Visitors to our fair city are beguiled by the romance of the place names on our public transport systems. They marvel at the merest thought of St. Wereburglar, the patron saint of those who are law-abiding enough save under the influence of the full moon. They crowd over to MediaCit Yuk, the gleaming chromium-and-neon spires where once there were the skinners' yards, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon Dee or even Michael Miles. And talk of Robert Shaw's Mumps makes young men quiver.
The trams are coming to Helminthdale. Sing calloo! calloo! callay!