Let's fly the Yorkshire flag

This, of course, is downright stupid. This country (and this county) fought a war in the cause of freedom, when thousands of lives were fortified in this cause, and we are now told our own flag cannot be flown. What sort of government can dream up laws like that? Ryedale planning officials say: "It's not our fault - this is what the Government says". Do we always have to knuckle down to bad legislation? Do we no longer have views and a voice of our own? Ryedale council should stand up and be counted and say that this is not acceptable. The French, I understand, do not always obey what their EU masters instruct, so cannot we at this much lower level take a stand? Where does this end? Are you and I to be required to apply for planning permission to wear a Yorkshire Rose broach on our lapel? Or are we, like Richard Wainwright, guilty of advertising? Ryedale DC perhaps doesn't have strong views on the subject, but they should have, and should be prepared to stand up for them. Reading between the lines, it seems to have been brought about because someone has complained. So, is that person going to come out of the woodwork and say publicly why a Yorkshireman cannot fly his own flag? And is Ryedale DC going to give approval, which shouldn't be necessary anyway, without a need for the applicant having to pay £60. I do hope our 'farmer's friend', MP John Greenway, will support farmer Wainwright, and indeed the people, in this issue.

And whilst on the subject, have the people who fly the foreign flag over Malton's town hall applied for planning permission, and paid their £60?

A far nicer tale, from Robert Foord of Lealholme, which just fits in nicely with the time of year, just arrived today as I write this. One of his memories of Christmas, and of the lads who have long since passed on. Five young school lads, around Christmas time 1923, thought of an idea and so Tom Strickland, Len Frank, Herbert Pratley, Raymond Hayes and Robert thought they'd do a bit of Christmas singing and so, blacking their faces with soot, gave themselves the name of The Black Minstrels. Their plan was to visit outlying farms, trekking through the snow, and sing something at each and perhaps raise a few coppers. The snow didn't deter our choristers and Tom found an old bucket with no bottom in it, and with the aid of a short stout stick had something to hammer on to keep time.

The first two farms, Robert thinks, treated them with some amusement, but nevertheless gave them ginger wine, spice and homemade cheese. Several calls were made and how many miles they tramped in the snow he doesn't say, but their last call at Lingmoor Farm met with disappointment, for the lady of the house told them to 'clear off', telling them she'd never heard such a din. So, with heads down, they retreated, and by way of getting a bit of their own back, Tom slung the old bucket and stick on to her front garden and they called it a day.

Nearing dusk when they got home, they declared they'd had an enjoyable time, and then shared out their takings. Robert can't remember what little they'd collected but it didn't divide equally, and there was two-pence over, so it was unanimously agreed that this should go to Tom for supplying and 'operating' the bucket!

A lovely story Robert, and our thanks for sending it at this time. As you were a schoolboy in 1923, you must be a good age now, and I know our readers will join me in sending you their best wishes for now, and New Year.

My own schoolboy Christmas tale is about my school-pal, Don Pickett, and his father's gas wireless. He won't know what I'm on about when he reads this, but read on Don. Don lived with his mum and dad and cousin Betty in Park Road, Norton, and each year had a much, looked forward to, Christmas party. Anyway the many boys and girls played postman's knock and other popular games - never to be forgotten I expect. Now, Don's father had a wireless set, not operated by the normal dry battery but by a huge flat box full of wet cells. A battery of Leclanche cells no doubt, which avoided the endless purchase of a large dry battery every few months, and which needed attention now and again by topping up and recharging. Don explained to me that these were an advantage to those people who didn't yet have electricity and only had gas. (How they were recharged at that time I'm not sure.) However, at that tender age the message came over that the wireless they had was in fact operated by gas. For some years I lived with the illusion that the Picketts had a gas wireless set, and as my knowledge widened a little and our first wireless had plug-in coils, and then failing valves, which had to be changed with some regularity, I could never quite understand how they operated on gas. I expect I got the message eventually, sufficient by the time we all got into uniform, to be responsible for radio and telephone communications of the Ack Ack battery I was in then.

This season: "A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together." Garrison Keillor (b 1942), US author.

Best wishes everyone.

Updated: 10:03 Monday, December 22, 2003