Google+ Badge


Thursday April 7, 1977

Last day at the office before the commencement of the Easter holiday. Can't say I'm not looking forward to it. Haven't had a break since Christmas.

Dad: his car's MOT.
Tempted to go down to the Hare but decide against it. Must conserve a few bob for the gathering in Cumbria. Looking forward to seeing Uncle Harry again.

Rang Dave L at 8. He's going to the Hare with a couple of friends from Bradford tonight and mentions seeing Chris R and John & Maria earlier in the week. Why hasn't he been to see me? I'm jealous.

Watch TV until midnight with Mama. Dad and Dave B are under the car outside. It's having its MOT on the morrow and they're desperate to ensure it gets through. I couldn't do it myself. Cars are the curse of the 20th century. Will they still be around in the next century? The Arabs will own all the natural resources by then, and so I doubt it. Don't talk to me about North Sea Oil either. That's the biggest swindle since the Common Market. Besides, Scotland will be independent by 1990, and so that will be out.



Wednesday April 6, 1977

Lynn took her driving test and passed at the first attempt. The only member of the family to do it in one go. Papa, John and Mama are all second timers. Blimey, Good Old Lynn! Just Sue and me left to get out on the open road.
Lynn: virtually hysterical.

It's pay day today for some obscure reason. Usually we get paid on a Thusday. Is the Queen the only person allowed to dish out money on Maundy Thursday?

Home at 5.30 to a joyous tea. Lynn was virtually hysterical at her success. Euphoric - that's a good adjective too.

Tony: sober at the wheel.
Tony rings at 6. To the Hare and Hounds with him and Martyn. Not the usual Hare and Hounds. One in Bradford (Heaton?). Martyn and I got a bit pissed, and then on to dear Oakwood Hall with a sober Tony at the wheel. Picked up a couple of silly girls who proceeded to lock themselves out of their car and then tell us they're married. Twats. I hate women like that. Home at 1.30 because Tony was nearly asleep.



Tuesday April 5, 1977

My birthday today. The usual type really. Up at 7.15 and devour kippers and drink tea. Get £4 from Mum and a £3 postal order from Lynn. Sue gave me £5 on Saturday.

Will I see my Jubilee?
To the YP in best jeans and jacket. Have a session this lunchtime with Dave B at the Ostlers. Had three or four pints and was quite pissed. They're frantic in the library trying to find King George VI's first private secretary when he succeeded to the throne in 1936. It was Sir Alan Lascelles, of course.

Carole rings to wish me 'Happy Birthday' for yesterday. When I tell her it's actually today she retorts "Oh, no it isn't!". OK, Carole pet, you win.

Birthday cards from Denise, Judith, Dave L, Marita & MM, &c. Dave G rings to profess congratulations and so does Auntie Mabel. (Mum, Dad, John, Maria and JPH go off to Auntie Mabel's for tea).

I eat at home with Lynn, Dave and Sue. Lynn goes off on a driving lesson and Sue, Pete and I go out for a drink. To the Hare, then the Black Bull, then back to the Hare. Quite a good night. Had fish and chips too.

Retire to my chambers at 12.27am. Goodnight One and All!

How many more years have I got? (The way things are going I can't see me having a Silver Jubilee Silver Jubilee that is).


Monday April 4, 1977

Thoroughly ordinary sort of day. Just routine at the YP and usual at home. No telephone calls or great news other than the astounding information that the Duke of Beaufort is 77 years old today!

Piss off Michael. You don't half talk a load of shit at times.

Duke of Beaufort.

Good Old Duke of Beaufort,
You're Seventy Seven today,
with all that luscious parkland,
You're a C*nt with a capital K

(c) MLR.

No, to be honest, I don't like being vulgar. Besides which I'm a leading fan of all dukes of all age and varying fortune. It's quite a while since I made such a silly entry as this. Yes, indeed.

S H I T 

Oh sod it! You've guessed by now I'm doing all this just to waste space. I can't bear to see blank pages in the diary. I bet Evelyn Waugh or Samuel Pepys never did this. Mind you, that's probably why they're famous. Publishers like Michael Joseph or Lord Weidenfeld will be far from enthusiastic by my contribution on this page.

Retire to bed at 12.15am on the morn of my 22nd birthday.


