Friday August 10, 1979

_. Gruesome headache. Did very little all morning and sat at my desk feeling sick and shattered. Kathleen is away, at Auntie Mary's funeral, which is convenient. I sat at my desk, with my feet up blatantly reading volume 2 of Churchill's 'History of the English Speaking Peoples' and praising God that Mrs Mary McHale had chosen this day to be reunited with her dear husband Tom. R.I.P.

To lunch with Sarah and Eileen to Da Mario's for pizzas. Shared a table with a couple of wasteful creatures who poked and prodded at their food with a total lack of interest. I felt nauseous. Leaving the restaurant we bumped into Jacq at a bus stop. ___________.

This evening Ally and I decided upon a pub crawl. We did the Hare and Hounds [I spoke to Judith], the White Cross, the Shoulder of Mutton, the Commercial [Annie and Ron Lindley have gone taking all with them]. Home at 10:50 to watch the Marx Brothers in 'Duck Soup' - excellent. Bed at 1:20.

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Sunday November 5, 1978

24th after Trinity

8th Sunday before Christmas

Hullo Guy Fawkes, wherever you are. Up at 10:30 for gallons of toast and piles of hot, buttered tea (sic). A sunny, bright, autumn day. Jacq and I stayed at Lawn Road throughout and had a pleasant time with Lynn & Dave.

Lynn dragged us round Burley for half an hour before giving us a massive luncheon. My job for the entire day was to stoke the fire and keep it blazing. Either Lynn's made a close friend of Arthur Scargill or they've found a rich coal seam beneath the house.

Watched a Fred Astaire film which included scenes from the 1947 Royal wedding at the end. Sarah Churchill, Winston's daughter, had a part in the film too. She certainly resembles old Clem. It was all quite nauseating.

Jacq and Lynn seem to have hit it off marvellously. Jacq sees a good deal of me in Lynn and vice versa.

Later we watched Lillie Langtry ~ no comment. Home in fog at 10 o'clock.

Mum and Dad had just returned from Auntie Mabel's. Mama looked really nice in a new green dress with the handbag and shoes bought for the wedding. She was laughing over the Sunday Express article about the Prince of Wales escorting Princess NORA of Liechtenstein.

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Saturday September 16, 1978

Full Moon 20:01 Sun rises 06:36 Sun sets 19:14

Jacq came at 8 with a parcel for me from Trixie consisting of ties, more paints, my forgotten Hitler volume, paint brushes and Japanese palet knives from Pete Holroyd's collection. The bundle must have rushed her a couple of quid in the post.

I'm in low spirits with a feeling of impending disaster hanging over me. One of Jacq's shoes fell apart at the bottom of the lane and I ran all the way home for a pair from Sue's collection. Knackered, sweaty and broncil by 9:30.

We made our way to the Crown at Yeadon in the drizzle and shit and propped up the bar there until 11. Chippy, Gus, Johnny and others came in. I hailed 'Hullo' to Chippy and he told me to 'fuck off' which I can only put down to the episode of the buggered spectacles. At 11 we staggered to Guiseley. Jacq was wearing all my clothes because she felt cold.

We bumped into Jim and Margaret and they took us back to 58, Fieldhead Road for a few beers. Margaret attempted to persuade the budgie to do his Churchill impersonation but Joey (as he's affectionately know) refused to fight them on the beaches, and said nowt.

Back at Pine Tops for 12:30. Jacq and I sat until 4:30.

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Wednesday April 12, 1978

Snow again, but warm and sunny later on. Work was quite busy and the Budget dominated the papers which is a great bore. I won't notice my extra £1 I can tell you. It (the Budget) may have been Denis Healey's last one. Sir Geoffrey Howe could be at the helm by Christmas.

I am reading (from the library yesterday) the diaries of Samuel Pepys 1659-69. I always imagined the diaries covered more years than this but it seems the poor man went blind after ten years of copiously scribing away about such things as the Great Fire of London. In 1983, if I'm still here, I may well have written more than Mr Pepys, and who knows where it will all end if I'm fit and well in the 2040s. Ooh, I do feel historic.

However, the only exciting thing for me to communicate is that I phoned Jacq at 8. The poor girl's working again tomorrow and we aren't going out until Friday.

Christine phoned me on Monday and mentioned going to Yeadon Fair, but if no vast multitude of friends wish to accompany us I can't see the point of it. Jacq, Christine and I on a roundabout would look really pathetic I think. Miss Sate was very cheerful and seems to enjoy the YWCA with all its grotesque inmates and odd characters. I think she's incredibly brave and valiant.

I was reading a report today in an old copy of The Times (from last week) which stated that in 1941 Sir Winston Churchill in a letter expressed his desire to be cremated. Good heavens! How would we have managed the remainder of the war without him? Thank God they didn't grant him his wish. If Lady Churchill had been burnt at the stake in the 1940s then today Britain would have a marvellous Graham Sutherland portrait of the old boy to admire.


