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Tuesday February 22, 1977

Pancake Day, or whatever you want to call it. Pissing down with rain all day but I'm not put off wandering into town to collect the record 'Body Heat' by James Brown. Got a bit wet even after taking precautions with an umberella. The soaking was worth it for this soul masterpiece.

Link to Body Heat by Mr James Brown

David Owen.
Yes, David Owen is the new Foreign Secretary at 38. It sure looks like we're going to be lumbered with (Denis) Healey as chancellor until the next rotten general election, doesn't it? (Why am I asking you? You know the outcome anyway. I suppose David Owen is now Sir David Owen, KG, the former prime minister?) The Foreign Office at thirty eight surely ensures some sort of promotion in the next 20 years and the premiership is only three or four places up the scale. Oh, I'm bored with this topic anyway. Politics is dreadful. Mr Callaghan is a silly old fool, and you know what I think about Margaret Hilda Thatcher. Don't talk to me about devolution either.

Sitting on the bus at 4.30  I remembered I promised John & Maria I'd pay them a visit for tea tonight and so I disembarked in torrential rain in Guiseley and telephoned Papa with the news that I would not be home for a heap of pancakes. Down to J and M's where I sit entertaining the baby whilst Maria did her bit towards making Shrove Tuesday the traditional thingy. JPH is taking notice now and his grin is even wider. Spent a couple of hours going through Maria's mail order catalogue and made a few orders. I played my new James Brown record over and over again attempting to indoctrinate the baby with it. We want him to be a little soul kid. I also held his face very close to the TV when the 6 o'clock news showed the Queen and Prince Philip in New Zealand. He must learn to adore his sovereign from a very early age. His mother however yelled abuse and sang Irish rebel songs at the TV.


Monday February 21, 1977

It's afternoon when I'm awakened by Susan. She's ridden with another cold. She's like a lobster and sneezing her head off. Mum comes in for lunch and we eat hurriedly because she wants to get back to the grindstone after half an hour or so.

Dad comes in at 3 and says a lunatic from Highroyds threw himself under a train in Guiseley this morning. How he can come home for a hearty lunch after picking up bits of leg, foot and thigh God only knows.

I went to Guiseley Library and got Evelyn Waugh's diaries which have only just been published. CB and I always laugh about Evelyn Waugh, for some reason, and I often sign letters to her 'from Evelyn Waugh's Dad'.

Brisk walk to John and Maria's. Baby is in bed which is disappointing because I wanted to give him some chocolate. Give Maria a run-down on the weekly events and the details of Saturday night's orgy. She enjoys tales of carnage and lewd goings on.

Dave Lawson.
Back home by 5.30. Sue says Dave L's been on the phone. I ring him. He's on half-term until Wednesday. He comes for me at 8.30 and I'm surprised when he suggests we go to the Commercial. He hates the place, but his excuse is that it won't be quite so busy in the week. It's great going out with David because it's brilliant and soothing to know I'm not the only skint guy in the British Isles. After a couple of drinks we go on to see John & Maria who, unbelievably, are tucked up in bed at 9.30pm. This really made David's night and he pulled Maria's leg. John is given the quest of finding David a buck rabbit before he returns to Gloucester on Wednesday. Good old Mr Lawson. Surely one of the greatest persons I have ever met. Won't be seeing him again until CB's party on March 11.


Sunday February 20, 1977

Quinquagesima. By 4am only Judith, Kathryn and I are conscious. But when we decided to call it a day I realised with horror that my jacket and keys are locked in Tony's car. We drove to Kirkstall for sausages and chips and pots of hot coffee at an unpleasant transport cafe which, by coincidence, is closing down today. Listen to Elvis Presley on the juke box and debate whether we're sane, or not.

