Wednesday May 13, 1981

Mad Turk shoots Pope.

 _. A mad Turk has attempted to assassinate the Pope in Rome. He failed miserably. Typical of the Turks, don't you think? I was traveling home at the time of the shooting quite oblivious of this anti-papal attack. Caught up with it on the news: crowds of wailing nuns running amok beneath the Basilica in St Peter's Square.

Back to this morning. I forced Ally out of bed at 6:50 because she had to do something with the mounds of bread in the kitchen. Her ears have gone into decline now. She can hear nothing, and as I sat with my humble breakfast looking across the table at her I could hear the wax squelching around in the labyrinths of her gorgeous ears. She left for Bradford at 7:50. Dave B came shortly afterwards with the Oliver, Kitchen and Flynn report [he's been looking at it to make a structural survey]. Jim Rawnsley is on business in London and so I went to Leeds with Dave. A hot day.

Frank D phoned Mum and told her to make an appointment with a Mr Houldsworth at Barclays Bank, Otley. She did as directed. Frank has had a word with him, and they are seeing him at 10:30 tomorrow. It's now in the lap of the Gods. I do not think Frank would have set this up if he didn't think they stood a chance.

Denise has sent me a bill for a further £15 for the Ios honeymoon. I phoned her at 3. She had been to lunch with C. Ratcliffe and Lynne Mather and they'd just been talking about me. My ears were burning.

Had a couple of talks with Ally. We are like Mrs Thatcher and Helmut Schmidt these days. Watched 'Private Schulz'. Bed 12.

-=-

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.

-=-

Friday December 22, 1978

Moon's last quarter 17:41

Not going to tell you much. Work was over by 1:30 and we went across to Parker's Wine Bar ~ which was ridiculous. So cramped and over crowded. Surely a danger and a fire risk? Tarts abounded. Champagne gushed everywhere at £8 a bottle. Most of the men in the place were dressed like Shirley Bassey ~ I think they were heading off to a fancy dress party.

At about 4 o'clock Carol J took Sarah and I to Ivory Towers {really Ivory Dene, West End Lane, Horsforth}, where we ate beans on toast and drank whisky.

November '63: Jack or Bobby?

Auntie Delia brought me home at 7 and came in to use our phone. She wanted to contact Bill (Collis) ~ the phones at Ivory Towers are out of order.

My throat is on fire. I think my cold is returning. By 8:30 I'm in bed and undergo a hideous night of delirium and sweat. At one point, in my dream, I was about to assassinate Senator Robert Kennedy, but couldn't understand why my calendar said it was November, 1963. I went out on the "grassy knoll" trying to tell people that it was his brother, John, who should be assassinated, not Bobby. Nobody believed me.

Yes, I'm stoned out of my miserable brain.





-=-

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.

-==-

Friday November 28, 1975

Don't want to write much. To the Cow & Calf with Peter M, CB and Carole. We all got on quite well considering how the girls hate one another.

Peter wants his head looking at for chasing after CB. She makes it obvious that she wants nothing to do with him, and Carole feels sorry for the poor lad. However, I shouldn't interfere with the 'goings on' of other peoples 'romances'.

Drink pernod and realise I must be mad because of what I'll be spending tomorrow.

Ross McWhirter, the Guinness Book of Records chap, was murdered by the IRA last night. Margaret Thatcher, a mate of his, is now shouting for the re-introduction of capital punishment. It is a sad state of affairs when a political leader is only moved to action when a personal acquaintance is done away with. What about all these innocent people dining out in London restaurants? Why should it take Ross McWhirter's death to get our MPs to leap into action?

Roy Jenkins still insists that death for terrorists is no deterrent and that the police force is the main force of attack. Fool that he is.

==--==

Wednesday March 20, 1974

As assassination attempt was made on the life of Princess Anne and Capt Phillips this evening. We are all horrified. The incident occurred in the Mall at about 8 o'clock, and four people are in hospital suffering from gunshot wounds. The princesses detective and chauffeur and two by-standers are the wounded. The lives of the royal couple have been remarkably saved. The weapon used destroyed all the windows in the Rolls and the poor princess is now at Buckingham Palace. I'll wager any amount of money that this foul deed is the work of the bloody IRA.

Later: Further developments show that the atrocity was in fact a kidnap attempt, and a letter stating this was received by Her Majesty, but I do suppose that the poor Queen receives thousands of these absurd notes every day.

My half-day. At 12.30 I went to the Commercial with Mum and Dad, where we have pie and peas and several pints of beer, which is quite overpowering at lunchtime. The weather is beautiful and Dad and I spend an hour in the garden. Harry Monkman is furious when Dad cuts the lawn. "Do you realise that you are the first person on the lane to cut your lawns this year?"

-==-