NOW this is a serious matter. It has caused much soul-searching down Beggarsdale but even now we don't know the answer. The question, however, is: why are we country folk so ignorant?

I don't think it is education because, quite frankly, many of us feel that we were better taught in the days when the village school was open - even though some of us can remember chalking our times tables on slates - than youngsters today in the glass and concrete comprehensive in Mar'ton.

It could, I suppose, be down in some small way to our isolation. But we still get the newspapers, radio and TV so, in theory, we can read, listen to or watch much the same fare as townies.

Or is it merely due to age because, regrettably, we are knocking on as a community in the Dale, mainly because young people can't afford to live here, thanks to ludicrous property prices. Even if they could get a job, that is.

Whatever the reason, there is no doubt that we are pig ignorant. Owd Tom proved it in the Beggars' Arms the other night when, with mischief writ large on that pixie face of his, he produced from his pocket a crumpled page torn out of, we discovered, an old copy of the Radio Times.

"Name some of them bleepers," he snarled, stabbing a filthy forefinger onto a photograph of a line of rather large people, men and women, who it appears were due to appear in some sort of programme about fat "celebs."

Cousin Kate, the postmistress taking the first look, raised her head and enquired of no one in particular: "What's a celeb?"

No one answered so the Innkeeper put her out of her misery. "I believe it's short for a celebrity," he smiled kindly. "I believe that in London, people who are supposed to be famous get onto lists of A, B or C celebrities."

"Whatever for?" asked Kate.

"Well, they get invited to a lot of parties. I believe that the A-list people actually get paid for going to parties."

"How disgusting," said Kate. "In other words, it's organised free-loading by people who are already rich enough to pay their own way. What sort of people are they, anyway?"

"They're mainly famous for being famous," interjected Teacher Tess who, for the first time this particular millennium seemed in agreement with Kate. "People like models, failed pop stars, past-it soccer players, bit-part actors and actresses from TV soaps."

Kate frowned, thought this through, and said slowly: "But who in the world would want to pay people like that to come to a party? I mean, I'd pay bouncers to keep them out."

Through all this, Owd Tom was getting more and more impatient. "Come on, pass it round. Ah've a question to ask thee ..."

So the cutting, getting more and more crumpled and wet from beer spillings and the likes, finally made the rounds. "Nah," said Tom. "Them folk is supposed to be famous celebrities. So 'ow many of 'em can tha name?"

Out of a dozen or so of these so-called famous people, about to go on telly to become even more famous for being fat, we guessed just two, one a former TV weatherman and the other a woman politician. And we couldn't name them, either.

None of us had watched the programme, of course, so perhaps we country folk are pig ignorant. Or could it be that we have we better things to do?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.