Sunday April 3, 1977

Palm Sunday. Palm Sunday indeed. With Dave G, Glenn, Christine, Lynn and Dave B, Mum & Dad to the Commercial at noon. The locals didn't trot ahead in front of me throwing palms and other objects of flora in my path. Dad wasn't astride a donkey either.

with CB: in perfect shape.
Lynn is like a zombie. Dead to the world. We all - that is everyone on the above list - felt recovered somewhat with the medicinal intake of alcohol. Alas, the drink must have effected my eyes because the ink here has changed to something strongly resembling black currant. Was I drinking vodka and black last night?

CB is in perfect shape. Just like old times. It makes life well worth living. All back to Pine Tops for luncheon. Horrified by the idea of working this evening. It's pouring with rain too and CB looks expectantly at people, fluttering her eye lashes, in an attempt to get a lift to the bus stop. No such bloody luck. We walked into Guiseley in a deluge and waited for what seemed like all eternity for the public transport.

Nothing of interest at the YP. Dead in fact. Ursula is a nice girl. I'm a nice boy. You're a patient reader.


Saturday April 2, 1977

Wait all day for Dave G and Glenn. Watched the Grand National on TV at 3.30. Red Rum won for the third time making history. We had a private bet on at home. Sue backed the winner.One of mine fell at the first fence and had to be destroyed.

with CB, Ruth and Dave G.
The lads arrived at about 4 o'clock. They're both in great shape. Tea of haddock flan, then down to the off licence for booze and on to the Hare. John, Maria, Lynn, Dave B, Sue, Pete, Chris R, Miss Dibb, Graham Airey, Andy, Linda, Carol Smith and boyfriend, little Jean, and later Mum and Dad, CB, Judith and Kathryn, &c. All back to Pine Tops. A real piss up. Don't remember much. Do recall wearing sunglasses and annoying people playing John's mouth organ. I almost set myself on fire trying to take a group photograph from the top of the fireplace in the lounge. Freaking out until 5am.

As far as I know only Martyn, Ruth, Judith and Kathryn, Dave G, Dave B, Glenn and I were the only ones remaining at dawn, and others, who have no grave but the sea, may well have been fighting it out until the bitter end. I found refuge in my bed. CB was unconscious on Lynn's bed and subsequently my sister was relegated to sleeping on the bedroom floor. I did the washing up and clearing around before passing out. Yes,I am made of the stuff that made England great. Christopher Columbus, Robert the Bruce, Hereward the Wake - all stout Englishmen who pioneered to achieve the greatest empire since F.W. Woolworth opened all them shops.


Friday April 1, 1977

Up at 9 with great expectations for the Pig & Whistle expedition. Sadly however Judith is a very different person this morning when I telephoned Bedside Manor. "I'm not going, Michael", she says "...and that's final".

So I made do playing at Harry Wheatcroft in the garden until Dad rolls up and shouts from the window something about going shopping with promises of a drink thrown in to bait me. I readily cast aside my shears and hurtle up the garden like Lilian Board. (Sorry, it's something of a dead personalities morning with Harry Wheatcroft and Lilian Board).

Shopping was hell at Morrison's but it was all made worthwhile by a drink in the Clothiers's. Down to collect Mama from Moon's (Mill) and the three of us bugger off to the Commercial for lunch. Roast beef and onion sandwiches and gallons of Stella Artois.

Ron Lindley.
Ron (Lindley) is an absolute scream. He has such a face that says everything without him having to speak a word. His very expression sums up the situation perfectly.

To the Hare & Hounds tonight with Sue and Peter. CB is on top form - a great time we have. Miss Braithwaite appears to be back to her normal self once again. Martyn and Ruth, Chris and Peter M join us and we move on to the Regent in Guiseley at 10.15 until closing time. No juke box, but quite a good place. CB and I laughing all the time. She's not sure about tomorrow night but I'll no doubt be seeing her in the pub even if she cannot come along to the Gang Bang.

All to the Chinese restaurant where I'm robbed of 95p by a greasy chink with dirty finger nails. The food is ghastly. No wonder the average china man dies at 27.



Thursday March 31, 1977

Down to the Hare by bus to meet Judith at 8pm. Alone until 8.45 drinking lager like a fish. Judith comes in followed soon after by Tony, Linda, Martyn and Ruth. I go through money like Vivian Nicholson.

