1st in Lent. Wake up on Gillian's floor at about 8.30 feeling obnoxiously cold and uncomfortable. Marian is underneath her coat next to me, and the faithful, flimsy scarfe is draped between us - the only link between us. Like an umbilical cord. Up at about 9 and we sit huddled around a gas fire. To my surprise I see that Denby and Co have gone off in the van without me. Filthy sods. My jacket was in the van and I now have no other clothing in which to venture forth on the great, perilous journey home.
Walk into Headingley, about a mile in all, then hitch a lift to Horsforth. Call in at Marian's for breakfast. A nice family - especially the mother who is quite a joker. It begins to snow, and so Mrs Read loans me the use of her son's coat for the second part of my journey. Arrange to see Marian sometime next week.
Home at 11.00. The clan are just getting up, and I join Mum for breakfast. Dad was stoned out of his mind last night at a dinner-dance in Ilkley. Dave B and John had to carry him upstairs and dump him on the bed. He was too drunken even to speak. Mum was quiet at first but laughed herself silly about it later.
Don't go out in the evening. See Richard Burton and Peter O'Toole in 'Becket' on ITV, and stagger to bed at 10.15. Tired and shagged out beyond description.
Go with John to Otley and mess around for an hour. Come home with 'The Laughing Policeman' a really revolting record, and a box of chocolates for Motherdear. A bright sunny day, but chilly and cold.
Hear on the radio that PG Wodehouse is no longer with us. Knighted only a month ago. His death brings a 70 year career as a writer to a close. 'Lord Emsworth and Others' is the only thing I've read of his.
Chris Denby and Teale give me a lift to the Highlander in Leeds at 8. Neither of them have past a driving test, and there we were in a large Bedford van rocketing through Leeds. Meet Marian at 8.30. Really a nice girl. Not particularly good looking, but her eyes are beautifully hypnotic. Gorgeous hair too.
Back to Gillian Barker's near the university for the party. Drink gallons but feel no adverse effects. Marian is such an intellectual conversationalist. You feel as if you should always be on your guard when talking to her. She rivets the hypnotised victim to the spot and keeps throwing up morsels of geniusly planned chatter. Quite unlike any other girl I've taken out.
Have no idea what time the party falls through, but Marian and I bed down on the floor in the largest room, with no warmth other than I beautiful scarfe which we share.
Laughing Policeman by Charles Jolly/Penrose
St Valentine's Day. Farcical day, or perhaps I should say farcical evening.
Didn't get any Valentine's cards. John got two. Lynn had a massive thing from Dave, and so did Sue from Peter. My magnetic charm must be fading. Am I losing my sex appeal at 19 and a half?
Went to the Wellesley with Maura at lunchtime. She obviously fancies Dave still, and I suppose a reunion will take place shortly. The fool sends her telegrams,roses, and boxes of chocolates, &c.
Chris collected us at nearly 8pm and a vast multitude collected in the Hare. Gillian thingy or whatever she calls herself flung herself at me in the Hare and stuck to me all night, drinking about a quids work of vodka & lime in the process. Thrown together in the darkness near the end of Peter's van she quite naturally sought to reduce my resistence. I was in something of a quandry at about 11. Everyone said they were going to Wikis, but I realised Maura and Marian would be there. Wouldn't like to be confronted with Marian and Gillian in the beer swilling haven of our local night spot. Back to Gillian's pad with Peter M and Carol S. Stay until after 1am.
John came home at about 5.30am and didn't have a key. Woke to find him on the top of a ladder tapping on my window. Laughed myself to sleep.
Boring day really. See television all evening including 'Top of the Pops' and a few other miserable offerings. Have a bath and tidy myself up generally. Going out on a fool-hardy venture tomorrow night. All the way to Linton in the Dales just for a few drinks! Bloody ridiculous. You know, it was that place we went to in August with the ring on the ceiling.
Ash Wednesday. Back out to the Hare again tonight. This week is like September 1973 all over again - or seems like it. Going down to the pub every night is a habit I wouldn't mind taking up again.
John, Naomi, self, Chris, Laura, Helen (Jane's sister), and Carol S. This Naomi is the sexiest little thing I've seen in years. Doesn't look like she's short of a few bob, either.
Back to Gillian or somebodys at the new end of Tranmere. I say somebody because I'm unsure whether that is her name or not. Have a coffee and stroke the persian cat, Samantha. Home with watery eyes and itchy nose at 12. These foolish allergies are a bloody rotten bore.
