Saturday February 26, 1977

A great day. Tony and Martyn come at 12.30 and the three of us go to Bradford. The Gay Liberation movement are holding a mass rally and we seriously consider setting up a 'Kiss Me Quick' stall in Manningham Lane.

Kiss Me Quick Stall?

We go to WH Smith's and make verbal love to Michelle. Delightful bird. Tony buys a pair of shoes, and at 2pm we set off for Uncle George's** residence at Harewood. Up to our knees in mud and slime we head straight for the beer tent where the lager is unbearably cold. Three sausage rolls later we decide that the hill climb is incredibly boring and we head back to the car which is parked in a cow field. Wading through water-bogged trenches we spot the car trapped in by three or four other vehicles. It's like the Battle of Vimy Ridge. Coated in shit we dislodge the car and set off like Japanese mud wrestlers in search of a car wash.

Meanwhile: That night. Down to the Hare with Tony, John & Maria. CB is pissed and says Richard Marshall is rotting in a dungeon in Leeds following an incident at the (Leeds) United match this afternoon. Chris and Pete M come in. Go with Tony, John and Maria to the Craven Heifer at Addingham and Chris and Pete follow on. Tony is such a great lad.

** The Rt Hon. Earl of Harewood.

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Sunday June 6, 1976

Whit Sunday. Wake up at 10 o'clock and have a pint of orange juice in bed with the Sunday Express and the Sunday Mirror. The news content in these great newspapers is so exciting that I fall into a state of unconsciousness until 1 o'clock. Leap out of bed and ring Lynne. She is in good spirits and holds no grudges about refusing to let her bring me home at 3.30am. I refuse to have women travelling about at the crack of dawn at my beck and call. She says Peter's been ill all night and he comes on the line to tell me it must have been the food he ate. I agree because Peter never drinks vast amounts of alcohol.

Mum and Lynn are on the lawn and I go outside to investigate. It is very warm and pleasant and I join them in deckchairs and devour cheese and biscuits.

Lynne comes round at 2 o'clock and the two of us go to the Old Ball cricket ground to see the Evening Post All-Stars play cricket. Norman Hunter (ex Leeds Utd) is there and a few Yorkshire cricketers play, but after half an hour we tire of it. We don't like watching the cricket and are too afraid to lie down in the sun. A cricket ball in the back of the throat isn't something I rellish. Lynne suggests going to Bolton Abbey but we decide it will be too busy. She then suggests going down to the river at Arthington for the afternoon and who am I to disagree? We spend a couple of hours on a sandy beach-like bank on the Wharfe. A fantastic, tranquil afternoon, and I feel ashamed that I ever finished with Lynne in the first place. She looks so sophisticated with her hair in a bun and wearing large sun-glasses. In fact she's beautiful. I kept looking at her and smiling broadly as we were driving along _______________. It was such a relief to be able to share a joke with a girl of some intelligence. Carole was always so dull and half-witted. She brings me home at 5.30 and I see Ernest Blackwell watching us as we kiss in the car. I say I will ring her during the week when I have found some money and she smiles sweetly. God. I've only been on the open market since May 4, and already I'm getting involved. Am I mad?

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Wednesday May 28, 1975

A right Royal Day today. I arrived at work to find a photo of the bearded Prince of Wales on my desk, and I was startled to see how much he looked like a young King George V. Without further ado I delved into the picture archives and emerged with a photo of George V, suitably bearded of course. The resemblance is remarkable and I realised immediately that this would be a good idea for a story. 'People' the YP diary is an obvious place for such an article. However, my labours are in vain, and every time I attempt to pass on my ideas they are shouted down and ridiculed. By lunchtime I have given up hope. However, at 3 I was approached by Chris Dawson with a request for pictures of ALL the bearded monarchs of England. 'Hell', I thought, 'how many Kings of England have been bearded. Let's solve this by a process of elimination.' George VI and Edward VIII were clean shaven, and so was Queen Victoria. King Edward VII and King George V were proud beard owners, and none of the first four Georges had one. Queen Anne didn't have one, and William and Mary couldn't grow a beard between them. So, in one way or another the throne of Great Britain was beardless between 1649 and 1901. Henry VIII and poor Charles I were reasonably endowed with facial hair, but that's about all.

But alas, and alack, no sooner had I suppled Chris Dawson with images of bearded kings that I receive news of horrific consequence. Carol is shouting something like: 'He's shaved it off! He's shaved it off!' Indeed, the prince has succumbed to the razor. Carol was laughing hysterically. 'He's got a moustache now'.

The thought of searching for moustachioed monarchs didn't please me all that much. Poor Dawson returned to his desk, head bowed at the thought of losing a good story.

On my arriving home I look in at the 6 o'clock news and see the Prince of Wales endowed with a moustache dressed in robes of Grand Master of the Order of the Bath, and looking remarkably like the Prince Consort. However, I have made up my mind never to notice resemblances amongst members of the Royal Family again.

Home at 5.30 for tea and prepare to see Leeds United in the European Cup. Dave Baker joins us and we indulge in a few glasses of lager, ale, &c.

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