I saw Harold Macmillan on the TV last night and I must say that he's made my mind up once and for all on this referendum nonsense. I always said that I would never vote in any referendum, because it's an unlawful abomination, yet the TV and the papers had almost made me change my mind. I would have voted for staying in, but that's besides the point. No, Mr Macmillan convinced me that it would be a disgrace to vote on June 5. What is the point in having a Houses of Parliament when they are just going to hand over all important decisions to us. And let us face it, the Common Market isn't a matter of life and death. We have gone through two world wars and we, that is the ordinary plebs, were never given the chance to state our views on that subject. Good old Harold Macmillan. They don't make 'em like him anymore.
Work at 5pm. I never object to working nights until the actual day comes along, when it's all too late to do anything about it. Friday night without Wikis is just pure, unadulterated Hell.
On my arrival at that saintly place, the Yorkshire Post, I settle down for an extremely quiet night. See nobody until 12 and the only convseration I really have is with the telephone operator when booking my taxi. Pinch a picture from the throw-out drawer of Barbra Streisand - the sexiest thing I've ever had the pleasure to see on the screen.
On my arrival home I dig out a picture frame from underneath a pile of rubbish in my cupboards and Miss Streisand is formally established on the table near my bed.
David B has had the photos developed from the orgy we had after my birthday. Some brilliant ones of me the morning after!
John is in bed when I eventually climb the stairs. Mum stays he staggered in at 11.45pm with blurred vision and a slow, slurred voice. Pissed he was. Lucky swine.
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