MIDNIGHT on New Year's Eve is traditionally when everyone gathers around the television or radio to hear Big Ben chime in the next 12 months.

But there were red faces at one York pub - which we shall not name to spare to spare the landlord's blushes - due to a bit of "technical" trouble.

With around ten minutes to go, the radio was duly brought out which the landlord had very sensibly tuned prior to the main event to avoid any last-minute reception trouble.

Unfortunately, rather than tune it to Radio One or Radio Two like everyone else in the country, he decided to show his intellectual side and tune it to the BBC World Service.

Now he says he did have the foresight to check that the station broadcast the bongs of Big Ben at 6pm so claims he had no way of knowing the station would not be broadcasting the bongs at midnight. Regulars remain sceptical about this, however, thinking that like landlords the country over, he simply can't admit to being wrong.

The teensy weensy bong problem meant that when people should have been linking arms, cheering and welcoming in the New Year with choruses of Auld Lang Syne they were actually listening to a documentary about arable farming in Iowa - or something along those lines.

Revellers refused to let it spoil their New Year, but the Diary suspects that said landlord could be coming in for some stick in the coming months.

One regular at the pub, who felt it was safer to withhold his name rather than risk being instantly barred by his favourite purveyor of hard liquor, said: "Rather than hear the bongs someone with a watch just shouted happy New Year' and that was that.

"To be honest, the cock up will definitely be worth it.

"Everyone's heard Big Ben chime in the New Year before, but this way we get to have a good six months of winding the landlord up at every opportunity.

"He has already been re-christened Ben by one wag."

However, given the sorry state of most New Year events the Diary thinks the regulars got off lightly.

At least they weren't charged £20 to stand like sardines in a sweaty nightclub - after queuing for half an hour in the freezing cold - to find they couldn't get to the bar to buy a £4 pint anyway as it was six-deep with eighteen-year-olds.