Charles the thirst

Prince Charles is visiting Selby next Thursday to look at restoration work on Selby Abbey.

The heir to the throne's visit coincides with the start of Selby's second annual beer festival and the cheeky festival organiser, pub landlord Ian Murray, has invited the prince to pop in for a pint.

Whether there has been a royal acceptance is classified information, but Mr Murray is going ahead anyway producing 48 bottles of the limited edition ale.

"The Prince of Ales will definitely be a collector's item," said Murray, whose pub the Wheatsheaf at Burn is a shrine to his passion for collector's items.

The beer festival being staged at Selby Community Centre from Thursday to Saturday will offer 50 ales all at £1.80 a pint whatever the strength, from 3.7 per cent up to a headbanging eight per cent.

The £3 entry includes an engraved commemorative glass and brochure.

For more information on the festival ring the Wheatsheaf on (01757) 270614.

YORK played host to the best of Fleet Street this week as the Society of Editors held their yearly jamboree in town. Needless to say, Turpin had his ear to the ground...

FIRST, I am still seeking to unravel the mystery of the phantom whistler who brought a plush conference dinner to a standstill.

Imagine the scene: the cream of the nation's editors, local and national businessmen and their influential guests, all dressed in their finery and dining at tables nestling on the National Railway Museum's platforms among historic railwayania.

The place is hushed as guest speaker Charles Clarke, chairman of the Labour Party, nears the end of his rather extended stint at the lectern.

And suddenly the quiet is shattered by an unseen whistler walking on an adjacent platform and giving a perfect rendition of the theme tune to "Thomas the Tank Engine."

He continued unaware as the guests and speaker fell silent then burst into raucous laughter.

We shall never know whether it was a member of staff cleaning up behind an historic train unaware of the august gathering across the tracks; or an impatient guest heading for a water stop.

We do know that the whistler was unaware of the sound-carrying qualities of the cathedral-like museum building - and that some people thought it was the lightest moment of the entire evening.

Things that go bump in the night do not usually worry controversial former Chief Inspector of Schools and conference guest Chris Woodhead.

But when he was rudely awakened in his hotel room in York in the middle of the night, he was definitely not amused.

Mr Woodhead was a keynote speaker but, in the early hours, and after a particularly rollicking evening, a "tired" editor began banging on his bedroom door.

Whether it was someone seeking an exclusive interview or simply someone who had mistaken the room number in an alcoholic haze, we have not determined.

But Mr Woodhead is reported to have called out from his bed: "**** off, I've had enough press intrusion in my lifetime."

Talking about editors and at risk of future prospects, I can reveal our own esteemed editor Liz Page, who was hosting the above conference as president of the Society of Editors, may have committed the faux pas of the event.

She introduced the guest speaker at a session on Saying Sorry as "Alan Rusbridger, editor of The Garden."

Not known for his green fingers, Mr Rusbridger, whose day job is editor of The Guardian, accepted Liz's abject apology with good grace.

SHAUN Collinge, popular landlord of the even more popular Maltings pub nestled beside York's Lendal Bridge, is not renowned for his tolerance.

When a bevy of editors took a break and called in for lunch he was on particularly good form.

One editor from the south of England could not eat his jacket potato with chilli because it was too hot, so Shaun subtly informed him he was a "southern softy."

The editor ordered a sandwich and paid with a £10 note and meekly accepted when his change came back entirely in 5p pieces.

"Well, the exchange rate between north and south is a bit poor at the moment," Collinge confided.

AWAY from these inky pressmen and women, I learn that Coun David Horton has rarely seen his window cleaner even after paying the bills regularly for the last 12 years.

On a recent encounter, the window cleaner told David: "You must have a double."

He resisted the temptation to ask the man to make it whisky but asked why instead.

"I keep seeing pictures of the Lord Mayor in the Evening Press and he's a dead ringer for you," said the pane polisher.

Lord Mayor David Horton told his visitor: "Well, I'll mention it the next time I see the Lord Mayor."

"Oh, how often do you see him?"

"Every time I look in the mirror," bellowed his civic highness.

NOTHING but the best for one Irishwoman's white Lada.

Every time Yorkshire-born Jacqui Ringrose drives Vladimir, her fondly-named seven-year-old Russian car from her home in Grageen, ferries it from Rosslare in Southern Ireland then steers to Sheffield to see her mother, she makes a detour to York - where she once lived - to book it in for a service at the Car Care Centre in James Street.

"We used to be a Lada dealership until five years ago when Britain stopped importing the car," explains a bemused Kevin Strickland, managing director of the garage.

"But still she brings it to us because she knows we like to oblige."

Being obliging means that Kevin had to order a needed part from a supplier in Penrith, Cumbria, who then alerted his counterpart in Russia to send the part in an Aeroflot hold to Stansted Airport. Once delivered in Penrith it was then transported to York and fitted for about £150.

Jacqui says: "I know it seems mad to disrupt the whole world for Vladimir, but the Irish don't like Ladas. Ever since parts fell into short supply the useless Ladas have been piling up in garages all over Ireland. Their mechanics are prejudiced.

"I don't care if Vladimir has done 80,000 miles. As long as Kevin continues to be so helpful, my tank-like Lada will keep going for some years yet."

Lada her than me.

Updated: 12:00 Saturday, October 19, 2002