Tuesday August 28, 1979

_. To Charles and Linda's farewell party at the Victoria pub [Leeds] and then on to Belinda's.

Earlier at the YP it was Mountbatten news all day. Lord Brabourne's mother, the Dowager Lady Brabourne died today from her wounds received in the explosion. She was 82. Meanwhile, Patricia Brabourne, Lord Brabourne and their son Timothy [twin of the dead Nicholas] are critical.

The earl is to have a state funeral at Westminster Abbey next week. Surely, this is the hardest blow to the Royal Family since the sudden death of King George VI in 1952. The Duke of Edinburgh was brought up by Dickie Mountbatten and cast in his mould.

Nothing will come of this assassination. Humphrey St John Atkins will lay his head on the chopping block and visit Belfast, but no legislation will be introduced. A couple of MIG fighters and a battalion of Household Cavalry would have the IRA fucked within the hour, if the PM would give the word.

-=-

Monday August 27, 1979

_. Bank Holiday in England, Northern Ireland & Wales

Had a late breakfast and at 12 we left for London. Within an hour we were on the steps of St Margaret's Church, Westminster, having a photo taken. We peeped through the railings at the Palace of Westminster down into the car park where Airey Neave was murdered in March. Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park was amusing but the speakers today were not very articulate and were abusive and offensive. The police outnumbered the listeners by about 10 to one. Ally picked up a blister and with her feet hanging off we took the tube to Marble Arch to collect the car.

We headed for home but wanted food, and not wanting to eat in one of the motorway concentration camps we left the motorway near Birmingham in search of a Berni Inn. However, we were shocked and horrified by two words in large print on a Birmingham Evening News newspaper stand: 'MOUNTBATTEN KILLED'. We were stunned. Especially after our weekend visit to his home. How can this have happened and in what circumstances has he died? We gulped down rump steaks and head back to the car, but the radio was knackered, crackling, and we could not hear the news.

Up the M5 to the M62 and onto Guiseley. Home for 12. Mum gave us the dreadful details. Lord Mountbatten died instantly when his cruiser was blown up in County Sligo this afternoon. His grandson, Nicholas Knatchbull died too, and other members of his family are seriously injured, including his daughter, Patricia, and her husband, Lord Brabourne, the film producer. The IRA have claimed responsibility for this ghastly act of terrorism. The Royal Family will be in a state of turmoil. The Queen is described as being 'deeply shocked' at the news. He was of course her dear 'Uncle Dickie'. Philip and the Prince of Wales worship him as a father figure. The nation is in mourning.

-=-

Wednesday December 20, 1978

Feel better, but still snuffling. I phoned Jacq at 12 and told her I couldn't meet her today. She wished me a happy Christmas, and I did likewise to her. I received a Christmas card from her this morning ~ "To Michael, Love, Jacq".

At lunchtime Mum said it was quite unfair that she couldn't have a "works Christmas party" because as a mere humble housewife she misses out on the lavish affairs provided for office workers. Enough said. We grabbed a couple of bottles of wine, and summoned Susan from upstairs, and sat around the dining table to have a celebratory glass.

Sarah phoned at 1pm. They now want to go to Bibi's instead of Da Mario's (on the Headrow, Leeds) and that they want to call in at the Regent at Chapel Allerton. You know what this means? They are going to bugger off with boyfriends leaving me in the lurch. Ah well, who cares?

Sarah doesn't want to linger in town (Leeds). She is frightened that the IRA is going to put an incendiary device under her chair, or pizza, &c. OK, the terrorists have threatened to target northern cities but I don't see the point in worrying unduly about it. Fretting isn't going to halt the IRA.

-=-

Tuesday June 28, 1977

Decent weather for a change. Going down the lane on my journey to the metropolis I was stunned by the sight of vast quantities of nettles in the hedgerows. I decided to set about making nettle wine. "Oh Goody!" I thought to myself: "I can hardly wait to get started!" Subsequently, after tea on this bright, sunny evening I marched out armed with protective rubber gloves and a red plastic bucket on my quest for the most succulent nettles. After half an hour I was more than laden and my wine-making began. In fact I was boiling nettles until long after sun-set and by midnight my part of the creation was complete and the rest was in the capable hands of Mother Nature.

Ruth Ellis.

I did manage to see a bit of television. A documentary on Rubens, the 16th century painter and decorator, and a documentary on Ruth Ellis, the last young lady to die by the rope in these weak-kneed Isles. If I had my way a good many more women would receive the distinction of swinging by the neck from the gallows. Those pretty IRA lady bombers would go for a start. No doubt about it, they knew how to treat criminals in the 1950s.

