Recent headlines pointing to falling-out sessions in small local communities  took me back over 60 years to early adventures along the press reporting trail.

Remote Berney Arms, near Breydon Water, and Geldeston, on banks of the River Waveney, have been providing “feud for thought” at parish pump level while national and international antics jostle for “outrageous” and “dangerous”  labels.

I cut my “village flare-up” teeth on weekly newsgathering beats around Thetford, Dereham and Yarmouth, output often supplemented by tasty titbits from rural district council gatherings where seriously parochial flags fluttered in abundance.

There was plenty of promising material out in the sticks, not least when someone had the audacity to call for change to something  that had seemingly always been there.

Gnarled native versus chirpy newcomer also fed regularly into the confrontation mode.

Extra care had to be taken in the names of balance and accuracy while operating on my home Dereham and district patch.

I knew well most regular protagonists to the fore in any juicy squabble, especially at parish council sessions where old grudges and fresh initiatives clashed and tested the tact and tolerance of the most able or amiable clerk and chairman.

If pleas to cool tempers, moderate language and respect the rules failed to restore order, a blunt threat to abandon the meeting and bring those clearly responsible for such drastic action to book usually did the trick.

One of the most contentious get-togethers I attended featured a blazing stand-up row between a former London Docks union official and a veteran local councillor in the chair who had never travelled beyond Norwich.

Their high-pitched tussle centred on whether an amendment should be voted on before the original proposal.

The village newcomer with union experience in the capital said such a vote was in order if the amendment found a seconder – and he produced a well-thumbed book of rules to prove he was right.

Unfortunately for him, no seconder came forward …. and the chairman  declared the meeting closed amid rapturous applause.

Lack of genuine clout at the foot of our local government ladder continues to anger and frustrate parish council members and officials.

The fact so little has altered in over six decades must put off countless potential candidates from putting their names forward to join the fray at grass-roots level.

Raised in a small community at the heart of agricultural Norfolk just after the Second World War, I developed a good ear for down-to-earth comments about the old place well before sifting through the latest crops for a living as an eager rural correspondent.

I recall with relish first noticing how the subtle art of dishing out insults without giving too much offence could reach a peak when couched in Norfolk humour and dialect.

“He dunt git no farther than Wednesday” and “If his hid wuz a gun that wunt blow his cap orff” were popular examples of describing someone a bit on the educationally challenged side.

They made the point without being excessively cruel.

A few others from a big selection duly noted in my growing-up years: “She kin tork the hind legs orff a dickey”;  “He’s as much use as a yard pump water;” “ If she breathed on yar chips, yew wunt need vinegar;” “He’s about as sharp as a pound o’ wet leather;” “He look as thow he got up afore he went anywhere.;” “He’re got short arms and deep pockets.”

Such lyrical levels are rarely reached on our current parish council circuit as rumour and insult appear to take top billing on any running order, all too often built around the inexorable rise and influence of social media.

Perhaps a few splashes of old-style humour and poetic surprise might help bring a breath of valuable fresh air to the community cause.

My favourite line of home-made wisdom emerged from a packed parish inspection of controversial development plans in the Fleggs towards the end of my Yarmouth spell  as a roving reporter in the mid-1960s. 

A woman at  the back, apparently regarded in the village as a bit of a busybody with literary inclinations, rose to her feet  after a series of heated exchanges.

The room fell strangely silent as she cleared her throat, offered thanks for the chance to contribute at such an animated and well-attended event and announced in ringing tones: “The human tongue weighs practically nothing, but very few people can hold it.”

It took a while for such loaded sentiments to sink in. Then a chap near the front who had lost his cool several times during the evening turned to look directly at her and said in a broad Norfolk accent: “ Yew sound jist like my ole gal when I git hoom a bit learte arter a pint an’ a clack down the pub!.”

A meeting full of sound and fury signifying very little in the way of parish progress ended in laughter and applause.

I celebrated by finding room for a 'Fleggmatic' pun in my considered account of a Norfolk dew with a surprise twist.