Thursday February 2, 1978

The Presentation of Christ.

Maria & JPH.

Prepare to visit Muswell Hill. Got everything packed and then went for my appointment at 69, Silverdale Drive, with my brother and dear sister-in-law. Went at 8:00 and stayed until 10:30 or so. JPH is almost walking. He calls me 'Mick' which sounds hilarious. A real darling, he is, and by far the most attractive child I have ever laid eyes upon. One day I expect him to make a thunderous impact on the film world or maybe figure on the political scene. Maria is so like Molly. A good evening. I managed to collect some of the gear John pinched from me at the New Year. He brought me home, and I finished packing my meagre, pathetic belongings.


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Wednesday February 1, 1978

Not writing anything today. It's my diary and when I say I cannot be bothered you should accept it. I'm glad of one thing though. January is over until 1979. Once this lousy month is out of the way it's a clear run to daffodil time, frisky lambs, and tulips waving in the Spring breeze. Marvellous eh? Would Wordsworth have been proud of my sentiments?

Carry on with poor King Edward VI. It's a bloody shame he didn't live longer. But, come to think of it, if he hadn't died prematurely England would have never had a Queen Elizabeth I, and look what a loss that would have been? If she hadn't reigned then I now would have been writing this in Spanish because Philip II would have undoubtedly made England a Spanish colony after his Armada victory over Drake. But, hang on, would the Spanish Armada have set out at all if Edward VI had still been on the throne? Would Sir Francis Drake have been in such a position too under another monarch? Oh, God. What hole am I digging here?

Clement Attlee.

Would Clement Attlee have been Labour party leader if Hereward the Wake had never existed? One could go on like this indefinitely. Alternative history. Fascinating.

Weather: snow still hanging about. Blast it.






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Tuesday January 31, 1978

Moon's last quarter 23:51.

More snow. Marita's 23rd birthday, but something of a flop. I saw her at 4:30 on Wellington Street and she mentioned something about going out for a drink - a consolation booze-up - with Chris and Denise. I readily agreed to join the party.

At home I prepared a suitable birthday card (a Mig Rhodes montage no less, made from old YP photographs) and readied myself for this unusual Tuesday night venture. But at 8:00 she phoned saying Mr & Mrs Fountain have arranged to take her out for a surprise meal, and so it's a kick in the teeth for our night out. Lynn became suspicious and said __________.

King Edward VI.

I sat reading Edward VI by Hester Chapman, brooding over what might have been. The 1540s were troubled times and I must admit I'm quite confused about the intrigues of the Seymours and the Greys. I have managed to get to page 131 though. One thing's for sure, I no longer feel sorry for Lady Jane Grey.

Margaret Thatcher's immigration speech is creating a furore. There is also talk that Harold Wilson resigned when he did in March 1976 to lessen the impact of the breakdown of the Snowdon marriage. Did I comment on the closeness of these events at the time? I believe I did. I no longer read my old diaries regularly. I'm nauseated by myself, and keep the journals in a black box under lock and key.

To bed at 12:15 with King Edward VI.




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Monday January 30, 1978

Jacqui phoned to make certain I am visiting her next weekend. Of course I am. I rang Dave G to let him know that the holiday is booked and he gave a sigh of relief. It was all worrying. No doubt the Rt Hon Merlyn Rees, MP, worries in this fashion every morning. One day it's the fire brigade, and the next day it's the police.

I phoned CB. She and Philip H patched things up on Sunday. God, she was pissed!

Naomi.

Coming home from town I bumped into Naomi (not exactly 'bumped' because she was at the steering wheel of a vehicle whilst I was on foot). She told me that Carole was in tears on Saturday afternoon and that they both (she and Fogarty) telephoned apologising for their silly behaviour. I hadn't been aware of all this. Naomi saw Carole this afternoon, who said that Peter F is an ass. My apologies to Carole are now very necessary. I ruined her afternoon, but at the same time I'm resentful of Fogarty's attitude. He should not be allowed to get away with it.

Laughed with Naomi about the marvellous food and the visit to the Wharfedale Gate. She's had everyone moaning about the choice of pub, and demanding explanations as to why we had to endure Saturday night therein. Yes, that was my fault.

Tonight. Read the Lord Peter Wimsey book and actually finished it. Can't say I'm all that impressed by Miss Sayers. I have read quite a few of her books and each one has left me cold. Rather boring, long-winded and lacking in that 'hold' which novels of this type should inflict. Dame Agatha (Christie) does it to well.

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Sunday January 29, 1978

8th Sunday before Easter.