Canaletto ....

In front of the TV this evening. Pete N and Dave B joined us of course. The Duke of Beaufort was on BBC1 talking about Badminton (House) and the horse trials, &c. Dad made his usual cutting remarks about the aristocracy. All you need is a red face, tweed jacket, two acres and a Canaletto and Papa's wrath is immediately aroused.

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Thursday March 30, 1978

Without further ado I picked up the phone, dialled a Guiseley number, spoke to a polite young bank clerk (female) and made an appointment to see the manager tomorrow concerning a personal loan. Barclaycard is going for good, and tomorrow may see the dawn of a new era. A Brave New World in fact. Tonight I met Christine at the Drop and my financial position was the principal topic of conversation. Hilarity. I was clad in my tight 31" inside leg jeans which, according to Christine, makes me look like a puff. We howled about it. My half mast trousers, she says, remind her of the Union flag over St Paul's Cathedral at Sir Winston Churchill's funeral. I do like short jeans though and CB isn't the fashion correspondent of the Yorkshire Post. I take no notice of others when it comes to fashion, sex, good looks, &c. From the Drop we made our way to the Yorkshire Rose. Even Christine detects a weird, eerie atmosphere in this ancient place of refreshment. I have proclaimed for years that something is seriously amiss in the tap room here, and the sight of ailing veterans of the Somme and Ypres chatting up 14 and 15 year-olds is quite nauseating. (The Somme and Ypres were World War I battle grounds, in case you're too young to know). Christine moaned about one of her ears being out of action, but otherwise it was all sunshine, champagne and dafodils. I deposited the sweet child onto a bus at 10:45 and made my way home laden with fish and chips. The Thursday night Nason/Blackwell session was in full swing. -=-

Saturday January 14, 1978

Sun rises 08:01 Sun sets 16:19

Clementine: eye balls donated.

Out of bed at eleven not too worse for the amount of alcoholic beverage taken in last night. I found Dad inspecting the rabbit. He congratulated me on the kill. "A fine buck" is his professional verdict.

The morning papers reveal that the 'vandal' Lady Churchill donated her eye balls to medical science, and now some poor, unsuspecting soul is walking around with the eyes which saw more of Sir Winston than anybody else. I'm not sure I like this. It all rings of Baron Frankenstein. Very ghoulish. How long before famous singers pass on their voice boxes to carry on their musical talents after death? I always wanted to be a Beatle. Perhaps I could be first in the queue when Paul McCartney goes?

Shopping in Guiseley with Lynn. After a couple of hours we walked to the Station Hotel for a thirst quencher. Her wedding chatter is now at fever pitch. Blimey, it's only 34 weeks until the 'Big Day' so it's not exactly premature excitement.

Pete M phoned tonight but I explained how broke I am, and so that was that. A night at home, sitting like Jimmy Carter by my fireside. 'Starsky & Hutch' on the box too. Oh, how thoroughly delightful. Bloody Hell, no wonder the pubs are packed on Saturday nights. The only people to be found indoors on these long, wintry evenings are the crippled, bed-ridden and penniless. In case you're wondering, I fit into the last category. Sat and read the Scarlet Pimpernel. Watched Hedy Lamarr in a 1940 epic. Bed afterwards.




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Monday December 12, 1977

Clementine Spencer-Churchill went off from this world to join Winston this afternoon. The old bird died of a heart attack at the age of 92. This item proved to be the dominant feature on the 6 o'clock news because the BBC is tiring of the firemens' strike and the procrastinations of Mr Wedgwood Benn. I must write to Judith. She loves to talk about Winnie and Clem.

Clementine: went to join Winston.

Work was carried out in the usual fashion. Sarah is back in action, and so is Eileen, who's been off since God knows when.

At home we had the traditional family bust up over the erection of the Christmas tree. I told Lynn where she could stick the tinsel, and dear Mother became quite heated. Susan even threatened to go out until we had all calmed down. Papa took leave of his senses. It was horrific and as is always the case, I lost on all counts. In any crisis the family always sticks together to attack me violently. Mum thinks the sun shines out of Lynn's arse, which I don't mind in the least, but I do object when the collective fury, wrath - call it what you will - is flung at me. However, as eldest child I suppose it's quite natural that I should be the scapegoat. Just like the relationship between the Hanoverian kings and successive Princes of Wales for instance? Clement Freud's grandad no doubt knew all about this psychological phenomena.