Judith is clad in dungarees. A good night.  Pissed as a newt by 10.30 and Judith keeps thrusting cigarettes in my mouth and sighing: "Oh, Michael". Tony, Martyn, and Co, moved on to the Menston Arms at 10, but we didn't want to go and said 'bye bye'.

The lads are becoming serious with Linda and Ruth. Tony whispered to me that he's considering resigning from the Silver Jubilee Lechery Society. Martyn looks as though he's quitting too. I'm glad I enrolled Stuart. I don't want to be the founder and sole member. That would be tedious.

Kaiser Bill.
Back to Judith's at 11pm until 1.30. She says one of her aunts, who was a domestic servant at Chatsworth, got herself fucked by someone not unlike the Kaiser.We arrange to meet at the Pig & Whistle at 11.30 tomorrow, but by the end of the evening she is having serious doubts about whether she'll have surfaced by then.

Bed at 2am somewhat damp following a great downpour. Quite sober by now, and deadly serious.


Wednesday March 30, 1977

Princess Marie-Astrid.
More in the papers about the Prince of Wales and Princess Marie-Astrid of Luxembourg. The Daily Mail announces that Misses Sheffield and Eastwood and Lady Jane Wellesley are all 'decoys' and that the prince has been 'in love' with Marie-Astrid for a number of years. A load of bullshit. The very organ that has led us to believe that the prince is having an affair with Davina Sheffield is now saying we've all been fooled. You wait and see, the next time HRH is within six hundred yards of anyone remotely female the Daily Mail will be ringing wedding bells and proclaiming 'this is it!'.

The princess is of course very eligible. Granddaughter of Leopold III, King of the Belgians; daughter of the ruler of Luxembourg, but Roman Catholic. Dr Cobweb, the Archbishop of Canterbury is meeting Pope Paul next month. What will crop up in their discussions?  Comment from Mama: "Oh he will marry a princess - it's as plain as the nose on my face."

Work unspectacular. No Sarah. Spoke to Delia on the phone and she reminded me about my birthday tea next week. Yes, 22 years - aarrghh! Who cares anyway? Moses supposedly lived a long and active life and died at the grand old age of 450 or something.

Ruth: 24 years old
Sit in front of the television until 10.45pm when the England v. Luxembourg football match drives me from the room to the sanctity of my chambers.

Nothing on the news. Saw Sir Geoffrey Howe make a reply to Denis Healey's Budget. No phone calls tonight. Tony told me, on the quiet, that Ruth is 24 and has been separated from her husband for 2 years. Blimey, the girl only looks 18. Martyn has yet to be informed of this. Does Ruth know that Martyn is only 18? Age doesn't matter though.

Have a P.G. Wodehouse session after wallowing in the bath. Must write to David of Gloucester.



Tuesday March 29, 1977

No comment on the Budget. Better day than yesterday. No more snow, but still very cold.

J|udith: hates children.
Saw Judith in Guiseley at 5pm and walked her home. We're going to the Hare on Thursday night. I only hope Kathryn won't join us. She's a sweet old thing, but Judith must be sick and tired of her constant presence.

Judith says she hates and despises children and would never want any of her own. Weird. Children, in my opinion, are supreme. The only horrific aspect in having offspring must surely be watching them grow into moronic adults. I certainly feel moronic as I approach my 22nd birthday. My zest for life is ebbing. That vitality gone. I even have lines under my eyes. No grey hair though.

I must write to Dave L in Gloucester. I feel a bit guilty about what happened when we last met. We barely spoke a word to each other all weekend for some obscure reason.

Evening: Wrote to Stuart in 'Gay Paree'. Send him membership of our Silver Jubilee Lechery Club.

Hauxwell: ordinary 
See a programme about one Hannah Hauxwell, a perfectly ordinary Yorkshire woman who everyone is making a tremendous fuss of down in London, Lady Wilson included. Even the Duchess of Gloucester spoke about her.

Sit with Susan who is knitting a pink jumper for Peter. It takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it?


Monday March 28, 1977

More snow, hail and blizzards. I progress across Leeds resembling something similar to a yeti. (He is, of course, the nasty Abominable Snowman).

Work was uneventful, as usual.  Only Sarah, Eileen, and self. I rang Lynn about her driving test. (Cancelled because of the weather conditions). She says the experience is not unlike waiting to be executed by firing squad only to discover they're run out of bullets. I can well imagine. However, in my case the ammunition was plentiful.