The Prime Minister announced his intention to increase the Civil List from today. The vile Labour MPs were astounded by this action, and a certain Hon Member for Mid Fife said it is the most outrageous pay-claim in 200 years. It's not as if the four hundred and odd thousand extra will go in the Queen's pocket, as it were. The extra cash is only going out in household expenses. Her Majesty will feel no better off at all. A lot of misguided sods down at Westminster need shaking up a little.
Foggy day. See in the papers that the good old Prime Minister will propose a pay rise for the Queen and the other people on the Civil List either today or next week. Good old Harold. It's the one good thing he's done in his first year in office. He can't be such an old sod really. He only pretends he's one.
Margaret Hilda Thatcher is now Head of the Conservative party and Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition. She beat Mr Whitelaw by about 50 votes. Truly a historic occasion and I think nothing but good can come of it. Whether she'll ever become Prime Minister is another matter altogether. Good Old Harold looks like seeing the 1970s out.
A unusual Monday. After the usual ritual of work, John and I went to the Hare & Hounds where his ladyfriend had begged him to attend upon her. Quite a stunning piece she is too. Called Naomi, or 'Nay', an attractive name. It certainly made a change going out with a different crowd.
Had a letter from Denny today. She said she thought she'd been 'a cow' over the way she's ignored me and the happy family these past few months. I forgave her immediately. (Conceited swine that I am).
The Tory Fiasco reaches its cresendo tomorrow. Will it be Margaret Thatcher or old Willie Whitelaw? In my own mind I know that Mrs T will succeed, but anything can happen in politics. Have a bet with Sarah, Carol and Eileen. I stand to win 10p.
A year ago almost to the day I was saying that Mr Heath's (who's he?) leaning towards male company could not be doing him any good. I was right. One day you can be Prime Minister and the next you're just a middle-aged old puff who used to be a big shot in the Conservative party. Cruel, cruel politics.
Quinquagesima. Up at a decent time. Can't quite remember the exact hour, but it was well before lunch. See in the Sunday Express that the Queen has sprained her shoulder while chopping wood, and received treatment for it at a London hair salon. I realise that the Royal Family are in a poor state at the moment, what with scrapping those plans for rebuilding Sandringham. She's seen in the same hat and coat on different occasions over a five or six year period, but never did I imagine that the day would dawn when Her Majesty would be compelled for financial reasons to do her own wood-chopping. Mum says that she thought Auntie Hilda was the only woman alive adept at chopping wood, but evidently all the top people do it now.
Out with John, Andy, Mr Mather and Chris, who is really miserable. Oh, musn't forget Carol S and Miss Dibb too. No CB. Move on to the Station in Yeadon after the Hare & Hounds. John and I go on to Harry Ramsden's for the things people normally go to Harry Ramsden's for, and after devouring them in the car we return home. Too hot to sleep and lay awake for hours thinking of all things under the Sun. Hell, I've missed out the most important thing.
At 11 o'clock tonight John's unnamed girlfriend (Naomi Downing) paid him a visit! She sat in a drunken heap in the lounge & he promised to go out with her tomorrow - me being the chaperone of course.
Up at noon. John and I take the car into Guiseley and then get a train into town (Leeds). Wander round aimlessly looking in shop windows and laugh at the craze which certain male members of our generation have adopted - wearing trousers ridiculously short. Poor lads - they've no idea at all. Home at about 5.
Marlene, Frank and the kids have come for tea. Mark is a nice little lad and we have several games of marbles before and after tea.
Leave for the Hare & Hounds at 8 so that John can attempt to pick up the girl he was with yesterday at Wikis (Naomi Downing). We're going to Tiffany's by the way. The female doesn't respond and we leave for the Fleece empty handed. Pick Christine B up and then meet Peter Mather and Andy in the Fleece. Have several drinks whilst waiting for Lynn & Dave. Andy goes down to the Hare & Hounds and well drive like hell let loose to Leeds. Never again. Tiffany's is the most diabolical so called disco I have ever had the misfortune to attend. Nobody in there looked younger than 65. Most of them with fond memories of Disraeli's last government and the Relief of Ladysmith. Truly revolting. Have a laugh all the same but vow with all my heart, body and mind, never to set foot in the place again as long as I live. The others liked the place, and some were so taken in by it all that they actually said they'd go again! Back to Ratcliffe Hall for coffee until nearly 4am. Absolutely tired and shagged out after the exertions of the evening. Bed and deep sleep at the unearthly hour of 5 o'clock.
I feel as though I have another cold. It's only a matter of three or four weeks since I last had one, and the very thought of being tied up in bed for days and nights on end, with no other company than Tony Blackburn and David Hamilton sends vibrations of horror down my spine.
