Friday January 17, 1975

Meet Marita in Park Row at 5.15. We go to Smiths in the Railway Station where we route around in the glossy magazines and rude paperbacks until Christine arrives. I buy 'Confessions of a Private Soldier', a nasty, dirty little thing by Timothy Lea. Quite cheeky though. Leave Leeds by train and we laugh all the way to Sheffield. MM meets us on the platform, and when he and Marita are together they certainly are very close. Wedding bells will be ringing in a few years time, that's for certain.

The flat is just one room with all the necessities therein. Smells very musty and the atmosphere is positively damp. The four of us are far too shagged out to consider going to the boozer for a few pints - so we sit gathered around the electric fire eating cheese and biscuits and listening to Elton John's Greatest Hits on the record player. Bed time is a farce. MM and Marita have the single bed - all this sex before marriage 'I don't know what the world's coming to' &c. Christine and I share a camp bed...Comfortable it all is too. Not actually having bodily contact you understand - but reaping the benefits from the closeness which warmed us both in the cold flat.

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Thursday January 16, 1975

YP all day. Prepare for tomorrow's venture into the depths of Sheffield where no man has dared set foot before. Ring Marita and ensure I have all the correct times, &c.

Wednesday January 15, 1975

The new Whitaker's Almanack for 1975 fails to give an accurate account of the order of succession to the throne. No mention is made of the little Lascelles baby who, according to the Sunday People, was born in September 1973. This babe of the Hon James and Mrs Lascelles is 21st in line of succession. I'm surprised that the YP haven't done anything on it. But I do suppose that Lord Harewood consulted Mr 'Call me God' Linacre and told him that no report at all would be welcomed by himself and Mrs Jeremy Thorpe and others.

On the subject of minor, forgotten royalty, I'd better mention something about Princess Anne and the new royal personage that never was - Capt. Phillips. The royal pair have recently visited Rowley Hall, ten miles from Hull, in good hunting country - with the intention of purchasing the place. Buckingham Palace officials who lie until they lie about the lies they're said already, say that the princess is looking for a place of her own before they're turned out of Oak Grove in 2 years time. Hull does seem a bit out of the way and off the royal beaten track, but I suppose Mark would like the peace and quiet.

A busy day. Sarah is in better spirits. Kathleen too cheerful - on the verge of hysteria. Argue, in a friendly vein, with Sarah this morning on the subject of that repulsive creature John Stonehouse. She said he's committed no crime in using the name of a dead man to creep off to Australia. Only the other day a bloke was sent to one of Her Majesty's Holiday Camps for doing the very same thing with someone elses passport.

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Tuesday January 14, 1975

As you can see, I have purchased a bottle of ink and can now scribe here in the correct form. I consider it a disgrace to write my journal in rubbishy biro. Future generations don't want to see before them a page written with an instrument of the 20th century far more horrific than the atom bomb and John Stonehouse, MP.

Slade, the pop group came in state to the YP today. A scruffy bunch they are too. Dave Hill is minute, just about reached up to my knees. Sarah and I bumped into them at the top of the staircase on the 2nd floor. They went down by the stairs and we went in the lift. Don Powell, the drummer, was giving everyone filthy looks and to sum up I'd say they fancied themselves.

Home for tea at 6 o'clock. Mum and Dad are out and Lynn makes tea. Quite pleasant it is too. A letter awaits me from David, Thane of Worcester. He's not going to MMs at the weekend which is a big let down. He also had news of MM thinking about leaving poly! Strange tale indeed from my far-off friend.

Christine rang me at the YP. She's arranged everything with Marita and they're meeting in Leeds at 6pm on Friday. We're all getting the train at 6.45 or something like that.

I'm getting excited now. It's only 346 days to Christmas. Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All the Way! Despatch a reply to David. He had me in stitches about blackmailing me with certain pictures he's got of ____, drawn by me, and passed on to him without thinking of the consequences. Mum and Dad are in Askern I think.

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Monday January 13, 1975

At the YP all day. Sarah is strangely subdued and almost sharp with us. Probably because Kathleen is off, and the heavy mantle of responsibility weighs too heavily on her slender shoulders. Sarcastic sod, aren't I?

Whilst waiting for the bus this evening I did comprehend an amusing sight. Christopher Monckton, the heir to that glorious viscountcy, marching down the central reservation of the dual carriageway on Wellington Street, rotating his umbrella at a fantastic speed, as though something sinister and unnatural possessed his very soul. I smiled all the way home.