Tonight at home. Auntie Mabel rang Mama to enquire about Lynn's test. Not wishing to be depressed by the BBC news I soaked in the bath for half an hour. Later saw a good film about the mafia - a black comedy - but the title escapes me.

Portland Vase.
Bed at 11.30. Did you know that Queen Elizabeth II is descended from a 19th century prime minister? Yes, in 1783 and 1807 he accepted the office from King George III. Who was he? I'll give you a clue. They named a vase after him. Another clue: he had the same name as a brand of cement. Yes, that's right you've guessed correctly. Signing off at 11.45pm precisely.



Sunday March 27, 1977

Passion Sunday. I like the sound of that.  Wake up to snow and hail. Do nothing whatsoever other than eat lunch and lounge around with a crumby Sunday newspaper. To be honest with you, I don't feel greatly informative today so don't expect anything astounding.

Did you know Mr Healey is presenting his Budget on Tuesday? Yes, and I bet he makes it a good one because of Labour's precarious position at the moment. Not discussing politics anyway.

Rang Dave G in Stockport at 7pm. He and Glenn are definitely coming on Saturday for my official birthday celebrations.

The Tenerife crash, 1977.
Work 5pm-12 midnight. Nothing spectacular here either. The world's worst ever aviation accident has taken place in the Canary Islands. 7,000,000 people dead, or something. Otherwise, nothing at all. Ursula never stops talking. I bet her jaws ache.

Crikey, it's Mrs Hilda Gadsby's 41st birthday tomorrow. She is of course the wife of Norman Anthony Gadsby, prospective Liberal councillor for the Borough of Pudsey.

Home by taxi in the snow at 12. Bed with P.G. Wodehouse. Goodnight.


Saturday March 26, 1977

Tony comes up at 1am with the Dave B birthday photos and those from last weekend. Really good.

walking in the rain in Menston.
Rang Judith and she rekindled the age old idea of picnicing at Bolton Abbey. Tony is in agreement. The two of us nip to Bradford and lark around for a bit before returning to Judith's. She's clad in tight jeans, wearing red braces and her hair is in pigtails. Killer.

To Ilkley for supplies. Two bottles of wine, bread and cheese, &c. Joined by Kathryn too, of course. Rain at Bolton Abbey, but the four of us eat, drink and make merry. Watch blue tits sweeping down after our bread crumbs.

Judith is tight jeans and braces.
At 2.45 we pile into the Devonshire Arms. All a little pissed except Kathryn who looks ill. Tony comes over all tired. By 4pm it's just Judith and I remaining - drinking tepid coffee at Bedside Manor. We feel as though we should carry on with the drinking. Is it alcoholism, or just the fact that we're almost 22?

We walked in the rain to Menston to see Fat Carol in her flat near the Hare. My God what squalid quarters. She was romping around in her underwear - her hair standing on end, and a strange girl was in her bed. Judith and I felt very uncomfortable. The whole place stank of vomit and the place is reminisceent of a rat infested cell in the Bastile. Horrible. Judith and I walked to the bus stop with horror etched on our faces.

Tea at 6. In the bath. To the Hare with Peter N in his new Capri. Susan, Lynn, Dave B, Martyn, Ruth, Chris, Peter M, &c.  CB was in but she went off with Chris Blades. Stayed until 11. I feel a bit down. Carole and Fogarty are getting engaged at the end of next month. Silly, young fools. Will it last?


Friday March 25, 1977

To tea at John & Maria's straight from the YP. John is looking really suave. Really. A fancy hair style. He's also slimmed down.

with JPH.
I took JPH two chocolate bars and fed him with one. The more he's 'roughed up' the more he screams for more. He loves being dangled with both feet on the floor. He'll be walking in next to no time.

Don't get home until 8pm and within minutes I'm heading back down the road with Dave B in the (Triumph) Spitfire to the Hare. Joined by CB, Chris, Pete M, and Lynn of course, and others. Carole is in with Peter Fogarty but she doesn't speak to me. She wasn't very forthcoming with Lynn either. No Martyn or Gayle of course, and Tony is out with Mandy Phillips.

At 10 I went through to the cocktail lounge to see Judith. She's a great girl. Stay until 11. Joined by Lynn and Dave. In my absence from the main lounge CB, Pete and Chris slink off to Oakwood Hall.

Home with Lynn and Dave. Caught the end of a grotty Michael Caine spy film.

