Monday January 22, 1979

The NUJ decided to come out of hibernation today for the first time since the beginning of December. The country is grinding to a halt. I can name the industries that are not on strike on the fingers of one hand. Mr Callaghan will have to go.

Callaghan: shitting himself at No. 10...

Read Richard Crossman's 1966-68 diaries and find his comments on the Queen interesting. Look them up for yourself if you are at all interested.

One of the Sunday papers did an article on Crossman's relationship with Callaghan, who was Home Secretary and then Chancellor (of the Exchequer) from 1964-70. Quite disturbing, and I bet that the PM is now shitting himself at No. 10. He (Callaghan) is not good in a crisis, is one of Crossman's statements.

John Edward Rhodes.

We have received a letter from John & Sheila in Lanzarote. We can go out there for £30 at three days notice which sounds good. By the sound of things they are the only English speakers on the island. John is doing a lazy, pleasurable job whilst Sheila runs around the volcano fifteen times a day driving holiday-makers from the airport to half-built hotels. She has always carried John through life. I know I have delusions of grandeur, but I think John Edward Rhodes is an even bigger dreamer.



Back from the YP at 5:30 to find Sue, Lynn and Alison with Mama. The girls had been at the Black Bull in Otley all afternoon (market town pubs open until 4pm) celebrating Monday. Lynn had consumed eight pernods. Mum said afterwards that she worries about Lynn drinking.

Watched the telly until 11:30 then to bed with a mug of Ovaltine and the Rt Hon Richard Crossman, Lord President of the Council.

-=-

Thursday May 25, 1978

That nauseating, wriggling grub David Steel has announced today that the pact with the government will be ended at the close of the current parliamentary session in July in readiness for a clean sweep towards a general election. He must think we've all fallen off a Christmas tree or something, because I can tell you that the voting papers will still be warm in the ballot boxes when the swindling Liberals team up with Mr Callagas and his gruesome set.

Christine phoned today.

Tonight we expected Jim and Margaret Nason but they never materialised. Edith and Ernest are of course house hunting in far-off Devon. So, it was an unusually quiet night, and a hot one.

I'll fill in a bit of the blank page by mentioning Dad's moustache. He first grew one in 1973, but shaved it off in that historic year. His 1978 effort is even better, and I award him top marks for its high class cultivation, colouring, size, lustre, body and exquisite shape. Indeed, the facial adornment just sends the years rolling from him.

Goodnight.

-=-

Wednesday September 28, 1977

Lynn and Dave became engaged. He presented her with a ring at about 7.30 and then took her off to Flashman's for a feast. Before this, however, we put away three or four bottles of that champagne substitute which tastes even better than the real thing.

Rt Hon David Steel: cause of nausea.

Lynn looked sublimely happy and I am sure it was a great relief to poor David, who just wants to settle down without any hullabaloo. Mum, Dad and I put away a few lagers after Lynn & Dave had left and then opened the Pernod. They returned at about midnight and we continued with the celebration session. Lynn especially was somewhat pissed and confided in her fiance to feelings of nausea. I was in a similar position too, but it was not all down to alcohol. David Steel and the Liberal party conference on the BBC was the cause of my intermittent vomiting, which completely flattened the whole occasion.

I took quite a few photographs of the happy couple, and so too did David. He now refers to me as 'Our Kid' and I'm sure he'd really like me for a brother. His own brothers are very sober, serious young men.







-=-

Wednesday September 21, 1977

The autumn equinox, I believe. Yes folks, with a rendering of 'Autumn Leaves' I now bid farewell to you in order to roast my chestnuts on my little garden bonfire. Oh, how I love this time of year!  The browns! The golds! The burnt yellows! No.To be honest I can take it or leave it.

An autumn without a good old general election is just not on. It's like having peaches without cream or whisky without American Dry Ginger and lots of ice. I'm sure that dear Mrs Thatcher thinks along these lines too. To see the beloved leader of the only true political party, ballot papers in hand, coming into focus through a typically misty autumn dawn would be a sight to cherish. But alas, the sorrowing nation must now wait until this gorgeous season is once again upon us before the Sainted Margaret - her hair burnished with the magnificent hue of autumn leaves - rides into Parliament as our prime minister.

Otherwise a normal day the YP and with little play.

-=-

Tuesday September 6, 1977

Lady Jane Wellesley

Chatting with Uncle Harry tonight we decided to form a new political party. The National Rhodes Party, or the NRP. I'm going to be chancellor, Mum is going to put on her big hat and make history by being the first woman Home Secretary, and Uncle H is earmarked for Prime Minister. The small moustache and grey hair are his credentials. We haven't yet decided just what job Dad will fill, but no doubt we'll come up with something. A good idea, don't you think? We would do a damn sight better than Mr Callaghan and Company, of this I'm sure.


