Wednesday June 28, 1978

On the subject of our royal monarchs of the past I'm sure you'll be intrigued to learn that had he been alive today, King Henry VIII would have been celebrating his 487th birthday. It's probably just as well he died when he did because the distribution of the royal Maundy money would have proved chaotic.

Ode to King Henry VIII

A fat man you were,
by all accounts,
Or so I was told at school,
Six Queen's in all you managed to use,
but which one was Lady Jane Grey?

To be serious, I'd just like to say that these odes are becoming far too frequent and in future I promise to limit them to exceptionally rare and wonderful occasions. Blimey, I don't want you thinking I'm compiling poems just to fill up the blank spaces in my diary. That would never do.

Ode to you

Thanks for ready me,
Thanks a lot,
Thanks for reading me,
I'm glad I'm not.

-=-

Monday June 27, 1977

Stayed in bed until 10.30 which was bliss indeed. It's the sort of thing Rachmaninov would have composed a concerto about. Rhaphsody on a Snoozing theme, &c. (Oh no, I've spelt rhapsody incorrectly).

Pine Tops wine-making ...

After bacon, eggs and mushrooms Peter took Sue and me to Morrison's for more wine-making provisions for Mama. We are going to resemble a brewery before very long - I hope.

All this wine-making takes our mind off the weather at least. Never have I seen such a damp, dismal June. 1976 may well have been the driest period since Henry VIII was a lad but this must surely be the wettest since Noah was up to his tricks.

Lunch with Sue, Pete, Mama and Papa. Watched a film this afternoon on the topical subject of the British working man and strikes (bearing the Grunwick Dispute in mind). Peter Sellers played a shop steward and in one scene, where he is departing from home one morning for picket duty, his wife (Irene Handl) says: "It appears to me, Fred Kite, that you only do any bloody work when you're on strike." Quite an apt statement from little Irene, I fear. Half the bloody pickets in the Grunwick dispute have worked more hours recently than they ever did before. You mark my words.

Evening: Assisted Mama in her wine-making activities which I found enthralling. We made mead as well as a gallon of orange wine. The dining room resembles a distillery, or brewery, or whatever they call a wine-making complex.

I almost phoned Carole today but then thought I'd let her stew, brew, or ferment in her own juice for a few days before doing so. However, I do not feel all that mad about Saturday night - but it was most devilish of her I suppose.

-=-

Monday January 3, 1977

Oh Hell. I'm going raving bonkers. I'm sat here crouched on the lounge floor wondering just what to write. I'm worrying about the 1977 holiday. Martyn, Glenn and Dave G are all set in the idea that Ibiza is the place, but Pete and Chris are just dithering about. I'm also pondering on the subject of Miss Lynne Mather. ________. This is the end of our relationship. I can feel it in my bones. Now I know why King Henry VIII had six wives. With some men boredom sets in quite rapidly. King Harry and I would have seen eye to eye on most things I imagine. Would that I had an execution block and a skilled swordsman______.

-==-

Thursday October 14, 1976

Pouring rain all day again. It's been like this now for three bloody weeks. All I can say is that I hope Denis Howell, MP, picks up this new VD germ from his mistress. Minister for Drought indeed!

Meet Judith R outside the YP at one o'clock. Make a mad, frantic dash under umberellas to the Central [Station] where we sit until 2 o'clock with her doing most of the talking. I like listening to Judith. She tells me just how tactful she was on Tuesday not mentioning today's meeting in the presence of Lynne. I agree. She then tells me I'm going to be her next blackmail victim. I disagree.

Home at 5.15 in pouring rain. Rain, rain and rain. Oh, when will it all end?

Newsworthy things: Dame Edith Evans, the actress of 'Lady Bracknell' fame, is dead. Nothing else at all, so far. [It is only 6.43pm so anything could happen between now and midnight - MLR]. Oh yes, Winnie the Pooh is 50 years old today. Good old Pooh Bear. Royal items: King James II is 343 years old today and Jane Seymour, third wife of Henry VIII, bit the dust on this day in 1537. Miscellaneous anniversaries: Nora Rhodes passed her driving test on this day in 1974.

Meanwhile: 12.23am. To say it's pouring down would be something of an under-estimation. Pissing is the more proper adjective. Goodnight.

-==-

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.

-==-