Dad comes in and announces he's going to be the community constable for Guiseley with no night shifts or weekend work! Just days 9 to 5. It doesn't quite sink in and we just can't believe it.



Thursday March 24, 1977

No one at home after tea except sweet little me. After my bath and general sprucing up I rang Tony. He's going out with Linda, Martyn and Ruth. He says he feels quite rotten about dumping me but I respond by saying I'm a good looking lad, over 21, who is quite capable of taking care of myself and able to provide my own amusement. Rightly so. I then rang Martyn.  He says he and Gayle will be in the Hare tomorrow. I then used the telephone for the third and final time tonight and rang Judith. I arranged to meet her and Kathryn in the Hare. Left home at 8.10 and marched all the way to Menston. Yes, on foot.

with Judith.
Virgin Queen?
Not a soul to speak to in the Hare until Judith came in at 9pm. I was sitting near the juke box like 11 and a half stone of cabbage. Quite a good night in all and the climax of the evening could have been dubbed with Handel's music for the royal fireworks when Carol (Fat Carol who works at the Hare) emptied the contents of the ice bucket over Judith and squirted half the contents of a soda syphon over her and Kathryn. The scene which followed was reminiscent of Queen Marie Antoinette's procession to the guillotine as Fat Carol was hotly pursued around the pub lounge. Quite hysterical really.

The three of us then passed on to the Chinese take-away in Guiseley where Judith treated me to a gastronomic delight. Afterwards on to Bedside Manor (26, Fieldhead Road) for coffee until nearly 2am. Kathryn and I debated whether Queen Elizabeth I died a virgin. She died 374 years ago today. Judith was flat on the floor in a coma as this indelicate chatter went on. It's an awkward point. How would one go about asking God's annointed if she fancied a bit of hanky panky? Those who valued their heads would have avoided such banter, we decide. Home to bed feeling absolutely buggered.


Wednesday March 23, 1977

Callaghan: reptile.
Our reptile of a Prime Minister has pulled a fast one over on the feeble little party the name of which I cannot seem to recall. Yes, the Tory vote of 'no confidence' in Her Majesty's government failed and the reptile scraped through with a majority of 20 or so. No doubt you know more about it than I do because it will be history by the time you come to read this. I bet your 'A' Level tutor has dictated Mrs Thatcher's speech to you recently. You know, the one referring to Jim (Callaghan) as 'Jim of all parties, and master of none'.

But to get down to the really important things: Spring is certainly in the air, folks. Indeed, as I walked down the lane today I made every attempt to ignore the fog, drizzle and biting wind and instead my eyes searched the hedgerows in vain for signs of those pretty Spring floral offerings - namely daffodils. None to be seen. Not a bud on a tree. The youngest sheep I've laid eyes on qualifies for a telegram from Her Majesty the Queen congratulating it on it's longevity. The word 'lamb' is about as relevant in today's society as 'dodo', 'democracy' and 'statesman'.

Tony is in Worksop. What a revolting place to be on a Wednesday night. Spoke to Barry via telephonic communication. He says he's working 'too hard'. Cannot contact Martyn because some unhelpful person or persons have seen fit to conceal our telephone number book in a place unknown. I can only just recall Mr Brotherwood's number (Ilkley 3173), but Martyn's evades me. I think it begins with a 3 and has a 9 in it somewhere.

Sheep: Telegram from Her Majesty?
Motherdear has spent the day in bed. A bad, irritating cough and aching bones. Probably influenza. She doesn't look too bad tonight but ought not to struggle into work for a few days.

Back to the subject of sheep. How long do they live if allowed to grow old gracefully? I ask this because the one I spied this morning was aged. When was the last time you saw next week's lamb cutlets in a wheelchair? I'm not mad either. Oh no.



Tuesday March 22, 1977

Not discussing work other than to say we've been having some bother with Carol.

Margaret Thatcher: I don't fancy the idea of a woman PM
A good cartoon in the Daily Mail this morning on the subject of Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister and Mrs Indira Gandhi. Tomorrow we will know for certain whether we're in for a general election or not.

I don't fancy the idea of a woman PM but anything will be better than Callaghan. Even a gorilla will do. A right-wing gorilla though.

Spoke to Delia Collis this afternoon on the phone. She has invited me to tea on an date yet unknown but in the near future. Should be a laugh.