The YP was up to its usual standard. Kathleen was a pain in the neck and Sarah was in a ghastly mood all day. So we had quite a cheerful time of it.

Harry: Prime Minister.

One of the papers (the Sun, I think) says Lady Jane Wellesley is back on the scene with the Prince of Wales. The woman is in her 27th year and I hardly think she's up to any rigorous sessions of child-bearing which will of course be necessary if she marries the heir. Besides, we don't want a Queen with ________.Will she do for Prince Andrew, perhaps?


Watched TV tonight. Mum, Dad and Harry went to the Commercial for a quick one, and it was on their arrival home at 10.30 that the plans for Britain's new political leadership emerged.

-=-

Wednesday March 23, 1977

Callaghan: reptile.

Our reptile of a Prime Minister has pulled a fast one over on the feeble little party the name of which I cannot seem to recall. Yes, the Tory vote of 'no confidence' in Her Majesty's government failed and the reptile scraped through with a majority of 20 or so. No doubt you know more about it than I do because it will be history by the time you come to read this. I bet your 'A' Level tutor has dictated Mrs Thatcher's speech to you recently. You know, the one referring to Jim (Callaghan) as 'Jim of all parties, and master of none'.

But to get down to the really important things: Spring is certainly in the air, folks. Indeed, as I walked down the lane today I made every attempt to ignore the fog, drizzle and biting wind and instead my eyes searched the hedgerows in vain for signs of those pretty Spring floral offerings - namely daffodils. None to be seen. Not a bud on a tree. The youngest sheep I've laid eyes on qualifies for a telegram from Her Majesty the Queen congratulating it on it's longevity. The word 'lamb' is about as relevant in today's society as 'dodo', 'democracy' and 'statesman'.

Tony is in Worksop. What a revolting place to be on a Wednesday night. Spoke to Barry via telephonic communication. He says he's working 'too hard'. Cannot contact Martyn because some unhelpful person or persons have seen fit to conceal our telephone number book in a place unknown. I can only just recall Mr Brotherwood's number (Ilkley 3173), but Martyn's evades me. I think it begins with a 3 and has a 9 in it somewhere.

Sheep: Telegram from Her Majesty?

Motherdear has spent the day in bed. A bad, irritating cough and aching bones. Probably influenza. She doesn't look too bad tonight but ought not to struggle into work for a few days.

Back to the subject of sheep. How long do they live if allowed to grow old gracefully? I ask this because the one I spied this morning was aged. When was the last time you saw next week's lamb cutlets in a wheelchair? I'm not mad either. Oh no.






-=-

Tuesday March 22, 1977

Not discussing work other than to say we've been having some bother with Carol.

Margaret Thatcher: I don't fancy the idea of a woman PM

A good cartoon in the Daily Mail this morning on the subject of Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister and Mrs Indira Gandhi. Tomorrow we will know for certain whether we're in for a general election or not.

I don't fancy the idea of a woman PM but anything will be better than Callaghan. Even a gorilla will do. A right-wing gorilla though.

Spoke to Delia Collis this afternoon on the phone. She has invited me to tea on an date yet unknown but in the near future. Should be a laugh.

Chris Monckton: future Tory whip?

To the dentist at 5pm. I need a couple of fillings. No appointment until September. I can think of nothing worse than dentists. They should all be herded together and shipped to the Maldives, or perhaps the Outer Hebrides. On reflection it's probably a silly idea, but I'm not here merely to be sensible. Blimey, I'm not standing for parliament.

Chris Monckton is departing from the YP to become a PRO with the Conservative party. Should suit him well. One day I bet he's a Tory whip - in more ways than one. On the subject of the peerage, a duke saw fit to make an exit from his mortal role yesterday. Namely the Duke of Portland who was 84. Strangely enough the successor to this title is only a slip of a lad himself. In fact he's 88.

11:30pm. Nothing much more to report. The BBC is, at this very moment, going on and on about the revolting government. It angers me more and more. James Callaghan is no politician. How he has the cheek to crawl round the Liberal party at this stage is quite amazing. No, obscene is the word. Even Dad says it's disgusting. The shoddy way this country is governed! If I was an MP I'd admit defeat when it it staring me right in the face.

To bed with P.G. Wodehouse. An amusing book. No telephone calls tonight. Must ring the lads tomorrow.

-=-

Monday March 21, 1977

What a wonderful weekend. But in no mood to discuss it this morning. Thoroughly tired out.

Cheered somewhat by the fact that our beloved government may be resigning this week. Mr 'Callagas' may be packing his bags and shifting his belongings from Downing Street at this very moment. Is Margaret Thatcher's moment of truth upon us already? You just wait and see. Callabum has only been in office for ten or eleven months.

Go to Boots and collect a packet of photographs that have been waiting for me since April. Yes, pictures of Lynn's 18th (birthday) at the Yorkshire Rose.