Heard on the news briefly this morning that the IRA planned to kidnap the Prince of Wales several months ago but then changed plans without any explanation. It's an impossibility. The security surrounding the prince is so tight that even his own grandmother would be unable to nab him.

A man rang me today and asked me if the ventriloquist Arthur Worsley is the father of the Duchess of Kent. Can you imagine it? Arthur Worsley and his dummy - parents of the Duchess of Kent? I pretended to be unsure on this one, and went away sniggering to look in Burke's Peerage. He, the befuddled member of the public, seemed quite surprised when I informed him that HRH's father was Sir William Worsley, 4th Baronet. What a laugh.

What can have happened to Marita? Hang on folks whilst I go ring her. All will be revealed herein. Now then, where shall I begin? MM moved into his own residence before the weekend, and so the letter I posted today will have gone to the wrong house. Marita is going down by train next Friday evening and wants to know if Christine and I are going down with her. Super idea it seems to me.

Mum and Dad go to Esholt and the girls go to bed. Strange having no visitors for a change. Dave and Peter are almost permanent fixtures these days.

See TV all evening. Retire at 11.50 after writing to MM again, for the second time today. My first letter went to Horndean Rd which he vacated last week. My chat with Marita was the first one since the New Year.

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Sunday January 12, 1975

1st after Epiphany. In bed until lunch. No after effects from the night before and quite look forward to tonight's escapade with rellish. See Ingrid Bergman in 'Joan of Arc', a corny film. The very mention of the Maid of Lorraine puts the fear of God in me. Reminds me of having to read 'St Joan' by Bernard Shaw at school. No pleasant task by any means.

Out with Chris, Christine and Maura to the Hare & Hounds. John comes along too and does seem to be getting Christine down. He insists on plagueing her to despair, but Maura says she loves it and being pulled to pieces gives her a special pleasure. Kinky, that's what I say.

Move on to the Dyneley. Getting there is like scaling the north face of Everest (if it's got one), and if Edmund Hillary can pick up a knighthood for his endeavours I see no reason why Chris and I can't have the same. The girls don't like the place at all. Sit near the juke box listening to such hits as 'Discotheque and the Sexolets', a revolting thing really, but it keeps us smiling. Back to Westfield for fish and chips in the back of the Ratcliffemobile. After ten minutes the windows were all steamed up, and mushy peas lay thickly over the entire interior, like sediment at the bottom of a forgotten fish tank. Back home for coffee and off to bed with Baroness Orczy and 'I Will Repay'.

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Saturday January 11, 1975

Lynn wakes me at my usual Saturday hour. Have a coffee and glance at the Daily Mail which never contains anything worth reading. Fail to see why they bother to publish the soddin' thing. They'd do everybody a favour if they packed up and cleared off to Uganda.

Nothing tremendous happens at the office and come home on the 33 bus. John is just climbing out of bed, the lucky devil, but the extra half day in bed doesn't seen to have done him any good at all. I really do think that one can have too much sleep.
The reception room, or foyer, at the YP harbours a pleasant sight at the moment. A collection of Sir Cecil Beaton's works displayed for all to see. I especially like the pictures of Lady Diana Cooper (dressed a s nun of all things) and of Harold Pinter. The Royal photos are all very nice, but we've seen them all before. His work of genius is one (photo) of the Queen Mother taken at Buckingham Palace in 1938 - the light and shading as it falls on her dress is a sight to behold.

Lunch with John, Mama and Papa. Dash upstairs when Mum says she wants some help with the housework, and Perry Como moaning away in the background isn't very encourging. After a few minutes John and I disappear on a walk around Tranmere and surrounding areas. After giving our approval to the new houses we come back refreshed. I re-read 'I Will Repay' by Baroness Orczy, the third time round and still enthralling.

Go out with Chris, Christine B, and Dave Knowles's old fiance, Maura, a pretty little thing with curly dark hair and oval face - truely gorgeous. Chris and Christine are more than pals now, and I'm left to entertain Maura. The four of us go to Wikis until 2, where we dance and jive about to our hearts content. A quiet night really, but we didn't notice. Laughed ourselves stupid. Back to Pine Tops for coffee where Lynn, Dave, Sue and Peter are recovering after a large meal in Leeds where they were refused entry into Cinderellas and the Pentagon, &c. John and Peter Mather had been to 'Wheels' at Seacroft and by all accounts it's a smart joint.

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