It is now several hours since the 'Great Christmas Tree Bust Up' and I wish to re-assess the situation. I was most certainly not defeated in the battle. Dad just attempted to give Lynn and I a piece of his mind about the outburst of childish bickering and I discovered a certain eloquence that has laid dormant since my school debating days. I retired to bed feeling like Sir Winston Churchill. The funny thing about it all is that Lynn and I laughed ourselves stupid afterwards, and we caused the whole rift in the first place. It got to the situation where we just couldn't look at each other without dissolving.

-=-

Tuesday August 9, 1977

Happy Birthday Miss Jacqueline Myers - my dearest and sexiest cousin. 21 today.

Malt Shovel, Baildon (c) itsart.co.uk

Out tonight to the Malt Shovel at Baildon which was packed out with crumpet galore. Who'd have thought that women would go to all that trouble to get themselves tarted up and actually go out on a Tuesday evening? It never would have happened at one time. Tonight the place was seething with them.

Back at Pine Tops Tony and I 'argued' with Dad on such controversial subjects as his Late Holiness Sir Winston Churchill and the National Union of Mineworkers. ________________.


-=-

Friday May 28, 1976

Sir Harold Wilson's (resignation) Honours List was published this morning. (James) Goldsmith is a knight; Lew Grade and that nice Sir Bernard Delfont (who always makes the Queen so welcome at the Royal Variety Performance each year) are life peers; and even Mike Yarwood got something. He's OBE if I'm not mistaken. Lots of MPs are creating over certain names on the list but I consider it petty and ignorant of them. It is a retiring premier's privilege to honour whomsoever he choses and to argue with his decision is nothing short of treachery. After all, the Queen herself approved the names before the honours were conferred. Who argued when Churchill ennobled his doctor, Charles Moran? Poor old Harold cannot do anything right - not when the Press is Tory controlled anyway. You wouldn't think I was a Tory voter, would you?

Meet Tony and Stuart in the Central at 1pm. Go over with Eileen, who is 19 today. Buy her a few dry Martinis, but she seems miserable and dull. Leave the lads at 2 and go back to the office.

Meanwhile, that night: Tony comes up at 8 o'clock just half an hour after Lynn and Dave go to the Lakes until Tuesday. Spend an hour in the Hare and at 9 we go up to the Emmotts where the two of us meet Carol J and Marilyn. I feel uneasy and the girls, especially Carol, are unusually silent. At 11.15 we shoot off in the direction of Leeds for a meal of some kind. End up at the 'Damn Yankee' until some unearthly hour. A costly and uninteresting evening.

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Wednesday February 5, 1975

Horrid day. Gordon Pickles, a reporter on the EP, was killed in a road accident in the early hours of the morning. I didn't know him really well, but it's nauseating to think I was laughing and joking with him on Monday about something in 'Private Eye'. Here today, gone tomorrow, or is it more appropriate to say 'here yesterday, gone today?'

To the Hare & Hounds with John, No one other than Andy arrives, but a pleasant evening is had. John and Andy certainy know a nice bunch of women, and I wonder what exactly I've been doing all these weeks while they've been pulling in the talent.

A silly old hag on 'Nationwide' tonight remarked that the late Mr Heath is 'a second Churchill' in his oratory abilities. She couldn't possibly be referring to the great Sir Winston, so I think she means either Baroness Spencer-Churchill ( a right little raver when she's roused) or her up and coming grandson, Mr Winston Churchill. God only knows where all this Tory party eye-wash will lead us.
Sit in bed with Agatha again. Finish 'The Mystery of Chimneys' - really entertaining. Pass out into a deep sleep at about 1 o'clock.

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Wednesday September 18, 1974

Brilliant day. Denny and I are up and out by 8.15 and are in London by 10am.

Very wam morning and we stand outside Buckingham Palace where a large crowd is assembled to watch the changing of the guard. A very impressive scene with the Welsh Guards follows. We go by tube to the Tower of London, where a Yeoman warder rumages through Denny's handbag looking for bombs and grenades. Have a guided tour before seeing the Crown Jewels again. the Imperial StateCrown is the ultimate in beauty.

See from the newspapers (hanging about the place) that we are going to the polls on October 10. Denny and I move on to Downing Street where a large crowd of BBC, Thames TV and ITV cameras are displayed awaiting the arrival of Mr Wilson or some other worthies. See Lady Falkender arrive and capture the event on camera for posterity. Get the tube to Westminster and stare at Big Ben and the new statue of Sir Winston Churchill which is an unsightly object. Quite exhausted we go back to Victoria and get the train to Windsor arriving back at 7.

Go for a pizza at the restaurant near Queen Victoria's statue at the head of Peascod Street and leave 10 minutes later after scoffing loads of the stuff. Sit in front of the TV all evening with John and Sheila seeing "Steptoe and Son" which gets more and more hilarious each time the series is churned out. Get some beer in from the Copper Horse pub and feel drowsy in front of the gas fire. Not at all surprised about the election date...

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