Sunday June 1, 1975

1st after Trinity. It was nearly 5am on June 1 before we were all allocated places of sleep at the Ratcliffe abode. John, crippled with his ankle, and scarred for life thanks to the dog, was passed out next to me in a sleeping bag on the lounge floor, and Peter was placed on a camp bed in Chris's room after undergoing harsh recouperation treatment in the garden. The poor boy was hysterical and didn't quite know who he was, or who anyone else was for that matter.

Awoke at 11.30. Mrs Ratcliffe made me a cup of tea, and I went out into the garden to mock Peter, who didn't look at all healthy propping up a lilac tree. Mrs R bandaged J's foot and she didn't bat an eye lid when he explained just how he had received his injuries.

At 12 we went to the Fleece for a couple of drinks before lunch. All the gang, except the Grahams and Smiths, came in and we sat near the fruit machine laughing about last night. Peter was in high spirits considering.

Chris leaves at 5.15 this afternoon for his new post at Hayes, Middlesex. No one really wanted him to go, but he seemed in cheery form. Peter brought me and John home for lunch at 1pm.

Dave is messing about with John's car and they spend the afternoon dismantling it.

Out with Christine to the Hare at 8.30. However, at 8.15 John learned from his employers that his services will no longer be required after next week, due to lack of incoming work. We're all astounded. Poor John - redundant.

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Saturday May 31, 1975

John and I go into Otley in afternoon for a lark around, but with the main intention of finding a decent tool shop for my younger brother and eventual heir. I say heir because the title will of course go to him and his children after I'm gone, because unless CB marries me, I will not produce any offspring. Christine Braithwaite is the only person whom I'd consider making my duchess.

Home at 5.30 to find Mum and Dad looking sun-tanned after a week in Scotland laden with relics and souvenirs of Balmoral and Inveraray. They tell us the tale and explain how they managed to motor 1300 miles in seven days. Glad to see them home safely.

To the Fleece with Dave, Lynn and John. I tore a hole in my trousers climbing into Mr Baker's sports car, but otherwise received no other injuries, well other than verbal ones that is. At the off-licence in Guiseley we were asked our age! Twenty years old, and people still think I'm 15.

All the mob gather in the Fleece and we move on to Laura's at 9.30. A drunken evening follows. Laura's parents are nice folk. Much nicer than I ever imagined. Her eighty-six year-old granny was a right case too. Chris, Pete M, John, Raymond and his mate, and me walked back down Town Street at 2am and we left chaos and devastation in our path. John fell off the causeway and sprained his ankle, and was then bitten by Dandy, the Ratcliffe hound, on our arrival at 21, Victoria Drive. Poor Pete had never been drunk before. And WAS he drunk!

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Friday May 30, 1975

Friday again. Feeling miserable because Christine doesn't love me, and no doubt I ruined a perfect friendship by telling her I'm besotted with her. However, I'm not dwelling on that any more today.

At 8 o'clock we went to the Hare & Hounds and I was roused from my dreary state by Marian and Maura, who were sitting in a corner debating the idea of going for a meal in the Hare restaurant. Embarassment followed when I explained to Marian that I'd gone into Woolworth's, where she told me she worked, in order to have a chat, and she dissolved in a heap of hysterics beneath the table. She explained that at Gillian Barker's party she'd been too drunk to say she was a cartographer, evidently someone who draws maps, and amidst the giggles coming from her and Maura, she told me she'd never worked in Woolworth's, especially never on the sweet counter. The girl is horribly mad.

Saw poor Christine for about ten minutes. Mr Braithwaite was taken into hospital this afternoon, and her Mum didn't specify in the note she'd left as to which hospital he'd been taken. Gary took her off at about 9 o'clock.

John, Sue, Pete and me go to Wikis which is quiet really. Have a good dance. The DJ is playing a lot of James Brown. Meet a little girl from Hill Way - Shirley - who delights me. My dreams are shattered when she says she is only 15. All the same, there is no denying she is a nice looking bird. Of course, I won't see her again.

Thursday May 29, 1975

The Press is still full of the Prince of Wales's beard. Certain annals of the newspaper industry have gone so far as to say that HRH was breaking naval rules by parading himself with his moustache before his mother, the Lord High Admiral. In the Royal Navy you either have to have a 'full-set' i.e. moustache and beard, or nothing at all, and when His Royal Highness was installed as Grand Master of the Order of the Bath - brandishing a ginger moustache - he was breaking the law. Anyway, he left to join his ship, the Hermes, later on today clean shaven. And that is the end of that.