Walkabout, starring Jenny Agutter.

Bathe and eat tomato sandwiches in front of the television. Watch a Jenny Agutter film about a nubile schoolgirl abandoned in the Outback with a solitary Aborigine. It quite put me off my food.

The Queen was on the BBC news. 'Go it, Old Girl!' Oh, and Peter Sellers is ill in hospital. He was only married (again) last month. He was similarly taken ill shortly after marring Miss (Britt) Ekland too - a coincidence? Over indulgence perhaps?

Yes, the more I think about the weekend the more I come to realise that life isn't all violence, politics, boredom and Margaret Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher as it is so often portrayed on 'Panorama'. Life is bliss. Life is a great joy.

Retired to bed at 12.05am. Read 'The World of Mr Mulliner' by Wodehouse.

Do you like this red ink yet?

-==-

Tuesday April 6, 1976

Budget Day. Mr Healey didn't do much at all and I don't know why the BBC bothered covering the 'event' because sweet sod all resulted from Denis's lengthy oration. However, beer is going up 1p a pint and the price of a bottle of Scotch is going up by 32p. Callaghan's first day at No. 10, and I bet Audrey's made friends with all the neighbours. What colour scheme has she decided upon for Jim's bedroom?

Carole rings at 7.30pm whilst I'm out pruning the roses, to say - or rather to sob - that 'the family' (if that's what they can be called) have ignored her all night, and she mumbles about killing herself. I cannot be expected to continue gardening after being told that my girlfriend is about to end her life so I lay down my shears and meet her on Thorpe Lane. We go for a long ramble, taking in Esholt Woods, Westfield fish and chip shop and the Yorkshire Rose. Carole looks horrific and I'm sick and tired of the whole affair. Why should I be depressed by a domestic squabble that's too inferior for words? Carole never gives me any of the details so how can I be expected to sympathise? She's a good deal happier when we part company at 11, and arrange to meet in Guiseley tomorrow night.

-==-

Monday March 29, 1976

Nothing in the news other than the boring details of the sleeping habits of James Callaghan. I'm sure the British public takes great delight in reading about what Mr Callaghan eats for breakfast, how much sugar he puts in his tea, and how long Audrey (his wife) has been on the pill. But seriously, the PM electioneering business is getting on my nerves.

Isn't the 'Race for Downing Street' drama getting exciting? Michael Foot, Denis Healey, Norman St John Stevas, Lord Lucan, Enoch Powell and the Everley Brothers are all 'tipped for the top' and by next Monday it will be all be over and done with. The bloody sooner the better, that's what I say.

A piece in the Daily Mail is fun. Roddy Llewellyn attended a party the other night clad in a t-shirt with the slogan 'Roddy for PM' - and it isn't refering to the Prime Minister either!

Dash home to see the first in a smashing new TV series called 'Coronation Street'. I'm sure it will be a great success and run for years. Some of the characters are thrilling. Alfred Hitchcock thoroughly deserves a pat on the back this time.

See on the 9 o'clock news that the government is having talks with France about scrapping Concorde. This white elephant has been on the go for too long now - about a month I think.

-==-

Tuesday March 16, 1976

Christine B, 20. A hectic day really. Upset by Uncle Jack's departure.

Just before lunchtime today I heard that Uncle Harold (Wilson) had resigned (as Prime Minister) and had consequently thrown the nation into utter chaos and turmoil the likes of which haven't been experienced since Pat Phoenix quit 'Coronation Street'. Everyone thought it was a big joke at first.

The very thought of life without little Harold Wilson doesn't bear thinking about. What will become of the economy? What about the pound in our pockets?

Home and have tea with Mum & Dad. They go and console Auntie Mabel whilst Lynn, Sue and I swap bedrooms. They take over the back bedroom which was home to John and I for about four years - horribly sad and nostalgic it was.

Carole came at 8.30 and John and Maria came back from Scotland and called in to see us. They have had a great time and look well for it. The build up to the wedding had got on everyones nerves somewhat and if it had come any later I'd have either shot myself or put myself up as a candidate in the Labour party leadership struggle that will undoubtedly occur within the next few days or so.

-==-

Tuesday January 7, 1975

Wake at about 8.30 feeling slightly better, but do not intend going back to the office until it has cleared up entirely. Mum, in her infinite wisdom, says that the doctor really ought to visit me instead of vice versa, but on ringing she discovers that he's far too bogged down with other cases to find the time for me.

I lay in bed with the radio banging away in my left ear 'ole until lunch. In the midst of Johnny Walker's show one of the news features holds a story on the horror of horrors, Anthony Wedgwood Benn. I was relieved to hear a top authority on politics say that Mr Benn is far too rebellious ever to become Prime Minister. A sad day it would be indeed if it dawned with Lord Stansgate behind the door in no. 10 Downing Street. Even fat, little Harold Wilson is better than him one hundred fold.

