The S-factor

IT’S the season to be jolly, and periodically we shall be, but firstly to an altogether more serious reflection: do Newcastle United play their football at St James’ Park or at St James’s Park?

The issue’s raised by Brian Harrison, a Magpies’ fan for more than 60 years. Back in his childhood it was always St James’s; home from home, the official programme pronounced as much. Back then, United were giants in the land.

Since they annexed the apostrophe “s”, however, since it simply became St James’ Park, the Magpies haven’t won a sausage.

Though London still has St James’s Park – as St James’s Palace, Tube station, library and church – there’s a slight case for St James’ Park, Newcastle.

The case against is partly that “St James’ Park” was probably dreamed up by some black and white smartypants in the PR department but, more importantly, because none pronounces it that way.

“You never hear folk say they’re going to St James’. They say they’re going to St James’s,” says Brian, a retired Tyne Tees Television executive from Chester-le-Street.

It’s the same in this office with the contentious issue of what happens when a name ends in an s. Should it be James’ book or James’s book?

Marcus’ century or Marcus’s century.

In both cases, spoken English should be the guide – almost invariably James’s book and Marcus’s century.

In both cases, the Echo style guide would insist upon James’ and Marcus’.

In both cases, as in many more, I remain both out of step and out of style.

WHETHER or not the Magpies have been jinxed by the S-factor, they do seem to go through an awful lot of managers. Back in 1949-50, the team was chosen by the directors not the manager, but writers were still forecasting George Martin’s imminent departure from the hot seat. His office had been moved to something said to be little more spacious than a broom cupboard.

Unlike the humble apostrophe, says Brian, some things never change.

ALLENE Norris, an affectionately- remembered reporter on BBC Radio Cleveland – as was – had occasion last week to visit the Dr Piper House walk-in medical centre in Darlington.

“There were all sorts of people strapped up after falls,” she recalls.

“The music machine played ‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow’. I don’t suppose many shared the sentiment.”

Particularly, however, she was taken by the discussion between a receptionist and a rather confused new arrival over whether he shouldn’t have been at the Memorial Hospital.

The patient insisted that not only had he been referred from the hospital, but had seen a specialist. “He was an ornithologist,” he added.

“Ah,” diagnoses Allene, “bird flu.”

THE snow’s been a real problem, of course, not least in Middleton Tyas – down from Scotch Corner – where some residents had no post for almost a week.

“We wanted to go out,” pleaded the postmen, “the bosses wouldn’t let us.”

Ralph Wilkinson, who lives in the village, was thus particularly impressed with the chap from North Yorkshire Timber in Richmond, charged with delivering his new front door.

Ralph, owner of the Village Brewery and of the celebrated No 22 ale house in Darlington, lives down a particularly tricky bank. The door man, in danger of becoming a bouncer, parked 200 yards away and walked carefully down with the delivery on his back.

“And to think,” says Ralph, “that the Royal Mail couldn’t even bring me a letter.”

ACHRISTMAS card does get through from that avid campaigner Tony Pelton in Catterick Village, though Tony clearly has a dual purpose. The envelope also contains close-to-home literature urging action over threatened bus services from Darlington to Scotch Corner, Richmond and Catterick.

His group’s simply called BUS – Bring Us Services. As with pubs, shops and much else, the moral is to use it or to lose it.

The vast majority of folk don’t, so they will. Whatever the route cause, that’s the truth of the matter.

LAST Saturday’s At Your Service column noted that St Nicholas – the true Santa Claus, a 4th Century bishop of Myra, in Turkey – is described in the Oxford Dictionary of Saints as a thaumaturge.

It’s from the Greek and means “wonder worker” – but the thought occurred that it might also have corrupted into the surname Armitage and thus perfectly have described my late and much-lamented best pal Mike Armitage, secretary for 35 years of Shildon FC and much else to boot.

Alas not. “Armitage” is from the Old French “hermite”, as in hermitage, meaning solitary – but if ever there were a wonder worker, it was Mike.

ALL Greek (cont.) If there is to be a campaign in 2011, it will be to educate the nation that “criteria” is plural and takes a plural verb and that the singular is criterion, from the Greek noun meaning a judge. Even The Times had to apologise for its misuse last Saturday.

A few days earlier, coincidentally, I’d had cause to send a joshing email to a senior Football Association official over the FA’s recidivism in that respect. He replied in the same vein. “I shall refer it to our Latin sub-committee,” he said. Classic.

BILLY Mollon in Durham raises an eyebrow at reports last week of a tribute to Serjeant Steve Campbell from Pelton, near Chester-le-Street, killed in Afghanistan.

The wrong spelling or an Americanism, he wonders, but neither is the case. The Rifles, with whom Sjt Campbell served, have used that spelling since service in the Napoleonic wars.

Billy has a photograph of his great grandfather, William Frederick Mollon, senior sergeant major in West Cornforth Salvation Army. It is unlikely, though, that they fought against old Boney.

…and finally, it has become customary at this time of year for me to apologise to all those readers who correspond by surface mail and who wait in vain for a response.

This year it seemed a good idea to buy a great many Christmas cards in an attempt to address the mail mountain.

Almost appropriately, the Oxfam cards – recycled, acknowledging climate change, every box ticked – showed an image of a snowcovered mountain. See below...

What I’d failed to spot was the clear indication on the packaging that the greeting was “blank”.

What was almost obscured by the same packaging was the wording on the front of the card – in what probably is Chinese.

To those who still don’t get a card, it is necessary yet more humbly to apologise. Those who get one with a message that translates as “Number 29 with fried rice and bean sprouts” must please remember that it’s the thought that counts.

Whoops...