Chris Monckton: future Tory whip?
To the dentist at 5pm. I need a couple of fillings. No appointment until September. I can think of nothing worse than dentists. They should all be herded together and shipped to the Maldives, or perhaps the Outer Hebrides. On reflection it's probably a silly idea, but I'm not here merely to be sensible. Blimey, I'm not standing for parliament.

Chris Monckton is departing from the YP to become a PRO with the Conservative party. Should suit him well. One day I bet he's a Tory whip - in more ways than one. On the subject of the peerage, a duke saw fit to make an exit from his mortal role yesterday. Namely the Duke of Portland who was 84. Strangely enough the successor to this title is only a slip of a lad himself. In fact he's 88.

11:30pm. Nothing much more to report. The BBC is, at this very moment, going on and on about the revolting government. It angers me more and more. James Callaghan is no politician. How he has the cheek to crawl round the Liberal party at this stage is quite amazing. No, obscene is the word. Even Dad says it's disgusting. The shoddy way this country is governed! If I was an MP I'd admit defeat when it it staring me right in the face.

To bed with P.G. Wodehouse. An amusing book. No telephone calls tonight. Must ring the lads tomorrow.


Monday March 21, 1977

What a wonderful weekend. But in no mood to discuss it this morning. Thoroughly tired out.

Cheered somewhat by the fact that our beloved government may be resigning this week. Mr 'Callagas' may be packing his bags and shifting his belongings from Downing Street at this very moment. Is Margaret Thatcher's moment of truth upon us already? You just wait and see. Callabum has only been in office for ten or eleven months.

Go to Boots and collect a packet of photographs that have been waiting for me since April. Yes, pictures of Lynn's 18th (birthday) at the Yorkshire Rose.

Walkabout, starring Jenny Agutter.
Bathe and eat tomato sandwiches in front of the television. Watch a Jenny Agutter film about a nubile schoolgirl abandoned in the Outback with a solitary Aborigine. It quite put me off my food.

The Queen was on the BBC news. 'Go it, Old Girl!' Oh, and Peter Sellers is ill in hospital. He was only married (again) last month. He was similarly taken ill shortly after marring Miss (Britt) Ekland too - a coincidence? Over indulgence perhaps?

Yes, the more I think about the weekend the more I come to realise that life isn't all violence, politics, boredom and Margaret Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher as it is so often portrayed on 'Panorama'. Life is bliss. Life is a great joy.

Retired to bed at 12.05am. Read 'The World of Mr Mulliner' by Wodehouse.

Do you like this red ink yet?



Sunday March 20, 1977

Whilst Martyn and Tony were presumably playing scrabble in a steamed up, dimly lit vehicle with two scantily clad maidens last night I took the opportunity of placing myself at the back of the tent, furthest away from the entrance and on an upward incline. Thus, my nights comfort was assured.

To be honest, the lads had no time to play scrabble in the time they were bidding their fond farewells to the ladies. Whilst waiting I smoked one cigarette and drank half a bottle of chilled beer, which puts their time of absence from the tent at approximately four minutes because you know I don't mess around with bottles of ale.

Back to this morning anyway: Me and Martyn were awake by 8am and our chatter brought Tony from his slumbers ten minutes later. Spam sandwiches for breakfast with Linda and Ruth. Our morning repast was somewhat marred by the sight of the bespectacled ogre from the neighbouring tent with a Joan Armatrading phobia. He cannot have been much older than public school leaving age. His tent was quivering (with fear?) as I consumed my sandwich and swilled Coca Cola. Only public schoolboys can frown like that. You know how I mean, that Winston Churchill look.
James Hunt: race of champions.

To Brands Hatch at 12.30. £4 entrance fee - each. Blimey, the five of us must have paid James Hunt's wages for the day. Mr Hunt won the Race of Champions, as we fully expected him to. The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Warm enough in fact to sit on the grass and eat more Spam sandwiches moistened this time with cottage cheese.

Tony, Martyn, Ruth, Linda and me. 
Racing good. Linda hilarious. Tony impersonating Peter Cooke and Marty Feldman rolled into one. Marvellous day. Then went on to Linda's father's place in Slough and had chicken and chips in his caravan with his common-law wife and Linda's common-law brother.

