Showing posts with label bournemouth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bournemouth. Show all posts

20170613

Sunday April 22, 1979

_. Low Sunday.

The pizzas last night were diabolical. Just thought I'd say that. Had a usual breakfast at the usual time and at about 11 we headed off for Alison's at Martyr Worthy. I had been feeling guilty about dragging the lads away to Winchester but following yesterday's session I don't think I could keep them away, especially Garry who is very smitten.

With Alison at Winchester Cathedral
Alison was bashing the top of her boiled egg, looking so voluptuous in her dressing gown. Mrs Dixon, as usual, was staggering around her mansion with a vague expression on her face. In fact she looked pale and ill.

At 12 we ventured to the Plough in Itchen Abbas for drinks and sandwiches. Graham was working in the bar with Midge, the landlady, who is the image of comedian Ronnie Barker when in drag. Had a quite a heavy drinking session and went on afterwards to Winchester to look at the cathedral. A hot, sunny afternoon too.

Back to Alison's for apple wine and a session on the piano. Poor Bill slipped into a coma. At about 7 we went to the Ship Inn for grub and more poisonous liquid and then back to the Plough to conclude the day's activities. Bill was really on top form, and was incredible all evening and at times I almost wet myself laughing. A more sensitive and genteel mob would have been more than slightly embarrassed.

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20170610

Saturday April 21, 1979

._. Bournemouth. Her Majesty's fifty third birthday. Breakfast was served at 8:30. Sausage, bacon, eggs, and lashings of hot, flowing tomato, the tinned variety. Afterwards we congregated in the [dry] lounge to discuss tactics. Neil and his two stooges announced that they wanted to go watch an amateur football team by the name of Stockport County, who are playing at Portsmouth this afternoon. Obviously, I was horrified and dumfounded. I said: "leave me out" and immediately Dave and Garry followed. Billy, who enjoys a game of football said he would go along with the Portsmouth trippers, and that was that.

Garry, Dave and I wandered around the town and then went in the car to Boscombe Pier where we listened to Sooty and Sweep singing 'Teddy Bear's Picnic'. At 12 we met Alison near the Royal Bath Hotel. Her car was making a terrible noise and the exhaust was blowing out filth and choking fumes. Experts afterwards said it was probably the silencer, or lack of it. She leapt from her motor and we all took off in Garry's car to a pub on the outskirts of the town.  _________. It was as though Alison and I had never been apart. Garry announced that he could have grabbed hold of her and cuddled her tightly. It was great how the four of us got on so well. Garry, I am sure, fancies her. Things become very blurred. Pints of lager and Pernod make a lethal mixture. We took Alison back to our hotel and something must have been said because the bar door was unlocked and unbolted and Arthur, the toothless proprietor, was soon pulling pints like something possessed.

We drank until about 6:30 and then Alison drove us, in Garry's car, to the beach where, wearing only my underpants, I took a dip in the sea, and poor Dave vomited over the sand. Garry and Alison spent ages lobbing pebbles into the sea. Truly delightful.

Back at the Gainsborough we sobered up, went out for a pizza and then more drink. Alison went at 1:00am.

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20170517

Friday April 20, 1979

-. We left at 7:30am for Bournemouth, with maps, compasses, carrier pigeons, &c.

Bill was navigating and I snoozed in the back of Garry's car. My red suitcase was behind at the Hollywood because it wouldn't fit in the car, and Neil had orders to bring it along in his car when they followed on.

Down past the Midlands I was in new, unexplored territory and the delights of Wiltshire unfolded before my eyes. At lunchtime we stopped off at a village pub where all the regulars resembled characters from 'The Archers'. They all addressed each other as "Mr A" and "Mrs B", just using initials. Then, when Neil and the other lads had caught up with us, we left them and moved on into further unchartered stretches of the vast unknown. Near Devizes we had further refreshment and then motored onward to Bournemouth, arriving at 5pm.

My first action was to phone Ally in Winchester and she promised to join us tomorrow lunchtime for a few drinks. The hotel proprietor, whom we called Arthur for some reason, was typical of those of his profession. He tried to tell me that the hotel - the Gainsborough - had been built for Prince Rupert, the gay Cavalier, who was a nephew of King Charles I. Given that the hotel dated from the Edwardian period I sneered at this tale. Prince Rupert died in the 1680s! Silly, old, lying Arthur.

The bar on the premises was barred and shuttered in a very ominous fashion. The seven of us visited several hostelries in the town and returned to the Gainsborough at 11:30 ~ pissed up.

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Wednesday April 18, 1979

_. Packed up my troubles in my old kit bag, and smiled, smiled, smiled.  Well, not quite. In fact I loathe preparing to go away and despise traveling and all the inconvenience attached to it, and do not enjoy a holiday one bit until I'm sitting in the hotel bar with a full glass. Suit cases are hideous objects. In fact, I'm looking at one right now. Red it is.

Spoke to Dave G in Stockport and we joked about the recent violence in Bournemouth. I said I'm going to push a few old girls off the pier and into the sea ~ bath chairs and crutches too. But Bournemouth so conjures up a vision of red geraniums set out in regimented gardens, cluttered with elderly ladies with blue rinses, staggering around the sea front clutching onto one another. I see elderly, long retired colonels, with yellow moustaches, and wilting spats. In fact, I picture nothing young or youthful at all. The arrival of ten lads from the north of England will send a gust of cold air up the crinolines of many a dowager duchess, as they cough and wheeze themselves from the latest Des O'Connor show to the garden of remembrance. Goodnight. Lights out at 1:23am.

Spike Milligan was good tonight.

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20120514

Wednesday April 13, 1977

To be honest with you I fully intended sitting by my fireside tonight with a good book and a mug of cocoa, but circumstances changed. CB rang at 6.30 feeling miserable and saying she has something of interest to tell me. I ask he "what?" and she responds "Oh, I'll tell you tonight at half past eight in the Hare". Bang went my cosy, domestic family evening by a warm telly.

CB: Pontins bound
Mum gave me a lift down to the Hare at 8.15. Judith is propping up a gin and tonic. Oh God, both Judith and CB in one evening. Talk about God, religion, ghosts, our reason for living - all very seriously. Judith believes in nothing at all, and when CB comes in she's like Judith and says only the weak need to believe in anything. Crap, I say. CB says she's resigned from Mothercare and is considering moving to Bournemouth to work at Pontins (holiday camp). Arrghh. She looks pale and drinks too much and then disappears to Oakwood Hall with a mysterious character at 10.30 saying "thanks Mig, and thanks for trying to cheer me up". Bye Bye Darling. Do you know I worship that girl? I'm so glad she didn't go out with Chris last Wednesday. I hate to see her looking bored.

Judith:  joint novel?
Judith and I were joined by Tony at 10pm. He takes us back to Bedside Manor. I was a bit pissed having supped lager and even Pernod in the Hare. At Judith's we discuss writing a novel jointly and have a glass of nauseating Noilly (Prat). Whilst discussing our novel we try to tip the Noilly back into its bottle and then start on the real hard stuff - yer actual McCoy. Me whisky and Judith gin. Pissed up for sure by 2am. Slumped on a rug reading a book about the Goons and the Concordance to Shakespeare. Judith points out that whenever we get together we end up on the floor surrounded by empty bottles. She's so right. Stagger out into the rain at 3am and borrow Judith's Papa's umberella. Get home and banging around I waken Mum. She moans about "coming in at this hour when you're working" &c. Good old Mama. I think the world of her.






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Sunday March 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn British Summer Time begins 3rd Sunday in Lent Bacon sandwiches and the Sunday Telegraph. Fuss about the Queen's visit to ...