Thursday November 6, 1975

A bright cold morning. Up at 7.40 and don't have time for breakfast.

I think it is something of a coincidence that Inverary Castle, Scottish home of the Duke of Argyll, is raised to the ground by a mysterious fire on Bonfire Night, the very day before Margaret Duchess of Argyll publishes her memoirs. Old Margaret has little or no affection for her step-son, the duke, and it's a known fact that she would do anything for publicity. I will discuss this affair when more details come in.

Would you believe me if I were to tell you that Franco is being kept alive on a kidney machine? Well, he is. Juan Carlos is the one I feel sorry for. If he isn't a patient man I can't see him being happy at the present time.

Thank God it's pay day. I will have to watch how I spend it this week because I think that Carole's birthday present had better come out of it. Just what I am going to get her is a revolting problem. My imagination just fizzles out when it comes to birthdays, christmases ande christenings. She says all she would like is a solitary red rose, but I must think of something more substantial.

The traffic in Leeds at 4.30 today was like Los Angeles in the rush hour. The bus completely ignored me, and I walked all the way across town to the bus station. It was nearly 6pm when I staggered in for tea.

Mum and Dad are in stitches about Mr Monkman, who came round today to try and solve the 'BUDGIES FOR SALE' sign mystery. Evidently a car did stop on Sunday morning and a chap did enquire about blue breeders! His main reason for coming round, however, was to ask Papa to witness his will. No doubt the whole of the Monkman estate will pass to his beloved son, Tony.

Carole rings me at 8 and we talk for ten minutes or so. Seeing her tomorrow evening. Mum and Dad go to Pudsey to see the Gadsbys. John and I watch a clapped out film starring Michael Redgrave. It's quite good really - just old.

I go for my bath at 11.30.

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Saturday May 31, 1975

John and I go into Otley in afternoon for a lark around, but with the main intention of finding a decent tool shop for my younger brother and eventual heir. I say heir because the title will of course go to him and his children after I'm gone, because unless CB marries me, I will not produce any offspring. Christine Braithwaite is the only person whom I'd consider making my duchess.

Home at 5.30 to find Mum and Dad looking sun-tanned after a week in Scotland laden with relics and souvenirs of Balmoral and Inveraray. They tell us the tale and explain how they managed to motor 1300 miles in seven days. Glad to see them home safely.

To the Fleece with Dave, Lynn and John. I tore a hole in my trousers climbing into Mr Baker's sports car, but otherwise received no other injuries, well other than verbal ones that is. At the off-licence in Guiseley we were asked our age! Twenty years old, and people still think I'm 15.

All the mob gather in the Fleece and we move on to Laura's at 9.30. A drunken evening follows. Laura's parents are nice folk. Much nicer than I ever imagined. Her eighty-six year-old granny was a right case too. Chris, Pete M, John, Raymond and his mate, and me walked back down Town Street at 2am and we left chaos and devastation in our path. John fell off the causeway and sprained his ankle, and was then bitten by Dandy, the Ratcliffe hound, on our arrival at 21, Victoria Drive. Poor Pete had never been drunk before. And WAS he drunk!

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