Retired to bed at about midnight with Burke's Peerage. Did you know that the Duchess of Kent is descended from Oliver Cromwell? (If not then you haven't studied these diaries carefully enough because I've told you before). Felt exhausted and fell to sleep with the bedroom light blazing, only to be discovered by Mama at 3.30am. What was she doing prowling around the house at that God forsaken time?

-=-

Wednesday July 21, 1976

Susan's birthday. Climb out of the pit at 7.30 and nip into Sue's room to congratulate her on reaching the grand old age of seventeen. In half an hour I must have said 'Happy Birthday' 48,000,000 times. Like me, she isn't ecstatic about this annual event and seems sickened off when I left at 8am, because Lynn, Mum & Dad added a further 3,000,000,000 'Happy Birthdays' to my sizeable number. Sue has a nice, dry sense of humour which isn't appreciated by many - only a few great humourists - of which I am one of the greatest - revel in her quiet quips and double meaning sentences.

At lunchtime Brian rings to say he's riddled with (gastro)entiritis and dare not risk coming in (to the office) tonight. I martyr myself and offer to work until 10pm. Eleven and a half hours at work! Actually, it wasn't all that bad but by the time I got home at 10.45pm I was on the verge of starvation. Have lamb and peas and Mum, Dad, Sue and Pete, Lynn and Dave come in from the pub as I'm eating. They bring me a lager and we all sit watching the revolting Olympic Games. I added a further 27,0000,000 birthday greetings to the list, and Susan eventually escsaped to the sanctity of her bedroom - unable to tolerate any more.

The British Ambassador to Dublin was assassinated by the IRA this morning. I expect the Conservative party to suggest that Sir Harold Wilson takes up the appointment - just the sort of job for a retired Labour prime minister - amongst the rolling hills and landmines of Eire.

-==-

Monday December 8, 1975

Boring day at the office. Yet another IRA siege is going on in London, and it is dominating the newspapers. OK, it's not very nice for the hostages, but I'm damned sure the public don't want to sit around watching Frank Bough on 'Nationwide' with a plastic scale model of the house! Blimey, what's the world coming to? I'll just comment on the advice a leading psychologist has offered to the hostages on tv. He has advised them to act and behave quite normally, as though nothing is wrong. 'Do the cooking. Watch Crossroads. Take a bath. Feed the parrot, and telephone Mum in Wiltshire for a nice chat.' How the Hell can anyone act normally when sharing a tiny drawing room with four Irish murderers? They have no bog, no food and bloody Frank Bough to contend with on the telly telling everyone and everybody how dangerous the murderers are!

At 7.30 or so Carole rings from Maria's and I immediately go round. Little did I know that Carole was following me round Tranmere and before reaching Maria's she tripped on the causeway and injured her leg. When leaving Maria's about an hour later she walked smack-bang into a telegraph pole rendering herself insensible. What a girl she is!

However, on arriving at Maria's we sat in the lounge playing two new records she's bought me. She was still wearing her gloves, scarfe and coat half an hour later! To avoid any contamination from Prinny we came back to Pine Tops to watch tv. Saw Mick Jagger in 'Ned Kelly'. It isn't all that bad really but Jagger's Irish accent is hopeless.

At the bus stop at 11 we made so much noise, or perhaps I should say Carole made so much noise, that it prompted a woman to yell at us from a bedroom window: "You bigger ones really should know better." The silly cow wants her head seeing to. We were not making a massive racket, and her shouting down at us from a window made far more noise.

--==--

Thursday November 27, 1975

A wet, nasty day all round. Sarah and Carol J are in London on a day trip, and they are worried about being blown to pieces by the IRA. Before they left I advised the following: keep out of restaurants, cinemas, big famous stores like Harrods and Fortnum & Mason's, museums, art galleries, the Tower of London, Madame Tusaud's and the Planetarium; and that probably the safest thing they can do is go sit in the middle of St James's Park having heavily lagged their under garments with at least eight sand bags, and just hope for the best.

Wednesday November 26, 1975

A wet day again. To Leeds with Jim Rawnsley. He says that in ten years time we'll be in the same situation with Scotland as we are with Ireland now. I shudder with horror. The Irish Republic Army attacking from the right, the Scottish Republicans from top, and the Welsh Nationalists from below the knees. What will become of us all?

