Tuesday August 15, 1978

A humid, thundery day. The morning papers have photographs of Princess Anne and Peter Phillips spread thickly about, on this HRH's 28th birthday. It is a disgrace that Her Majesty's grandson is of no higher rank than a British Railways ticket collector or lowly road sweeper. Even the cleaning lady with 50 years' service at Montague Burton's and awarded the B.E.M is of greater rank. Poor little chap. However, it is a sign of the times I do suppose.

Sarah was in a strange mood today. I saw her laughing and squealing in the company of John Mac. God knows what became of this so-called estrangement.

Met Jacq at lunchtime and we had a couple of drinks at the Ostlers. She gave me some Royal Albert china for mother. I told her I'm working on Friday night. At least we'll have a cheap weekend. On Saturday we plan to see Lord Olivier in 'The Betsy' a film from the Harold Robbins book of the same name. I read the book about six years ago. Sir Laurence plays his first movie sex scenes with 'Roxanne' the French maid. Whatever next?

Tonight I went with Jim Nason to Lawn Road and bashed around on the staircase for a couple of hours. Lynn, Dave, Mum and Dad went to the Cow & Calf Hotel to sort out the wedding reception and Jim and I met them at the Red Lion for a couple of drinks at 10:15. Lynn was slightly pissed and went straight up to bed on her arrival home.

Wedding fever is choking us all. I'm sure Lynn's sickness this evening was just as just excitement as alcohol. A man in a Jag followed her at walking pace down the lane this morning with eyes and everything else bulging, heavy breathing, &c. The pervert obviously needs his extremities hacking off.

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Friday April 21, 1978

Birthday of Queen Elizabeth II

Lynn got me out of bed at 6:30 and I devoured a few slices of toast and read the Daily Mail. The Queen is 52 today. She's in the paper this morning holding her grandson, Peter, in a Snowdon portrait.

Got the 7:52 train to Leeds and met Jacq at the bus station on Wellington Street. She's wearing a hat and reading Erich Segal's follow up to 'Love Story'. It looks like sentimental slush to me.



Left for London at 8:30 and got to Victoria at 1pm. We had a few drinks at the Albert, a pub done out in Victorian style, and then afterwards walked down the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge. For a while we queued at the entrance at the Commons for a look at the yelling and bawling mob, but after half an hour it began to drizzle and we made our escape.



To Trixie's at Muswell Hill for 5:30 where we had a massive meal of pork roll and avocado pear, &c. Trixie was in good shape and so pleased to see Jacq. Peter S is thinner. He went out with his friend Nick, and the three of us went to the BBC Social Club at the Alexandra Palace. Quite a drunken affair it was too, especially after Trixie won a bottle of Teacher's whisky in a raffle. I was drinking lager with Scotch chasers. Ugh. Yes, I did it again.____________.

Trixie drove us back to the flat pissed, driving at approx 2 MPH with windscreen wipers going like hell, but at least she stuck to the correct side of the road. On arrival home poor Trixie vomited in her palatial loo.

Bundled into Peter's bed.

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Thursday December 8, 1977

The snow disappears. Feel much better. I have tired of GBS's plays and I am 'glued' to a romantic novel about John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford. Not my usual style of reading but it's excellent.

Master Phillips is to be christened Peter Mark Andrew by Dr Coggan at Buckingham Palace on Dec 22. The Queen's grandson called Pete! I suppose they've named him after Mark's Dad, Maj Phillips. Andrew is for the baby's uncle of course. Mark is self explanatory.

Carole phoned. They are letting her out tomorrow. David G phoned. Why don't I go over on Saturday, he asks? Why not indeed. _________. For a couple of quid who can argue with the lad? Blimey, Stockport one week, Muswell Hill the next. I'm the nearest thing to a peasant jet-setter. Dave says Glenn is back from his Miami sojourn.

I'm going to Leeds tomorrow to collect my pittance and purchase five or six 'Chrisy' presents.

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Sunday November 13, 1977

Remembrance Sunday - 23rd after Trinity. A bright, sunny day. Jacqui and I walked to the Commercial at 12. The pub isn't full in the usual Sunday fashion but we enjoyed it. We discuss the fancy dress party at Lord's Cricket Ground on December 16. What can I go along as? A policeman? A tart? A French maid? No, we decided upon the late Groucho Marx who should be quite easy to imitate. I need to lay hands on a morning coat with tails and a pair of baggy trousers. Jacqui is going as Shirley Temple. Oh My God!

Poldark ...

We do get on well. ________. After a good lunch we went to Leeds where she got her bus (or coach if you're posh) to London at 5pm. Returning to Guiseley I saw Carole's brother, Peter, and his girlfriend. He said hello.

Just watched TV tonight. Saw episode 48 million of 'Poldark' and then a film. To bed at midnight with a certain nameless volume written by an author of French persuasion.




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Thursday April 1, 1976

April Fool's Day but hardly a foolish one. Indeed, it was a sombre and worrying day. Carole rings me this evening to say she's had a bust-up with her parents over the cost of my birthday presents. She tells me that Peter P hit her across the face as they quarrelled. I meet her off the 8.20 bus and she staggers up to our place and has a good weep in the dining room. I'm stunned by the bruises and blemishes on her face. Her right eye is completely black and her right ear bruised. She can, of course, take out a summons against the offender, but that would almost certainly mean her vacating her room at 14, Oakridge Avenue, and her financial situation prevents her from achieving this at the moment. She is greatly upset and stunned. I ask her to stay the night here. We sit up chatting until 1 o'clock.

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Monday October 20, 1975

No work today. Glad really because I never feel up to it when I've been travelling the day before. Evidently Sue and John threw a small party last night in honour of Carole and Maria. After champagne and God knows what, they retired to the numerous vacant beds upstairs. John and Maria were in his bed, Carole was in mine, and Sue and Peter were in her bedroom.

Lynn, David, CD, and Martyn Cole were of course visiting Alison in Southampton, and Mum and Dad were spending the night with Uncle Harry at Ravenglass, his new place of refuge. Poor Harry took up employment three weeks ago as a chauffeur and general dogs body for a wealthy man and his housekeeper at Cockermouth. After a tour of northern Scotland, on a staple diet of marmite sandwiches, H got a bit aggressive and resigned, leaving the old gentleman and his lady stranded miles from anywhere! Harry is not the most patient of men, and to picture him in a chauffeurs uniform is too ludicrous for words.

I didn't get up until 11am and after taking a bath I had luncheon with Mummy and Daddy, Sue and John and we discussed the pub business once again. Poor Mum didn't complain this time about being let down, but she so much would have liked the Station. Breweries just don't seem interested in them at all, so I imagine they'll have to buy a free house.

Carole rang me this afternoon and told me I sounded 'different'. As far as I know I don't think I've changed much in four days, but who knows.

Go down to her place at 8pm with John. Sit for half an hour with Carole, who looks divine, Mrs P and Peter, the elder of her two brothers. They discuss sex before marriage and fire questions at me to see if I can be embarrassed. To embarrass Mr Michael Rhodes is just about an impossibility.

We dashed over to the Hare for a few hours and came back to her place at 10.30 to see a film about Lucrezia Borgia (1949). It was quite good really, and I stayed until 12.30.

Walking to White Cross Dad saw us whilst driving around in his cop car and he ferried me home.

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