On the prom

AMONG journalists more than most, the single maxim about there being no such thing as a free lunch may be familiar.

The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations ascribes it to that familiar author "Anon", though it's widely believed to have been coined by the American economist Milton Friedman.

"The principle is clearly related to the fundamental theorem of ecological economics," says one of the websites and, indeed, they talk about little else in Old Shildon Club.

We are reminded of it, more straightforwardly, after an incident a few weeks back - just a few miles from home, broad daylight, next bus along in a few minutes.

A driver pulls up, announces himself as Darlington borough councillor Brian Jones, and offers a lift most of the way. Since it saves on bus fare, the offer's gratefully accepted.

Subsequently an email has arrived from Coun Jones, member for the Sadberge and Whessoe ward, inviting me to open Sadberge Village Festival on Saturday, June 23.

It's impossible to refuse. Though Coun Jones insists that his original intention was wholly philanthropic, it's exactly as he says. There's no such thing as a free lift, either.

OFTEN on the northbound lay-by at Scotch Corner, the column has been long-recognisable at the region's bus stops. Samaritans - never mind good, half-decent would do fine - are rare.

Among the faithful few is Sue Alderson, who lives somewhere up't top end of Swaledale, is much involved with the local churches and is chairman of the Darlington District of Townswomen's Guilds.

Sue last appeared hereabouts three years ago, after I'd addressed the Barney guild. "I have to tell you," Sue had begun, all too familiarly, "that tonight's speaker is not my first choice."

The nice ladies at Hummersknott TG in Darlington should not suppose, therefore, that last week's talk was in exchange for that rather nice bottle of Sauvignon.

It was because the district chairman never forgets Luke 10:33.

ANON is prolific indeed. The page on which the "free lunch" quotation appears alone encompasses everything from "Thirty days hath September" to "Some talk of Alexandra and some of Hercules," the first words of the British Grenadiers.

There's Swing Low Sweet Chariot (which Denis Weatherley died singing), A Tavern in the Town and the oft-cited headline "Sticks nix hick pix", said to have appeared in Variety magazine in 1935 to sum up the lack of enthusiasm for farm dramas among the rural population.

Particularly, however, we are taken by a limerick published in the Weekend Book of 1925:

There was a faith-healer of Deal

Who said "Though pain isn't real,

If I sit on a pin

And it punctures my skin

I dislike what I fancy I feel.

SCOTCH Corner, fairly obviously, is so named because it's long been a junction of major roads to the west and east of Scotland. The etymology of Scotch Isle, in Wolsingham, has long proved more elusive.

There are Scotch pies - a wonderful confection, several in Bathgate last weekend - and Scotch whisky, Scotch broth, Scotch fir and Scotch terriers.

Since none, with the possible exception of the whisky, does any harm, why are Scotsmen so sensitive about being called "Scotch"?

The Bloomsbury Dictionary simply describes the term as "offensive", Chambers goes further. "Disliked by many Scotsmen," it says, "having the character popularly attributed to a Scotsman, an excessive leaning towards defence of oneself and one's property."

It still sounds a bit unlikely. Can anyone scotch the rumour?

FOR reasons we needn't revisit, last week's column had cause to mention Hitler, cricket and the LBW law in the same breath. It reminded Barry Wood in Edmondsley, near Durham, of the Dad's Army episode in which one of the squad points out that the Germans don't play cricket. "If they did," says Mainwaring, "we'd probably not be at war with them now." Probably he was right.

OUR days at Bishop Auckland Grammar School ended - quite a while ago, admittedly - with a service in the Central Methodist Church and a blazered pint in the Wear Valley. Too late, they asked about age.

That rite of passage is now altogether more elaborate, and infinitely more expensive. We're in prom season.

Ashleigh Bentham, 15, made the Echo last week after rolling up at her end-of-school bash in the loader of a JCB. Most of her mates came in stretch limos.

The concept, perhaps inevitably, is American. First cited by the Oxford in an 1887 New York magazine, it's been awfully slow crossing the Atlantic.

Over here the prom was usually associated with tiddley-om-pom-pom and with liking to be beside the seaside.

"Promenade" was from the French, meaning to walk forth - or the place, usually coastal, where it was done.

In Victorian times, says the Oxford, the promenade was also a music hall gallery "frequented by demi-mondaines and their followers". Whatever a demi-mondaine may be, you probably wouldn't want her to accompany your little lad to the end-of-year festivities.

The promenade concerts were so called because at least some of the audience could walk around, or simply stand.

Today the prom's much different. Lynn Briggs sends a USA Today article which estimates the cost of attending at "between $400-$3,000 and up" and reckons that a third of that country's annual limo business comes during prom season.

There are those of us who'd still prefer a chorus of Jerusalem and an at-last-legal pint in the Wear Valley Hotel.

AN improbable link is suggested between the Proms - as in last night of - and last week's note on KFC, as in chicken.

About 20 years ago, says John Briggs, the Promenaders would wave placards of KFC icon Colonel Harland Sanders in pursuit of an alleged resemblance to Sir Charles Groves, the conductor.

Harland Sanders was born in 1890, served as a private in Cuba but was made an honorary "Kentucky colonel" in recognition of his service to the state's cuisine.

Almost 50 before he perfected his "secret recipe" of 11 herbs and spices, he then required franchisees to pay a nickel for every chicken sold. Now there are more than 11,000 KFC restaurants in 80 countries.

Sanders died in 1980, buried in his trademark white suit and black tie and named just four years earlier the world's second most recognisable celebrity.

The resemblance to Sir Charles Groves seems a little far fetched, however. The Promenaders may have been standing up too long.

A FINAL etymological note from Phil Steele, in Crook. What, he asks, is the source of that "wonderful local word" ket, usually meaning cheap sweets.

That he suggests the query could also fit into the Backtrack column - "Newcastle United had that great chocoholic centre forward Keysbuyer" - is a joke that only a football fan would understand.

"Ket" is Scandinavian, originally meaning raw meat, offal or carrion. Latterly it's been taken to mean any trash or rubbish - and not just in North-East confectioners', either.

Sweets to the sweet, the column returns anon.