We visited every village in Kent, Buckinghamshire, Berkshire and Derbyshire. Saw Windsor on the horizon. Whipsnade, Cliveden House, High Wycombe all came in our path. Hit that nasty big road at Watford at 10pm and thus began our journey north. We stuffed ourselves with sweets in the car  and collapsed in hysterics into the motorway cafe at Leicester again.

Tony, over his brew, said Ruth's hair looked quite nice when in fact it looked exactly the opposite and when she said she felt like a wet lettuce I answered: "Well, why don't you get one, then?" Wet with laughing. Home at 1.30am. House in darkness and silence. To bed. Camping is all very well but one night is quite enough for me. It takes a David Livingstone to last out any longer I'm sure.



Saturday March 19, 1977

To Brands Hatch, Saturday and Sunday, Perfect weekend.  Tony, Martyn and the girls, Miss Linda White ('White, not Shite') and Mrs Ruth _____ collected me at about 11am.

Linda is hilariously funny and we did nothing but howl with laughter all the way to Kent. Tony and Martyn sat up front leaving me with the two ladies in the rear of the vehicle.

We only stopped for two breaks. Once at the familiar motorway services at Leicester and the other at the Tower of London so that the girls could relieve themselves.

We got to a camp site about 2 miles from Brands Hatch by 5pm. The tent was erected by 6. By 7.30 we were in the nice village pub. We all got on like a house on fire. Like one, happy family. All pissed. Linda recited 'I know a woman with a punt cut square, not a square cutted punt, but a punt cut square'. Martyn tried to follow this, after three Southern Comforts and eight pints and began 'I know an old Cunt'.

We went on to a disco all horribly canned. The place was more like a youth club. The five of us did a spot of formation dancing. And to think we only met on Thursday! Linda is a great girl. Back to the camp site we had such a laugh with a camera and a lamp. Linda playing at Florence Nightingale and me hopping round the tents like Quasimodo. We had the Joan Armatrading tape at full volume in the tent. A rat bag in the neighbouring tent moaned that we had 'insisted' on keeping her awake for 'most of the night' and yet it's only 12.30.

Heatwave and Boogie Nights

Miss Joan Armatrading singing Love and Affection


Friday March 18, 1977

Went to Christine's  at 1pm to view her scars. They're not as bad as I imagined them to be and she is unperturbed about the whole incident.

Paddy Braithwaite gets her to tell the tale of the reaction of the policeman to her 'Starsky & Hutch' roll over a car covered in whipped cream and glace cherries. Hilarious.

CB goes off to prepare to go out and Paddy tells me he is the only person alive with no pituitary gland. It's something at the bottom of your brain and as far as I know it controls every gland.

He drives CB and I to Otley where we go straight to the Black Bull. Met Peter N with his father, Jim. At 2.30 -3pm we went to the Bowling Green for more. Met Rick Rider, Mick Lynch, &c. Left a 4pm feeling slightly intoxicated. Christine was starving and so we went up to Harry Ramsden's for 'one of each'. We then bid each other farewell until 8.

Home for tea with a banging headache and a present for mother (it's Mother's Day on Sunday). Eat and slept until 6.30. Out with Tony and Martyn to the Hare. Joined by an exhausted CB who looks really rough tonight (no offence) and by Chris R and Peter M. We all went to the Rose & Crown (except CB). I drank ginger beer and Coca Cola. Felt dreadfully tired and put this down to the combined effects of last night and this afternoon. By 11.30 I'm at home watching a Yul Brynner film. What will the female contingent be like tomorrow?


Thursday March 17, 1977

St Patrick's Day. Drastic evening out. Well it was for Michael Rhodes. I worked evenings and met Tony and Martyn at 11.30pm outside the YP.  Martyn looked dead and slept peacefully in the front seat.

Martyn: like the Cheshire Cat.
To Il Travatore for Tony's birthday drink. Whilst I'm at the bar ordering some drinks for the three of us they both have a dance with a couple of young ladies and desert me completely, leaving me helpless with a Coca Cola and a half of Guinness. I found some solace in the company of Denise, Naomi and Carol (that's Fat Carol who works in the Hare on Sunday nights). _______.The girls left at 12. Martyn came over for their drinks and eventually I'm introduced, but I've forgotten their names. Tony told them about our Brands Hatch trip and unbelievably they say they want to join us. Tony and Martyn were like the Cheshire Cat - Tony especially. Buggers. Spent about £5 and got pissed. Home at 2.30am.