A nauseating day. Out of bed at 10:30 which is far too early. Sit around like a paraplegic for most of the day, generally annoying everyone.

I forgot to mention that Tony was at yesterday's Bacchanalian spectacular. ______.

Lunch was good but I could barely keep my eyes open to devour it. Endure several films on the TV and attempted to read 'Lord Peter Wimsey'. Fail miserably.

Execution of King Charles I at Whitehall.

I forgot to phone Dave G about the holiday, but then I forget most things. That's all for today now. You ought to be thankful that I bothered writing anything at all. Blimey, why should I become a martyr just for your sake? On the subject of martyrs didn't King Charles I meet his maker on a day at the end of January? Hold on a minute, I'll just go look it up in Burke's (Peerage). Yes, he was decapitated at Whitehall on January 30, 1649, and buried at Windsor. That's 329 years ago tomorrow. Poor bugger.

GOODNIGHT

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Saturday January 28, 1978

Sun rises 07:45 Suns sets 16:42

Up at 11. Naomi's 21st birthday party. I went to 10, Southway at noon. Susan was laughing as I headed down Hawksworth Lane with my coat pulled over my head reminiscent of a Saudi Arabian.

with WPC Carolle Jones.

Tremendous party. In answer to the question "Do Unitarian ministers get pissed at lunchtime?" it would only be fair to answer: "No, they do not. But they help everyone else become horribly so". The Rev. and Mrs Downing are very friendly, but old. His Reverence told me, quite confidentially, over the bottles in the kitchen, that he had celebrated his 39th birthday on his honeymoon.

Everyone you can possibly think of turned up. CB, Philip H, Carole, Fogarty, and Carolle Jones, of whom I am terribly fond. However, the vast quantity of booze proved hazardous for public relations. CB was pissed and in tears when her young man cleared off with fat Lynne from the Oval, and Fogarty took Carole home at about 3 after he discovered us fraternising in the 'bar'. She only had her arm through mine, nothing sexual. I felt awful about this because it ruined her afternoon. She told me she will write next week.

Naomi is divinely attractive, as is the nosh. Alas, garlic cropped up in most items on the menu. Richard Wellock had to smuggle CB home at 6 or perhaps 7, and Carolle J and I were left romantically linked. She's joining the police force a week on Monday.

Events from now become dreadfully hazy. Burley in Wharfedale, Flying Pizza, lager, cousin Dorothy, pool tables, Carolle in my old raincoat, &c. Yes, all this splashing around in my lager logged brain. I recoil in horror at the thought of visiting my fierce cousin Dorothy. C and I were horribly pissed, but as far as I can remember Dorothy was diplomatically silent on this. Carolle in my filthy, old raincoat looked spectacular. The Wharfedale Gate was the last pub we visited I'm sure. We were later refused entry at Il Trovatore before finding success at the Elma. Danced with Carolle all night and her last words to me were: "This time we must definitely keep in touch, Michael", said with a certain knowing look.

Home into bed with a gruesome headache at 1:45am.

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Friday January 27, 1978

Rather a wet, damp day. I made an exit from the obnoxious YP at 12. Well, no, it was almost 1pm because I had to inform Fred Manby of an engagement between one of the Beckett family and a granddaughter of Colin Forbes Adam. (You won't appreciate the great importance of this at all).

 The Hotel S'Estanyol is booked. Deposits have been gathered in and paid. Nothingness until playing out time.

Sue and Pete took me to the Fox at 9 where CB and Mary entertained me.We had a bloody marvellous night too. Martyn, Peter M, Steve H and Tony came in, but left after one drink. Sue and Pete left with Chippy and Gus for the Malt Shovel which left me alone with the two gorgeous women.

At 10:30 we went up to the Crown at Yeadon. CB immediately went 'off' because of Philip's presence (by 'off' I of course mean miserable). She says she would drop everything and go off with him tomorrow if he were to say the word, but she thinks the word will never actually come.

Everybody in the Crown played the 'Michael Miles' game. Yes, when you're playing that you know things are pretty bad. Nobody can say 'yes' or 'no' and when you slip up everyone in the pub yells 'DONG'. Funny, eh?

CB is even more gorgeous and our friendship is probably deeper than ever. I can read her like a book (which I suppose is better than reading someone like a chest of drawers).

Home at 11:30-12 o'clock. CB came in a for a quick glass of vino and then went off home. Tomorrow afternoon should be riotous. Do Unitarian ministers get pissed at lunchtime? This is a very important question which I hope to answer tomorrow.  Goodnight.

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