20120514

Wednesday April 13, 1977

To be honest with you I fully intended sitting by my fireside tonight with a good book and a mug of cocoa, but circumstances changed. CB rang at 6.30 feeling miserable and saying she has something of interest to tell me. I ask he "what?" and she responds "Oh, I'll tell you tonight at half past eight in the Hare". Bang went my cosy, domestic family evening by a warm telly.

CB: Pontins bound
Mum gave me a lift down to the Hare at 8.15. Judith is propping up a gin and tonic. Oh God, both Judith and CB in one evening. Talk about God, religion, ghosts, our reason for living - all very seriously. Judith believes in nothing at all, and when CB comes in she's like Judith and says only the weak need to believe in anything. Crap, I say. CB says she's resigned from Mothercare and is considering moving to Bournemouth to work at Pontins (holiday camp). Arrghh. She looks pale and drinks too much and then disappears to Oakwood Hall with a mysterious character at 10.30 saying "thanks Mig, and thanks for trying to cheer me up". Bye Bye Darling. Do you know I worship that girl? I'm so glad she didn't go out with Chris last Wednesday. I hate to see her looking bored.

Judith:  joint novel?
Judith and I were joined by Tony at 10pm. He takes us back to Bedside Manor. I was a bit pissed having supped lager and even Pernod in the Hare. At Judith's we discuss writing a novel jointly and have a glass of nauseating Noilly (Prat). Whilst discussing our novel we try to tip the Noilly back into its bottle and then start on the real hard stuff - yer actual McCoy. Me whisky and Judith gin. Pissed up for sure by 2am. Slumped on a rug reading a book about the Goons and the Concordance to Shakespeare. Judith points out that whenever we get together we end up on the floor surrounded by empty bottles. She's so right. Stagger out into the rain at 3am and borrow Judith's Papa's umberella. Get home and banging around I waken Mum. She moans about "coming in at this hour when you're working" &c. Good old Mama. I think the world of her.






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Tuesday April 12, 1977

Dreadful day back at the YP. My eye-balls ached all day long and it took Lord Home-type will power to keep them open throughout the whole tiresome charade. Yes, I am feeling rotten.
Uncle Harry and JPH

Argue with Mum about Uncle Harry. I will not accept that he is alcoholic. Drunkard maybe (if there's a difference) but not a alcoholic. Mum hits the roof and says I should not defend him because it's my type who encourages him to be what he is, but I refuse to stand down and say she's making mountains out of Ilkley Moor. He may neglect himself and be a trifle squalid, but it goes too far to give him such a label. We became quite heated and violent about the whole issue. Regrettable really. Good Old Mum - she means well and has Harry's best interests at heart but why does everything have to be so melodramatic and serious?

Martyn
Out with Tony and Martyn to the Hare, Half Moon and Fox & Hounds. They've been to Scotland with Linda and Ruth. Martyn says he's ____________________. I find boasting about sex grotesquely childish. Tony didn't say much.  He's still ________________.Home at 10.30 thinking I'm being made fun of.  Arranged with Martyn to go out with him and Gayle - me escorting Emu, or whatever her name is. They were amazed I'd consider such a thing.






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Monday April 11, 1977

Bank Holiday in England, Ireland and Wales. Last night  was ghastly. Feathers abounded and my poor lungs almost gave way to it all. Gasping and wheezing my way through a Bank Holiday is hardly what you'd call enjoyment, but I suppose it's better than being at the Yorkshire Post.

The morn is warm and sunny and the birds are singing gaily. In fact I accidentally kicked a sparrow off it's feet thinking it was a stone. What's wrong with the bird-life in Cumbria? Our feathered friends in Yorkshire wouldn't let you do such a thing.

Breakfast again consisted of eggs, sausages and the lot. Have a laugh with Maria about her half-cast Irish accent. She has a good sense of humour for sure, and the weight is falling off her. A slip of a girl in fact.

A photographic session outside the accursed Kell Head (pub) and then whilst I'm inspecting the urinals John, Sue, Peter and the baby disappear down a lane on some sort of nature trail. I gave chase and after 10 minutes I found them hiding in a field in the hope that I'd walk merrily past and fade away over the horizon. They had even gone to the trouble of lifting John (baby version) in his pram over a five barred gate and into a derelict barn to perfect the dastardly scheme. Swines that they are.

The party arrives from Uncle H's abode and Mum pays her bill. She was still fuming about last night's snub. Lynn laughed and said that Susan resorted to smoking in bed to calm the violence of her temper over the 10.30 closing horror. The offending cigarettes were borrowed from Mrs Maria Rhodes.

