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Sunday March 6, 1977

2nd in Lent. Lynne's birthday. Oh God I've just called my sister by a strange name. It's her bloody birthday too. I am sorry. She's just been in my bedroom looking quite ravishing showing me the presents she's bought David for his 21st.  I bought her a bottle of French perfume which she seems to like. Her boss comes round at 10.30 with a bouquet making overtures of affection to her in the kitchen. ________.

Lynn: 19th birthday.
The Prince of Wales has gone off to Kenya shooting the wildlife. Good for him. This gives a good two fingers to these thoroughly boring conservationists, environmentalists, &c.

John, Maria and JPH come up at 2. Baby is making a bit more noise and says "Da Da" and then "Da Da Da" when provoked. Eat turkey, pate, ham - and sup glass after glass of Cinzano. The mean contingent keep reminding me that I have to go to work in a couple of hours and I sit sombrely contemplating the clock. Chris Baker and his girlfriend Julie Harris drop in for half an hour or so.

The YP tonight was absolutely dead. Just Ursula and I. No news. No catastrophe has struck East Ardsley or anything like that. Reading the paper I see that the Prince of Wales is not shooting crocodiles. He is in fact taking photographs of them with Claire Watson, and maybe Miss Sheffield.

Hon Claire Watson: shooting crocodiles.
Home by taxi at 12.30 with a little driver who is a leading authority on snake bites.


Saturday March 5, 1977

By the time I had climbed out of bed, bathed and shaved it was one o'clock. Quarrel with Lynn about money. She says I am a damn fool and I end up agreeing with her. I have only £2.30 to last me until Thursday and £1.30 of that will disappear on Monday when I visit the dentist. This leaves me with 80p to enjoy myself at Christine & Graham's engagement party. I also need about 90p in bus fares! Shit. Ah well, if I start worrying about financial matters life won't be worth living & so I won't mention this again.

After lunch the sun was still shining brightly and I decided to take a stroll. With hands thrust deeply in my pockets I marched down the lane at a speed not unlike James Hunt in a Grand Prix. Pass the Hare and by 4pm I'm in Burley-in-Wharfedale. By 5 I was crawling through the doors of WH Smith in Ilkley to a warm greeting from the sultry, bespectacled shop assistant whom I fear fancies me. She is a 6th former. Mr Brotherwood entertains me to tea of sausage and mash. he finds it hard to believe I've walked the whole of the eight or nine miles from Guiseley. I passed out in a chair whilst attempting to focus on a Robert Mitchum epic.

with Christine: ruby studded turnip?
Martyn comes and we end up back at the Hare. CB is in and once again she is broken hearted and screaming for vengeance or revenge or whatever they call it when ones pride has received a sharp blow in the genitals. To the Rose and Crown. Boring. CB is incredibly attractive.

 Tony gives me his flat key and then disappears to Il Travatore with Martyn. CB and I go back to the flat and sit drinking Southern Comfort and Scotch and listening to a Billy Paul LP. She says it's disgusting how she comes running back to me every time one of her relationships is floundering. What are pals for? We laugh and chat. She says she wants nothing but a turnip for her birthday which I'll do my utmost to obtain. I suppose if I were the Shah of Persia I'd give her a solid gold one (turnip) studded with rubies, &c. But I'm not the Shah of Persia.  The lads are ringing the doorbell at 10.30 and our  tete-a-tete comes to an end. Martyn goes home and the three of us squabble. I fail in everything I say because they're both Pisces and I'm a just a cynical Aries who argues for the sake of arguing. 
Mr Billy Paul


Friday March 4, 1977


Re yesterday. Isn't it funny that when I said I was pissed and unable to put pen to paper I went on to write a ruddy essay? Oh, and re Sir Frank Marshall: he was once a big noise on (Leeds City) Council - that's about it really. Oh yes, and I saw June on the bus last night and had a terrific chat with her - great kid. It seems I'm spending more time talking about yesterday than discussing the events of today. On with the show anyway:

Christine Dibb.
To the Hare & Hounds with Tony and Martyn which is dull. CB is in minus Richard Marshall and seems her old, cheerful self. We go on to the King's Bar where Miss Dibb is behaving unusually friendly. She must be having her last fling before Wednesday. Chris and Pete M meet up with us but they go at 11. The three of us - quite sober - went back to the flat where I climbed into a pair of Tony's voluminous trousers and headed off in the direction of Il Travatore. They picked up a couple wenches - Bradfordians I think, and I met up with Andy Dale.

Andy and I have a couple of dances with Naomi's large friend who lives in the gents toilets at the rear of the Hare. He also got his hands on Miss Moorhouse. Had quite a scream. Home with Andy at 2am hotly pursued by Naomi and Karen in N's new automobile. Our two cars rendezvous at the junction half way down the lane and both parties took the piss out of one another. Oh God I'm financially ruined.


Thursday March 3, 1977

I'm just too pissed to write large amounts tonight. In rough: went to John & Maria's from the YP and was entertained to dinner with sausage and chips in the company of Miss Phillips. She aggravated me immensely. Even after all these months we argue about nothing at all - completely incompatible. Whilst I'm dangling JPH on my alcoholic knee I hear Maria & Carole whispering in the kitchen but can't quite make out just what they are saying. Later, when John and I are entombed in the Yorkshire Rose he tells me that Carole and (Peter) Fogarty are considering becoming engaged. It had to happen really. She wants to be married. I saw it years ago and I supposed it scared the pants off me.

with Carole.
John and I marched down to the Hare (about one and a half miles I'd say) and met Tony and Martyn. Got a bit pissed on Tetley Silver Jubilee Pale Ale (half a pint of this is equivalent to 3 whiskies). John poured some of his ale into my glass. I was well away.

Back at J and M's residence I persuaded Maria to play Beethoven's 'Fur Elise' while the audience sat supping coffee.

Beethoven's Fur Elise

The recital was very much appreciated. Home at 12 just as Mum and Dad return from Auntie Mabel's. I must go over on March 11 with a birthday present. Her first birthday without Uncle Jack will be obnoxious.