See in the morning paper that little Lady Jane Wellesley is now escorting James Balfour, the estranged husband of Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia. Over in France the Paris newspapers still carry futile, impossible stories about her and the Prince of Wales. There is no doubt in my mind that His Royal Highness gave her the push months ago - and rightly so. Never did like the idea of her being Queen Jane. (Correction: I have just called the husband of Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia James Balfour. In fact he's Neil Balfour, and I apologise deeply to all the relatives of the 20th century Prime Minister).

Later: a plane hijacked at Heathrow by a mad Arab is, at this moment, preparing to fly to Stansted Airport which has been disguised to look like a 'typical French airport'. The demented Arab wants to go to Paris, but Mr Giscard d'Estaing won't let the plane enter France. How they are going to make Stansted look like France I do not know.No doubt they'll get a crowd of men in berets, bicylces, and festoon them with strings of onions, playing old Maurice Chevalier records over the loud speakers. We shall see.

-==-

Thursday October 10, 1974

King Henry III born 1206. Polling Day again. John and I go (vote) in the car at about 7.30. He votes Labour, and I Liberal. I know it's shocking of me to desert the poor Tories in their hour of need, but they made such a mess of it last time I feel as though it would be almost criminal to get them elected again. YP all day. Quite busy, but nothing of importance happens. Home at 6pm and see tv until 1am. It's quite clear by midnight that 'Darling Harold' will remain Prime Minister. Go to bed feeling very tired, and fall asleep with the knowledge that the nation is now doomed to destruction under the crushing hammer of Antony Wedgwood Benn's nationalisation plans.

-==-

Wednesday October 9, 1974

The Duke of Kent born 1935. My half day at the YP. Home for 12.30 for lunch with Mum. We're both undecided as to how we are going to vote tomorrow. I'm either Tory or Liberal and Mum is either Labour or Liberal.

Dark day, with occasional showers, though nothing like the torrents produced yesterday. Read the Prince of Wales again, and also, on this subject, I read in the Daily Mail this morning that the Prince will not be moving to Chevening House in Kent next year as was originally decided. The trustees of the Chevening estate are planning a further 2 years' work before HRH can move in.

Saw Christine Braithwaite on the 33 bus this morning. She looks a lot more slim since we last met, and her hair is longer, a much improved appearance. She dropped the bombshell that her love affair with Philip is 'virtually on the rocks'. I cannot believe it. Christine without Philip is like Victoria without Albert, or a horse without a carriage, &c. (not love without marriage, that's quite permissible), &c.

-==-

Monday October 7, 1974

Weather terrible all day. Read biography of the Prince of Wales all night, with the exception of the 9 o'clock news. Denny rings after 9 to give her impressions of the letter I wrote to her on Saturday. She especially liked the bit about my not writing any more 'in case Auntie Evelyn sees this letter'. She's put one in the post for me, and I should be on the receiving end by tomorrow morning. See the election thing on the TV again, and decide that in this coming General Election I am going to vote Liberal. Neither Mr Wilson or Mr Heath have achieved anything int the past four and a half years, and I'm developing a growing admiration for Jeremy Thorpe. Besides, the liberals have had long enough out of office to have made some decisions about exactly what to do when they get in. (P.S. Harry, the driving instructor, calls after 9 to arrange my future driving lessons with him. I'm to take test on November 20, and have about six lessons before that. Should earn a few bob out of it for himself.)

-==-

Monday September 30, 1974

Marita rings for a chat at 6.30. She needs cheering up. Evidently, MM goes to Sheffield tomorrow___________. Poor soul. ____________.She also informed me that Denny is down in the dumps, and is going out for her lunches with a regular escort. Nothing much else occurred in the conversation and it ended after about half an hour.

See TV all evening and nothing except the election is on. Michael Foot and William Whitelaw pulling each other to pieces, &c. However, Mr Whitelaw is a good chap, and I prefer him to Mr Heath, who is far too high minded to appreciate the problems facing Britain at the moment. Politics get me down, but Sir Alec Douglas-Home made a good point at the weekend when he said that politics may be dirty business, but the only alternative is dictatorship. It's a damn shame that poor Sir Alec didn't have longer at Number 10. I'm sure he was a better leader than Ted (Heath). But he got what all leaders get when they fail to win an election. Ted himself will receive a sharp kick in the pants if he fails to succeed on October 10. No doubt Mr & Mrs Whitelaw are planning to move into the Downing Street residence in later years.

See a good film called 'Otley' on BBC2. It's hilarious, dealing with spies, &c. Also see 'Emmerdale Farm' before coming to bed at 11.45.

Ugh, Mrs Ford, the wife of the US president, had one of her breasts removed in hospital at the weekend. The president probably won't stand for election in 1976 because of his wife's health. I expect it's cancer or something.

-==--