AMONG the York reception party disappointed by Mike Tyson's no-show yesterday was town crier John Redpath.

He was among a small gathering outside York Minster hoping to meet the noted flesh-eating history buff.

When word came that Iron Mike had been floored by a virulent attack of the sniffles, his disconsolate well-wishers had to shuffle off without meeting their thick-necked hero.

Still, it's probably for the best. Imagine what could have happened...

As Mr T alights from his limo outside the Minster's West Front, the flash of cameras and the clang of John's ceremonial handbell combine to trigger a flashback to Las Vegas, 1997.

Fists and tricorns fly. Despite possessing a half-decent uppercut, our town crier is no Evander Holyfield and he is in trouble before you can say "oyez". Eventually John regains consciousness. But where has his bell disappeared?

It doesn't bear thinking about.

IN the latest reality TV show, Space Cadets, a group of people hand-picked for their gullibility will be told they have been launched into earth's orbit.

In truth they will be stuck in a copy of the Space Shuttle grounded at a disused UK airbase.

Instead of returning to a hero's welcome, the nine "astronauts" will learn they have been the victims of Channel 4's £5 million practical joke.

Sounds like the sort of pointlessly cruel stunt that only a bunch of hysterical London media cretins could devise after a few bottles of red and several lines of nasal talc.

Still, it got the Diary thinking: if only we could mock up an inaugural flight into a simulated York Airport.

On board would be ex-Rowntree's boss Chris White, ex-York University boss Sir Ron Cooke and any other big cheese who thinks "What this small, historical cathedral city desperately needs is its own international aerodrome".

They would touch down at Elvington, cleverly transformed by a special effects team to look like a bustling modern airport.

Convinced that their particularly ludicrous brand of "blue skies thinking" had come true, Sir Ron and Mr White would depart happy, and the rest of us would be left in peace.

WE treated young Diary Junior to a packet of Rowntree's Fruit Pastilles at the weekend. Call us over-indulgent, but what the hey.

The boy kept a tally of the different colours of sweet as he chomped. It included six greens, two yellows and no purples.

Now this is scandalous. Everyone knows that the yellows and greens are the least scrumptious, with the purples unsurpassed as top chew.

It was our belief that the flavours were selected at random.

But now we're not so sure. Is someone at the factory having away with all the purples, and upping green production to fill the gaps? Is there a black market in blackcurrant pastilles?

Rowntree "deep throats" can contact us in strict confidence...

MEMO to the Black Sheep Brewery, Masham.

A Victorian Christmas Fair is not just a few stalls selling over-priced gifts occasionally manned by someone in a wing collar, as was the case at your place last weekend.

There should be entertainers and things for families to do.

Otherwise, call it an indoor market and don't charge three quid for entry.

Updated: 11:06 Tuesday, November 22, 2005