The Crook Factor

LIKE motor cars and fighting dogs, karaoke comes from Japan. The word literally means "empty orchestra" and must not be confused with empty vessels, which are themselves said to make the most noise.

Since the column's own musical tastes begin and end with Simon and Garfunkel - and since it is no coincidence that Simon and Garfunkel sang Sound of Silence - it was something of a surprise to be invited to join the judging panel at a karaoke finals night at the Queen's Head in Crook.

Crook's a former pit town in south-west Durham, now part of the lager and black economy. In Victorian times a policeman was murdered in an incident outside the Queen's - now Elvis, Eminem and Orbison stood imperilled by the 21st Century go-as-you please.

There were five judges in all. Even the court of appeal only has three, but they're unlikely to hear the sort of serious stuff to which we expected to be suspected.

For Crook, cacophony knocked.

The pub's now co-owned by our old friend Ian Hawley, known universally as Boss Hogg, a genial former policeman who since taking over the Queen's has added three-and-a-half stones to his already considerable girth.

"It's because I'm happy," said Boss, and looked it. Had he a karaoke song, it would have been The Laughing Policeman (retired.) Boss introduced the judges, too. "Mike Amos," he said, "has more columns than a Microsoft spreadsheet."

There'd been 15 heats throughout the summer, some nights hotter than others. The final was to raise money for two-year-old Tilly Lockey from Consett who in January lost both hands and her toes after suffering meningitis and who will need prosthetic hands.

Top prize was a week for two in Magaluf, the winner appearing on stage at one of the resort's clubs. Crook may not have seen a bigger crowd since last they reached the Amateur Cup final. By many, at least, it was taken pretty seriously.

"The heats are fun, but when you get to the finals night they're different people," said Val Bargewell, now a full-time karaoke operator after many years on the family farm at Ferryhill.

He got out five years ago, has invested more than £30,000 in high-tech karaoke equipment, offers 35,000 songs and has never regretted diversification.

"It's so much better than farming. I work now and have a bit of money in my pocket. With farming I was working 24 hours a day, seven days a week for nothing, literally nothing."

He suggested we chat to his mum. "She had a pedigree herd, loved them. She's 83 and she'd keep you talking for days."

Double jeopardy, each was to sing two numbers, the neutral judges all from out of town. There were 20 marks for vocal quality, 20 for "entertainment", 20 for appearance. Several appeared to have come straight from work, though the lad who sang Forever in Blue Jeans was, at least, dressed for the part.

The lady who essayed Meatloaf had bitten off more than she could chew; the chap who sang Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me should probably never have got out of bed in the first place.

Several were so immobile that the machine might have been playing Statues. A lady in black kept rubbing her stomach, as if trying to work out if it were a girl or a boy, a chap who sang Penny Arcade - sang it very well - kept making arm movements as if flushing a back garden netty. Perhaps it was a spend-a-penny arcade.

A lad with one of the biggest voices was so slight he could have hidden behind the microphone stand, but on occasions the judges would have had to have been stone deaf, not just tone deaf, not to discern a certain (shall we say) discordancy.

Graham Oliver - fellow judge, agent and member of a Tyneside band - could occasionally be heard muttering words never heard on Stars in Their Eyes, as if searching for a paid-off line.

Many other finalists were very good indeed. The audience - mostly female - not only loved it but even started a dance. Perhaps it was the hokey-karaoke.

The lady who sang Where the Boys Are should know they were down the other end of the bar, trying mutely to watch Man United on the telly.

Kevin Potts, aged 52 and the oldest signer in town, tried Sweet Caroline. A rough Diamond, maybe, but a very passable one.

Demma Miller proved an excellent country singer and wore sort-of pointy wellies to match the western front; Rob Roberts appeared for his first song wearing Black and White Minstrel make-up, a huge Afro wig and Edna Everage sunglasses.

He looked a bit like Gonzo, him out of the Muppets, but had a tremendous voice, was funny with it, and had clearly put himself about.

It was the least politically incorrect thing to happen in Crook - politically improbable, anyway - since the Liberals took control of Wear Valley council.

The winners were announced at 11.30pm, Rob - unanimously first - donating the Magaluf break back for auction. It boosted to £890 the amount raised for the courageous little Tilly, with more expected this weekend. Demma was second, Kevin third.

There was a round of applause for Val, too. Old habits being what they are, he milked it.