Hurriedly pack and within half an hour we're back on the road to St Bees - in somewhat more clement circumstances than yesterday. I take off shoes and roll up trousers and hurtle myself in the direction of the sea. Maria likens my prancing over the sands to that of a frisky stallion. A photographic session followed as the clan gathered 'neath a concrete barrier in the weak sunshine. Memorable it was.

Fish and chips back at Uncle Harry's and at 3pm we're on the trek homeward. Me, Mum, Dad, John, Maria and baby in one car, and the others with Peter. Stopped off at the Anchor Inn again but otherwise it was straight home. The usual Bank Holiday traffic jams but that can only be expected. On a starving rampage on my arrival home. The Cumbrian sea air must have brought it on because I just could not stop eating. Beans on toast, cheese, jam, buns, cream crackers, &c. You name it, pal, I ate it tonight.

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Sunday April 10, 1977

Easter Day. Raining at first, but brighter later. Woke up with an incredible hangover. Have I died in my sleep? Feel really grotty at first. A run up the garden to the (Kell Head) pub and a dip in the bathroom followed by eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread &c &c rejuvenated me greatly and by half past eleven I was quite ready for anything. The rain proves no deterrent and the whole party sets off in a convoy for St Bees. Yes, the seaside. A quick dash in the drizzle on the 'front' by most of the party was enough but for the more adventurous the call of the pub proved irresistible.

Have a few drinks with Uncle Harry who tells me that once (during the war) he worked down the pit. Yes, a miner no less. I didn't know that. Mum sat in the car, closeted with JPH, and was thoroughly enjoying it by the look on her face. How long is it since we had a baby with us at the seaside? Must have been when Susan was in nappies. The rain was pounding in St Bees and following a Cabinet meeting in the pub comes the announcement that the party will adjourn to the Nethertown HQ. However, on our return to H's caravan the sun  broke from behind a cloud and cascaded down upon us. We danced in a frenzied mob on the Nethertown beach and hurled pebbles at one another. Cameras came out too. Baby was pushed up and down in his pram and some of the boys found solace in crab murdering. Papa stood gazing out to see, in dark spectacles, like Fidel Castro. Isn't it strange how salty sea air works up a thirst in young men?

Back to the Kell Head for a couple of hours. Plenty of Elvis Presley and egg mayonnaise sandwiches too. All quite pissed we were - again. Then back to the Nethertown encampment. Blimey, it's up and down like a yoyo isn't it? See Lord Grade's 'Jesus of Nazareth' on Uncle H's minute tv set and prepare ... yes, you've guessed it ...to return to a certain pub presided over by a certain fat barmaid. The Kell Head again. For some reason, probably because of the fact that it's Easter Sunday, a sobering influence hangs over the lounge of the above mentioned tavern. Uncle Harry isn't three sheets in the wind. All very distressing, eh? At 10.30, when I'm just about to settle down and start some serious drinking 'Big Jean' drops a bombshell upon us. "I'm closing on time tonight, Ducks", she calmly announces. Mum especially looked horribly pained and I had to offer assistance to John who came over all faint. Big, horrible Fat Jean has no right to do such a thing. Don't patrons have rights? Are we to be walked upon as though we're in the Soviet Union? No, No, No. But yes. Back to the caravan for a French-cut (pyjama) party with Dave and Pete. Didn't really feel like drinking at all and sat watching the light ale running away.

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Saturday April 9, 1977

One of those horrible mornings when one wishes one had remained in ones bedroom. A nice sunny day true enough, but the chaos and pandemonium and general escalation of activity due to our forthcoming departure north for Easter took away the elation and joy.

Princess Louise, Duchess of Fife
I sat reading the morning papers amid the panic of suitcase packing. Princess Anne is the main topic in the press. Will the Queen's grandchild be Master or Miss Phillips, or will the Cap'n be forced into accepting an earldom, marquesate, or even a dukedom? I've read in the papers that no precedent exists for a monarch to bestow a title upon a grandchild by-passing the parents. But in fact the granddaughters of King Edward VII (daughters of the Princess Royal, Duchess of Fife) were created Princesses in 1905. Here's the citation coming up: "King Edward VII was pleased to declare on Nov 9, 1905 that his daughter, HRH The Princess Louise, Duchess of Fife should bear the title Princess Royal, and that her daughters should bear the title of Princess with the qualification of Highness, and should rank immediately after all members of the Royal Family bearing the style of Royal Highness." Why not make Anne Princess Royal and  create all her children Princes or Princesses as indeed the offspring of Charles, Andrew and Edward will be? This would solve all the petty problems of peerages, honourables and such like.

