Thursday March 22, 1979

_. Chippy phoned this morning to make sure I was joining the party tonight. After the usual abuse he was gone but within minutes he phoned back to see whether I could escape tomorrow afternoon for a session at the Junction in Otley. I told him no because Kathleen is off tomorrow for her parents Ruby wedding anniversary, and of course Carol Johnson has been off work all week with mumps.

Met Jacq at lunchtime at Jacomelli's and we joked about the revolting illness that is mumps. We did speculate that it would be my luck to catch the disease, and that I'll be cycling home quite innocently one night and a loud crash and bang will herald my balls falling off into my socks.

Am I correct in thinking that mumps make big boys sterile, or impotent, or something? We did laugh about this.

Jacq tells me that Trixie's new boyfriend, 'John the Lorry', from Manchester, is only 28 years old! Trixie will be 51 in May. Good luck to her, anyway. The poor woman has had an unfortunate life.

Tonight: out with Pete to the White Cross. Mick Lynch was working in the bar ______________________.

Carole came in with Jill and Naomi but they fled to the Fox to avoid me. My presence was an embarrassment to her with Mick Lynch under the same roof. Joined by Chippy, Dave W, Mick and one or two others whose names escape me. I was quite pissed.

On to Oakwood Hall . Sarah was nowhere to be found. Home at 2am. It is tradition for me to leap on to Chippy's car as he drives away and I did this as ususal with Starsky & Hutch gusto. However, he broke with tradition, and gathered speed and rocketed down the lane with me hanging on the roof clutching the windscreen wipers and holding on for dear life. Gradually I began to slide down the windscreen and onto the car bonnet and Chippy took a sharp turn onto Westgate at which I was thrown from the vehicle and into the road.  I cut my hand, but worst of all I tore a hole in the knee of my new trousers. Ruined they were, and I must have paid £15 for them.

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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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