Go into town at lunch and get a new pair of cords and a Jersey - both blue. Lynn says they enhance my baby-face look.
To the Hare & Hounds with John - in the car!! Yes, it came back today after all those years. Move on to the Commercial, all except Chris and Christine, and it's packed out beyond belief. Mum and Dad are near the bar so they can relay the drink out to us. On to Wikis later. Meet Maura and a freaky, attractive friend of hers called Marianne (as in Faithfull and not in Robin Hood's girlfriend).
Maura drifts away and I remain in the company of Marianne until her taxi comes at about 1.30. We got on extremely well, and after a few minutes I really felt as though I'd known her for years. We're going to a party in Leeds a week tomorrow, something to do with Helen Willis I think. Home in the 1100 (with John of course), Christine Dibb, and John's new bit of skirt, who refuses to speak an audible word to me. He drops me off then takes her home, but to my horror I discover I'm locked out. From 2 until 4.30am when he returns, I amuse myself in the garage, mainly playing darts and leaping around to keep warm. However, it's my fault and John can't be blamed. Bed at 4.45 with a hot water bottle to calm my knocking knees.
Pleasant day. Eileen and I mess about in town at lunchtime and I return home furnished with 'How Long' by Ace, a particular favourite record of Miss Braithwaite and myself.
Pleased to see the flags flying in Leeds and indeed above Guiseley Police Station, for the twenty third anniversary of the accession of Her Majesty the Queen. These anniversaries certainly come round quickly. Two years time and it will be the Silver Jubilee.
The Tory party fiasco continues. The revolting reactionary Sir Geoffrey Howe is now standing for the leadership, along with the Nation's Sweetheart Mrs Thatcher, William Whitelaw, one of the bulldog breed, old James Prior of whom little can be said, and an unknown person called Peyton, who was originally thought to have become extinct along with the Dodo and Lord Hailsham.
Do nothing at all in the evening other than watch the TV, and play my new record a few times. Bed at a relatively early hour.
Horrid day. Gordon Pickles, a reporter on the EP, was killed in a road accident in the early hours of the morning. I didn't know him really well, but it's nauseating to think I was laughing and joking with him on Monday about something in 'Private Eye'. Here today, gone tomorrow, or is it more appropriate to say 'here yesterday, gone today?'
To the Hare & Hounds with John, No one other than Andy arrives, but a pleasant evening is had. John and Andy certainy know a nice bunch of women, and I wonder what exactly I've been doing all these weeks while they've been pulling in the talent.
A silly old hag on 'Nationwide' tonight remarked that the late Mr Heath is 'a second Churchill' in his oratory abilities. She couldn't possibly be referring to the great Sir Winston, so I think she means either Baroness Spencer-Churchill ( a right little raver when she's roused) or her up and coming grandson, Mr Winston Churchill. God only knows where all this Tory party eye-wash will lead us.
Sit in bed with Agatha again. Finish 'The Mystery of Chimneys' - really entertaining. Pass out into a deep sleep at about 1 o'clock.
Busy day again. Kathleen goes home at lunch with 'flu. Never seen Kate ill before. See in the Sunday People that another young lady is denying a romantic relationship with the Prince of Wales. The difference this time is that she's married. Yes, Mrs Rosalind Ward, the wife of a young millionaire landowner. Like Edward VIII and Mrs Freda Dudley Ward in the early '30s. Can't really say I believe it, but you never can tell.
Wait for ages in the cold for a bus home and meet Marita on Wellington Street. We come home on the 35 together. Hear all about the love, passion and ecstasy of Sheffield at the weekend. Her 20th birthday celebrations went with a bang in more ways than one I can imagine.
See in the EP that Margaret Thatcher won todays battle for the Tory leadership, but even better news awaits me on my arrival home. Dad informs me that Edward Heath has conceded defeat and will not stand in next Tuesday's ballot! The Grocer is gone! Ted Heath is no more! Tories all over England will feel numbed by it all, other than Margaret Thatcher and myself that is. Mrs Thatcher captured my heart sometime last week when the current affairs programmes were going to town over her. An utterly charming lady, whom I'm sure the Queen would love to ask: 'Come on, Margaret. Form a government!' A weird feeling hangs over us all. As though a great cloud has moved from above, letting the sunshine through for the first time since 1965. Only the ending of a war, the death of a beloved monarch, and the freedom from prison of a man who has served 29 years for something he never did, can be likened to the resignation of the hopeless Edward Heath. To be rendered insane at the height of ones political career is tragedy indeed.