To Cumbria at 1.30 or so stopping at the Anchor Inn at Skipton (sic) on the way. Mum, Dad, Lynn, Dave, Sue, Peter, John, Maria, JPH,  and me. Ten of us. Get to Uncle H's before 5. He's pissed out of his mind and cooking a diabolical meal for us. We all eat grinning all over our faces. The Yorkshire puddings were like nothing on earth. All go to the Kell Head pub which is in the middle on nowhere. (2 miles from Egremont and St Bees), where all except Mum, Dad and Harry are to pass the next couple of nights. By 7.30 we're all in the bar. The baby hates the place and he cried and screamed until midnight. I don't think the little fellow appreciated the juke-box the sound of which vibrated on his bedroom floor. We all sat there until about 2am. The 'landlady' - call her what you will - is affectionately known as 'Big Jean' Sherwen. Never a more repulsive woman could you wish to lay eyes on. A horror indeed. All pissed up and singing. Dave, Pete and I in a caravan in the garden. Dave wears 'French cut' pyjamas - what he does in the privacy of his bedroom is no concern of mine, but I cannot help marveling at them. Die laughing in fact.

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20120417

Friday Apirl 8, 1977

Good Friday. Helen Malin, 23. Out of bed at 10.30 this morning. The sun is shining down merrily too. Why not go out for a walk, Michael, and feel all that warmth on your little legs? Yes, I will. I go down into Guiseley and purchase a birthday card for dearest Judith. I then sauntered round to Bedside Manor to deliver up my greetings card in person with strict instructions for her not to open it yet. In fact, I'd slipped a letter in with it and had to partially write it in the telephone box on Fieldhead Road and partly on the footpath outside Guiseley School.

Judith entertains me to coffee but looks ill because she has fallen foul of her dentist earlier this week, and her wisdom teeth had been extracted on my birthday, of all days.

Old photographs and her cat were the principal subjects discussed at great length.

I went home for a non-existent lunch with Mama, who is in a foul mood. (Dad is still on his back under the car all covered in motor oil). Mum's mood worsens and the combined effects of her miserable face and the film 'South Pacific' didn't do much for morale. But at 5 o'clock, as if by magic, the film was interrupted by a news flash and a smiling Richard Baker announces that Princess Anne is expecting a baby in November. Joyous news indeed. For such an announcement to come on Helen Malin's birthday is fate indeed. I believe we have a bet on Princess Anne's maternity dates. Fancy. The Queen a grandmama! Good Old Captain Phillips. I was beginning to doubt his masculinity somewhat. Three cheers for them all.
High Society

John and Maria come up at 6.30 for ten minutes. John's car is also knackered. Even as I write this I can hear Mama blowing her mind over her fish pie in the kitchen.

Devouring my (fish) pie I decided to remain in front of the television tonight and not to venture out to the pub, as tradition demands. Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you. My decision has nothing to do with Princess Anne's good news either. I am not clad in my Union Jack underpants and clutching my postcard of Anne and Mark's wedding. My decision was due to the BBC. Yes, a tv series about slavery that's brought the USA to a stand still - called 'Roots'. The household is in great holiday furore. Not a morsel of food or drink in the place because you know what mother's are like when it comes to leaving grub kicking around in the fridge for more than 24 hours with no one in the house to eat it? Dust is flying from suitcases, windjammers, thermos flasks, cotton nappies, &c.

Mum discusses stopping at a pub for lunch tomorrow. "What about the baby?" I ask. "Oh, we're bona fide friends". Eh?  "Well", continued mother yawning "JPH has small bona fides". Too much for me is all that.

By 11 we're watching a film starring Twiggy - Mama and Papa having retired to bed. Princess Grace and Bing Crosby are on the other channel in that smashing epic they usually put on at Christmas - 'High Society'. What this film has in common with the birth or death of Jesus Christ I simply don't know.

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20120323

Thursday April 7, 1977

Last day at the office before the commencement of the Easter holiday. Can't say I'm not looking forward to it. Haven't had a break since Christmas.

Dad: his car's MOT.
Tempted to go down to the Hare but decide against it. Must conserve a few bob for the gathering in Cumbria. Looking forward to seeing Uncle Harry again.

Rang Dave L at 8. He's going to the Hare with a couple of friends from Bradford tonight and mentions seeing Chris R and John & Maria earlier in the week. Why hasn't he been to see me? I'm jealous.

Watch TV until midnight with Mama. Dad and Dave B are under the car outside. It's having its MOT on the morrow and they're desperate to ensure it gets through. I couldn't do it myself. Cars are the curse of the 20th century. Will they still be around in the next century? The Arabs will own all the natural resources by then, and so I doubt it. Don't talk to me about North Sea Oil either. That's the biggest swindle since the Common Market. Besides, Scotland will be independent by 1990, and so that will be out.

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Sunday April 1, 1984

 4th Sunday in Lent Mothering Sunday New Moon Sunny, bright, &c. Smothering Sunday. All Fool's Day. Busy. Rob came and so too did th...