The Scots will keep all the North Sea Oil for themselves, and England's economic future will be non-existent. The Financial Times will have to close down due to lack of business, &c.

Carol J and I go down to photographic to look at the negs of yesterdays Royal Visit. We see at least three negs with us with the duchess, and order them. I'll have them enlarged and glued on my bedroom wall.


-==-

Monday November 17, 1975

Chilly blasts and ice-cold draughts howl around my knees at 8am as I set foot out of the house for another day at the office. A hectic day too. Sarah is at her grandmother's funeral, and of course Kathleen never works Mondays. Carol is on the verge of mental collapse and Eileen reverts to her bad-mannered ways as she always seems to do at times of stress.

Someone was arguing about a quiz programme on tv yesterday. Evidently, the 50 dollar question was 'give me nine womens names beginning with the letter M'. The poor contestant could only think of six, and thus lost a chance to spend a week in St Tropez, all expenses paid. It's such an easy question too:
Mary, Marian, Mary, Mildred, Mary, Margaret, Mary, Millicent, Mary, Melissa, Mary, Maude, Mary, Mirabel, Mary, Mabel, Mary, Magdalene, Mary, Muriel, Mary, Megan, Mary, Marjorie, Mary, Michelle, Mary, Myrtle, Mary, Marianne, Mary, Marie, Mary,. Maria, Mary, Margot, Mary, Mandy. Well ok, Mandy is short for Amanda, but I bet someone somewhere is actually called Mandy.

Carole rings me and informs me that Mrs P has bought a bottle of pernod for us to get through on Thursday. Lynn and Dave and John and Maria are invited round, so we'll have a good time of it before dining out.

All I can say is I am glad we are nowhere near Londinium because you wouldn't find me in a restaurant down there. The IRA isn't going to have the pleasure of putting a stop to my happy, little existence. I intend to battle on to be over 100 whether these terrorists like it or not. Goddnight.

Thursday October 23, 1975

Beautiful autumn day. I wandered through town this afternoon in my shirt sleeves and didn't feel a bit uncomfortable.

Basil, our esteemed postman, is becoming ratty and upset by Christine B's references to him on the rear of the letters she writes to me. I should never have revealed the forename of Mr Postman, and I suppose CB will have to be told about his latest complaint. I don't want the Post Office taking action. On the subject of the Post Office, I should say something about them and their relationship with Yorkshire Post Newspapers Ltd. Denis Lehane was a YP leader writer until last week, when he foolishly published a piece on the PO saying they had destroyed thousands of Christmas cards and other Christmas mail two or three years ago because they couldn't cope with the amount of yuletide post. They have done nothing of the kind. Italy may well have done something similar, but what they do with glittery Santa Clauses in Rome is hardly the fault of Sir William Rylands. (Sir Gordon) Linacre sacked Lehane on the spot, and so poor Tom Greenwell is now completely alone.

A bomb exploded this morning under a car belonging to Hugh Fraser, the Tory MP. It exploded nea the Fraser home, where Caroline Kennedy, Jackie Onassis's daughter, is living temporarily. I cannot help thinking that Lady Antonia has something to do with it._________. But to be serious, the bomb killed a neighbour of Fraser's who was a leading cancer research professor. The day that capital punishment is reinstated will be a day of national benefit indeed.

I've just heard on the late news that Prince Juan Carlos is ready to take over from Franco, who is on his death bed. We may have a king of Spain tomorrow.

Carole rang at 5.30 and then at 8.30. She is worried about me not liking her latest letter. Fooilsh maiden. __________.


-==-

Monday January 13, 1975

At the YP all day. Sarah is strangely subdued and almost sharp with us. Probably because Kathleen is off, and the heavy mantle of responsibility weighs too heavily on her slender shoulders. Sarcastic sod, aren't I?

Whilst waiting for the bus this evening I did comprehend an amusing sight. Christopher Monckton, the heir to that glorious viscountcy, marching down the central reservation of the dual carriageway on Wellington Street, rotating his umbrella at a fantastic speed, as though something sinister and unnatural possessed his very soul. I smiled all the way home.

Heard on the news briefly this morning that the IRA planned to kidnap the Prince of Wales several months ago but then changed plans without any explanation. It's an impossibility. The security surrounding the prince is so tight that even his own grandmother would be unable to nab him.