Saw 'Top of the Pops' on TV and do little else. At least it is pay day today, and £6 is going into the bank for the holiday. Bye Bye.

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Wednesday May 28, 1975

A right Royal Day today. I arrived at work to find a photo of the bearded Prince of Wales on my desk, and I was startled to see how much he looked like a young King George V. Without further ado I delved into the picture archives and emerged with a photo of George V, suitably bearded of course. The resemblance is remarkable and I realised immediately that this would be a good idea for a story. 'People' the YP diary is an obvious place for such an article. However, my labours are in vain, and every time I attempt to pass on my ideas they are shouted down and ridiculed. By lunchtime I have given up hope. However, at 3 I was approached by Chris Dawson with a request for pictures of ALL the bearded monarchs of England. 'Hell', I thought, 'how many Kings of England have been bearded. Let's solve this by a process of elimination.' George VI and Edward VIII were clean shaven, and so was Queen Victoria. King Edward VII and King George V were proud beard owners, and none of the first four Georges had one. Queen Anne didn't have one, and William and Mary couldn't grow a beard between them. So, in one way or another the throne of Great Britain was beardless between 1649 and 1901. Henry VIII and poor Charles I were reasonably endowed with facial hair, but that's about all.

But alas, and alack, no sooner had I suppled Chris Dawson with images of bearded kings that I receive news of horrific consequence. Carol is shouting something like: 'He's shaved it off! He's shaved it off!' Indeed, the prince has succumbed to the razor. Carol was laughing hysterically. 'He's got a moustache now'.

The thought of searching for moustachioed monarchs didn't please me all that much. Poor Dawson returned to his desk, head bowed at the thought of losing a good story.

On my arriving home I look in at the 6 o'clock news and see the Prince of Wales endowed with a moustache dressed in robes of Grand Master of the Order of the Bath, and looking remarkably like the Prince Consort. However, I have made up my mind never to notice resemblances amongst members of the Royal Family again.

Home at 5.30 for tea and prepare to see Leeds United in the European Cup. Dave Baker joins us and we indulge in a few glasses of lager, ale, &c.

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Tuesday May 27, 1975

Don't feel like compiling any events for today. In fact I feel like putting an end to this miserable diary once and for all. OK, I'm depressed and I don't know what I'm saying, but you've got yo admit, it isn't very exciting, is it?

First day back at the YP. No astounding news in the press, and 'Edward VII' wasn't on TV tonight because of the industrial dispute with the technicians.

Dave, Lynn, John and I go to the Hare & Hounds for yet another drink. This makes the total of boozy consecutive days to six. Last Wednesday at the Hare, Thursday with Gillian, Friday, Saturday and Sunday at Grassington, Monday back at the Hare of course and then today. However, it was Edward VII's fault tonight.

Home at 10 o'clock to hear on the news that a bus accident occurred near Grassington this afternoon killing 31 women and the driver. It is Britain's worst ever road accident. To think that yesterday afternoon we were driving around on the self same autobahn.

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Monday May 26, 1975

Holiday in England, N. Ireland & Wales. The last Day: Awake coughing and sneezing because of the feathers in my sleeping bag. Emerged from the tent looking like a Pantomime Duck, or something. After dangling my head in the river and taking in the air I clear up a bit, but it'll be weeks before my sinuses clear properly. This allergy of mine is a tiresome hinderance. The same thing happened when I went with CB to Sheffield. All Dave Baker's sleeping bags are full of little feathers, and I never fail to succumb to the horrors of them.

After breakfast (another fried one) we go into Grassington for one final boozing session. The town is full of Morris Dancers, and when they came in the pub we couldn't hear ourselves speak for the jingling of bells and other clattering noises associated with this hideous village pastime.

After spending an hour in the pub we made our way home, via Appletreewick and other scenic places.

On our arrival at the Devonshire Arms we find a note pinned to John's car from Mum and Dad, who'll now be in Scotland. He managed to get the car going, and we were home for 5 o'clock.

After tea we go to the Hare & Hounds (just for a change) and I spend the whole time chatting with Christine, who passed a miserable weekend quite alone. Gary was away pot-holing - creep that he is.

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