On leaving the 'restaurant' we were accosted by two or three police officers in cars, who question us about a shooting which had just occurred in Leeds City Station. Kathryn turned to me and said: "What have you done with the gun, Michael?" This did not amuse the officers.
Frankenstein's monster.
Back to Judith's serenaded by the clanging of church bells and the singing of obnoxious bird-life. To make matters worse Kathryn has an elephant in her mini which plays the drums and makes one hell of a rumpus when wound up. A clockwork elephant. Judith dumps us in her dining room and then slips into a coma on the carpet. I sit moaning and groaning trying to keep Kathryn awake and for her to amuse me. Silly bugger aren't I? By 8am Kathryn decided that Tony would be on the move and so she drove me down to WH Smith's. Tony was indeed up. But what a nauseating sight! Frankenstein could not have looked worse, in fact Mrs Shelley's creation is angelic in comparison. I sit at Tony's breakfast table in dark spectacles watching him pace up and down with a strange look in his eyes. ______.

Home for 9am and immediately retire to bed until 12 o'clock. Tony takes me to the YP at 5 o'clock in the snow. Yes, snow. By 10pm I'm just about unconscious with exhaustion.


Saturday February 19, 1977

My alarm sounds at 10.45. Sit about with some crumpets and tea waiting for Tony. He comes at 11.30 looking worse for wear. Go down to Ilkley with his car packed with belongings and unload it at his new apartment. We then go off in the direction of Doncaster to collect some so-called furniture from his friend Peter. Bugger all it is really. Just three broken down old chairs and something closely resembling a table. Hardly worth trailing all that way to Doncaster for. Tony isn't too happy about it either. Have a cup of tea and watch TV before returning to civilization.

Tony Crosland: snuffed it.
Hear that the Foreign Secretary snuffed it this morning. Is it bye bye to Denis Healey at the Treasury?

Back to Bradford and fill the car with more bric-a-brac. I get home for 8 and am back out again at 9. Tony, Martyn and me down to the Hare. Joined by Chris and Pete M and go down to the Crown at Ilkley. Get pissed and ring Judith, who is serving at the Hare. She says she will come to the flat if she can find Kathryn. Oh do we get pissed!  Back to the flat: Naomi, Karen (Moorhouse), Chris, Pete, and eventually Judith and Kathryn - the hilarious Miss Kathryn Young.I end up getting engaged to Judith and we exchange rings and shirts, &c. Martyn was horribly seduced by his lady and I've never seen Tony get in such a state. We polished off a bottle of gin and a couple of bottles of wine.


Friday February 18, 1977

If you could see me now you'd say I didn't have all that long left to live. In fact, at this moment, I closely resemble the Rt. Hon. Charles Anthony Raven Crosland, Secretary of State for Foreign & Commonwealth Affairs. Pnuemonia may well have set in. However, at great personal loss and danger I struggled into the offices of the Yorkshire Post and did a fairs days work.

Home by 5pm. Have a sirloin steak with Lynn. We had a good chat too.  Oh she is so like her big brother. Mum and Dad were at Marlene's for tea and Sue was at the hairdressers until 7pm.

Oakwood Hall.
Martyn came here at 8.15 and Tony at 8.30. Down to the Hare & Hounds to see Judith. CB (who rang me this morning) comes down to the Hare and reminds me about her 21st birthday party on March 11. Andy and Linda, Chris and Pete M are in too. To the Shoulder of Mutton on Hollins Hill. It's a strange pub. We move on to Bingley after one pint. On to good old Oakwood Hall. When I say 'good old' Oakwood Hall I don't actually mean it. In fact it was 'bloody lousy' Oakwood Hall. Martyn was on good form, Tony was fed up. I was miserable - probably because I've over done it a bit lately, I don't know. Home at 2am. Discuss tomorrow. Definately no discotheque. I'm helping Tony move to Ilkley so we may well end up in the flat - an orgy of merriment and piss. (By piss, I mean booze of course. I'm not addicted to urine like Mr Hitler was).

Note: where's Miss Phillips been of late? Her Royal Highness must surely be 'Fogartising' even though rumour has it that they've finished. I have her new phone number but I don't want to use it. When I see her I really enjoy it, but I don't want to do so by appointment.