A man rang me today and asked me if the ventriloquist Arthur Worsley is the father of the Duchess of Kent. Can you imagine it? Arthur Worsley and his dummy - parents of the Duchess of Kent? I pretended to be unsure on this one, and went away sniggering to look in Burke's Peerage. He, the befuddled member of the public, seemed quite surprised when I informed him that HRH's father was Sir William Worsley, 4th Baronet. What a laugh.

What can have happened to Marita? Hang on folks whilst I go ring her. All will be revealed herein. Now then, where shall I begin? MM moved into his own residence before the weekend, and so the letter I posted today will have gone to the wrong house. Marita is going down by train next Friday evening and wants to know if Christine and I are going down with her. Super idea it seems to me.

Mum and Dad go to Esholt and the girls go to bed. Strange having no visitors for a change. Dave and Peter are almost permanent fixtures these days.

See TV all evening. Retire at 11.50 after writing to MM again, for the second time today. My first letter went to Horndean Rd which he vacated last week. My chat with Marita was the first one since the New Year.

-==-

Tuesday November 26, 1974

Still bloody windy everywhere. Arrive a few minutes late at the YP but no one dare say anything. After all, look at all the times I've arrived half an hour early? See in the morning papers that the Duke of Edinburgh visited the victims of the Birmingham pub bombs yesterday afternoon.

A lot of angry relatives were outside the court in Birmingham when the pigs who killed all those people were remanded for the murder of one of the girls. Justice must be done, and in a big way, because these people will not be fobbed off seeing sentences of just a handful of years passed. Why should they?

See 'Jennie Churchill' again. Tuesdays certainly seem to come round quickly. I think I'll do some research into the Churchills tomorrow. Lady Randolph fascinates me.

-==-

Monday November 25, 1974

Tiring day. Awful weather & a cloud of utter misery hangs over everything. Kathleen celebrates her birthday, which was yesterday, with doughnuts and cream buns with nuts on top, &c. Nothing else of interest at work and arrive home at 6.30 in a raging mood about being held up in the Leeds traffic. All the buses were full, and chaos reigned everywhere.

Laze around in front of the TV all evening. See 'The Family Way' Starring Hayley Mills and John Mills, and it proves to be a 'fabulous' film. Fabulous appears in inverted commas because it's such a Judith-Rushworth-type word that no one could possibly say in a serious vein. 'Fab' went out with flower power, cow bells and the Beatles. But seriously, the film was a gem.

Mum and Dad go to the pub and don't come back until 11.30. Nothing fantastic in the news. Mr Jenkins has banned the Irish Republican Army & all other organisations of the same type, but didn't do anything really powerful to deal with the terrorists. Banning the IRA won't matter one bit - are the IRA going to mind being illegal? I think not. Nothing has changed. Also U Thant, the United Nations' boss from 1961 to 1971 has died in New York. I can't say I ever knew who he actually was, but the name sticks out as being a leading one in the 1960s. Bedat nearly 12.

-==-

Friday November 22, 1974

At lunchtime I go into town and purchase a Metro Card for £5. This gives me access to the buses until December 21, and I should save a pound or two in the process.

See from further reports that 19 people died in Birmingham yesterday. Several anti-Irish attacks have been launched throughout the country, but nothing too serious. Our beloved Home Secretary, Roy Jenkins, promises new legislation to deal with these terrorists and many MPs want to see the re-introduction of the death penalty. I don't think for one moment that the feeble Labour government will do anything to appease society in any way, and poor Lord Hailsham can talk himself blue in the face about all this being 'treason', but Uncle 'Woy' won't be led from his weak, spineless, narrow little path.

Go to the Hare & Hounds and then the Commercial. Everyone agrees that Christine White is a changed person since she started this liaison with that bloke from York, and I for one quite fancy her these days. All back here to see Peter Cushing in a Frankenstein movie. Laura sat in her coat all night, which amused Mum, and Carol tried to make life difficult for Lynn & Dave.

-==-

Thursday November 21, 1974

Go into work at about 10 o'clock. I absolutely refuse to go in at 9 when I've worked until midnight. Kathleen's half day. Home at the usual hour and see the TV all evening. Monty Python was especially hilarious, but I am sobered by the 10 o'clock news bulletin which reveals dastardly news from Birmingham. The IRA have killed nearly 20 people and have wounded 200 by blowing up two pubs in the centre of Birmingham. The bloody swines who have done such a thing do not deserve to live. I realise that the death penalty is a rather pagan institution for the 1970s but what else will pacify the many people who will not rest until they have seen justice done?

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