tune. "Don't forget your suntan lotion," it said.

THE snow having shifted by New Year's Day, we headed as usual to Saltburn, for the annual England v Scotland dominoes match in Lune Street Workmen's Club.

Also present, and wearing a fetchingly festive hat, was Mr Johnny Bollands, Sunderland's goalkeeper in the 1950s - "a daring and agile custodian," says one of the club histories.

Johnny's 70. The cap fitted, then as now.

Scotland, as ever represented by Mr Ian Nelson, not only went 50p down but were slow to stump up, thus provoking an unexpected Hogmanay debate over whether a Scotsman can Welsh on his debts.

The phrase, as we may previously have observed, is said to have its origins with impecunious Shropshire bookmakers fleeing to Wales in order to escape their obligations. (See under io, above.)

The admirable Mr Nelson, it should be said, not only paid up but had his hand in his pocket on several other occasions. Bannockburn avenged.

TWELFTH Night suitably spent, Ferryhill Town Council's civic amenities committee sits down tonight to consider how next year's festivities may further be brightened.

We'd remarked a couple of weeks before Christmas how magnificently the market place, and especially the town hall, were decorated.

Last Saturday's At Your Service column even suggested that Durham Market Place was a poor neighbour compared to little Ferryhill.

Technically, Ferryhill's decorations are light emitting diodes, LEDs for short.

A report to tonight's meeting reveals that they're both energy efficient and environmentally friendly - the Christmas electricity bill was cut from £850 to £200 - and recommends a £13,850 extension this year.

Executive officer Jamie Corrigan is even proposing "religious" themes on lamp posts and helping decorate the town's four churches.

When half the local authorities in England seem intent upon killing off Christmas completely, how cheering to live in Ferryhill.

THE last column before Christmas noted that BBC Radio Newcastle presenter Patrick Tyner - nice chap, it transpires - had talked of Judi Dench's role in "Mrs Henderson's Presents". It should have been "Mrs Henderson Presents".

It reminded Look North man Colin Briggs of the colleague - "No names, he's now at Tyne Tees" - who announced that the opera Ada was coming to the Queens Hall in Hexham. "I had visions of mop and headscarf," says Colin.

Another BBC man, talking of llama trekking on the North Yorks Moors, referred to them as "great flightless birds".

We all make them, of course, not least The Northern Echo, which yesterday described an address in Station Town, near Peterlee, as Dormant Villa. The late Lord Jack would have been amused; he always knew it was a sleepy little place, anyway.

The BBC is clearly every bit as charitable as The Northern Echo when they are realised.

"You can always tell when there's been a minor indiscretion," says Colin. "The tape is left cued and ready to view in the library."

THOSE left to produce newspapers over the holiday period will have been grateful to Judge Guy Whitburn, who freed a 19-year-old Redcar heroin dealer on the apparently erroneous grounds that the prisons were overflowing.

"Are there no prisons?" asked old Scrooge. Not according to Judge Whitburn.

None seems to have made the point that, though reluctant to jail heroin dealers, it was Judge Whitburn who gave 69-year-old former Darlington FC chairman George Reynolds three years for tax evasion and sentenced his cousin Richie Tennick to two years for his first offence.

Many even now would vouch for the good that Reynolds has done, many more for what he tried to do. Could the same be said for the dealer in an evil trade, still walking the streets of Redcar?

...and finally, last Wednesday's paper reported that the National Railway Museum in Shildon is seeking donations of "Shildon" wagon plates.

They were the little round things, surprisingly heavy, affixed to vehicles made at the wagon works which, calamitously, closed in 1984. One is also fixed to this office door: "Re-bodied in Shildon," it says.

The National Railway Museum need have no truck, however, with the notion that the spirit of Christmas extends into mid-January.

Ding-dong merrily, the column returns next week. Re-bodied in Shildon we remain.

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