The column had left 15 minutes earlier, thus avoiding a reaction to the results which was not (it's reported) entirely harmonious. Noise it quietly, but we'd had a thoroughly enjoyable evening, nonetheless.

* For more information on the Tilly Lockey appeal, go to www.givetillyahand.co.uk

Hit me, Proby, one more time

PJ Proby's making a comeback, his 379th. A lengthy piece in the Independent on Sunday notes the Texan singer's "aberrant" talent, his multiple bankruptcies, his chaotic sex life, the charge of shooting at his wife and of assaulting his girlfriend. That wasn't a gun, though; that was an axe. She'd overspent on the groceries.

"He is not a man you'd choose to defend in a balloon debate," observes the IoS, dryly.

Buried amid it all is a quite remarkable sentence. "In the mid-70s he applied to Durham Education Authority expressing an interest in teaching, but wasn't recruited."

It's true. I was there. "It was always my ambition to be a PE teacher," Proby told the John North column.

"I think it would be therapeutic for him," said his agent.

PJ had taken a shine to Spennymoor, or more specifically to a young lady he'd met at the long-razed Variety Club. His cuttings file, sadly, is minus the relevant information - anyone remember who she was? - but the picture packet includes one of him standing outside the former Durham Road school in Spennymoor, where he'd been working out in the gym.

He and the young lady became engaged. The county council, inexplicably, declined to engage him at all.

He's now 68 and lives near Evesham with a dachshund called Tilly. The comeback tour doesn't include Spennymoor, alas, but you can catch him tonight at the Carnegie Hall, Dunfermline.

The Sunday Times property section, meanwhile, carries a piece on the impending sale of 11,818 acres of grouse moor at Westerdale and Rosedale, in North Yorkshire. With a few farms, a hotel and a cricket field thrown in, they're aiming at £15m.

Until his death in July, the estates were owned by Brigadier Tim Landon, described as "one of Britain's richest and most secretive men" and perhaps more high profile in Oman.

There he was known as the White Sultan, after helping in 1970 to stage the British-backed bloodless coup which brought Qaboos Bin Said-al-Said to power.

Since then, says the Sunday Times, Qaboos is rumoured to have sent Landon £1m every year on his birthday, though the Arab extravagance may somewhat have been exaggerated.

Landon's obituary in the Telegraph merely claimed that he once got £1m inside his Christmas card, that's all.

AN email arrives from Joan Thomas, editor's secretary in Harry Evans's great Northern Echo heyday and also to two of his predecessors.

Harry, long in America, is writing his autobiography. Joan's helping with the research.

Particularly she seeks information on the campaign of which he was most proud, to trial smear tests for cervical cancer in the North-East - though it didn't always go to plan.

Chris Lloyd's history of the Echo records that Evans spotted in the Sunday Times a four-line report that trials were taking place in Vancouver, wondered why it shouldn't happen in Darlington or Newcastle and sent trainee reporter Ken Hooper to Vancouver for six weeks (times change) to find out more.

Hooper certainly did. The leading authority on cervical cancer was a surgeon called Stanley Way, 30 miles up the A1 in Gateshead.

The talk to the North-West Durham Fabian Society was at the Joiners Arms in Hunwick, near Crook, a chance to recall that a long-serving former landlord arrived on the day that Britain went decimal.

Several of those free thinkers knew precisely that D-day was February 15, 1971.

It went OK - a nice bowl of soup, a couple of ham sandwiches and a pint of Pedigree. The next meeting will be discussing alcoholism and obesity. They got their speakers in the right order.

Better remembered as Phil Berry, a porter in Crossroads, Middlesbrough, actor Neil Grainger popped up in The Bill last night.

"He played someone accused of stealing goods, these Graingers are dodgy characters," says Eddie, his dad.

Neil joined Crossroads when the only way seemed down. "In true soap style his plots ranged from being caught in the Jacuzzi with the boss's wife to being accused of murdering his stepfather," says Eddie.

Reprieved, with a starring role for Jane Asher - a part described as "sexy superbitch" - Crossroads then became even more confused, viewing figures dropping to a million.

The curious bit is that one of the websites describes Phil Berry as a chambermaid and says the name's short for Philomena. Those who saw him near full-frontal - as described in another website - will be able to vouch he's all man.

...and finally, a reminder that David Holding, author of the new history of the OK Bus company, will be signing copies at Bishop Auckland Town Hall from 11am-3pm today. The last of the clippies, and lots of memorabilia, will be there too. The book's £13.95. Thanks to earlier column publicity, it's running on wheels already.