Thursday June 22, 1978

A cultural evening again. I phoned Jacq at 9 this morning to ask if she fancied the theatre this evening and she said yes but I would have to subsidise her, of course. I agreed to go with Sarah and John Mac to see 'A Family' or 'The Family' starring Eleanor Bron and Paul Scofield at the Grand (Theatre) Leeds (tickets £2). I have no money, but who cares?

Sarah bought one of my 'House of Holroyd' shirts for £5 which, unethical it may have been, but it was the only way I could remain solvent this week.

Sarah took me to Ivory Towers at 4 and I had a massive tea of salad, strawberries and cream, chocolate sundae, &c. The poor shih tzu was violently sick on the lounge carpet, and then did something else, but I averted my eyes and my tea was unspoiled. Sarah laughed at my recumbent figure reclining in the arm chair.

John Mac came at 7 and we went to the Grand where I met Jacq. She says she loathed the play but I thought it was brilliant. _________.

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Wednesday June 21, 1978

Dad and I went to Lynn and Dave's at Burley this evening to help finish splashing undercoat on the bedroom. Audrey and Henry Baker came in. ___________. Mrs B makes it obvious she dislikes Lynn's choice of 'Tomato Surprise' emulsion on the bedroom ceiling. However, tittle tattle on the subject of my sister's décor isn't getting us anywhere, is it?

What became of the excitement and pulsating thrills that once filled these pages? The sex, the violence, the passion, the tears, and the laughter?

What possible entertainment can you derive from knowing that tonight, for instance, I came back from Burley and sat with a glass of lager discussing the shabby picture on the wall above the fireplace with Mummy? You must be mad to find that remotely interesting.

David G phoned. I couldn't say whether I'd be putting in an appearance on Saturday. This so-called air display (at Woodford) begins in the morning, and so it's going to have to be a crack of dawn trip, isn't it?

Leapt into the bath and de-painted myself before retiring to bed.

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Tuesday June 20, 1978

Full Moon 21:30

Mr Lazenby and others appeared in the office today and I told them the tale of Sunday night/Monday morning. By lunchtime I was a celebrity and could do no work for giving interviews to the more successful Blackpool travellers. Dave Bruce, for one, seems to hold me in higher esteem. Why making an utter and complete fool of myself in several counties in the space of five or six hours impressed my colleagues I fail to see. Perhaps it was a yearning for mystery and adventure they longed for. I was surrounded by forty or fifty lads who have always longed to be stranded in a northern seaside resort, but have never dared do it. Unlike me, the first EP Father's Day tripper to pass a night on the open road ~ on Her Majesty's highway. Surely, I now merit a front page splash in Postscript (our internal rag)? Indeed, I have achieved something this weekend that even Chris Bonington or Sherpa Tenzing could never even imagine doing.

Jacq phoned today and I apologised about crashing out on her arrival last night. Evidently John came up bearing belated Father's Day gifts. She and Mum entertained him in my absence.

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Monday June 19, 1978

I went straight to the office arriving at 8:45 blistered and still covered in a fine layer of sand. The day proved too much for me and at 12 I had to leave the YP and make my way home.

Jacq came to see me at 8, bringing flowers for Mama whose wedding anniversary it is today. Minutes later I was out cold. Oh God! My first night in a bed since Thursday!

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Sunday June 18, 1978

4th Sunday after Trinity

Father's Day

We walked (continued from the previous page - editor) to Guiseley in high spirits and of course in clothing and footwear. I deposited Jacq at a bus stop and went home to wash my face, change my shirt and collect a bottle of coffee wine. I then tanked back down the lane and found Jacq still waiting for a bus and so I took her to Mr Lazenby's residence, where I was set upon by Pete's common-law wife's bronchil son. In fact I was almost wiped out by the little brat.

At 7:30am Pete's girlfriend drove us all to the Central, where I parted with Jacq until tomorrow. And so it came to pass that on the morning of Father's Day we began our intake of alcoholic beverage. I am ashamed to say that I could only manage lager whilst Pete was drinking whisky. By the time the coach arrived at 9:30am we were all pissed up. I sat with Darryl Wills and Pete, who drank most of my coffee wine ~ at his own peril.

In typical fashion we hit Blackpool at noon and within minutes we were gathered in a lousy, tart-filled cavern drinking ale. Let me say that at this stage I was feeling quite fit, healthy and wide awake, but even as I pen this I must add that the memory of this pub is the last thing I do recall before waking up on the beach, covered in sand, with a Yorkshire terrier straddling my form, at 7pm in the evening.

Yes, the coach had left Blackpool at 6:30 without me, but to be fair they had waited in the station for half an hour. I was sunburned too. I didn't panic, weep or wail or throw my hands in the air with frustration. I got on the first coach I could find ~ to Preston ~ and hit the place at some time after 8. I managed to phone Pete at the Albion in Skipton with news of my safety, and then hitch hiked towards the motorway.

Pete told me that the coffee wine had had a drastic effect. I may have been stranded in the wilds of Lancashire but at least I was physically intact.

From here I was picked up by a geezer who drove like a maniac, and blasted off down a motorway which had a sign 'Leeds 45 miles'. He turned to me after heading a few miles down the road and said: "I'm going to have to drop you here because I'm forking off to Eccles now." I didn't want to go to Eccles. It was now about 11pm. It was a warm evening, which was a god thing, because my thin, gaily coloured deckchair-like shirt was my only protection from the elements.

So, I was stranded on the hard shoulder of the M-Way, and within minutes a police car pulled up and I was hauled inside and cautioned. It's an offence for pedestrians to perambulate on a motorway. "Anything you say will be taken down..." &c. I was booked, charged and tainted. My future political career was in tatters. The young PC drove me to a junction and ordered me off the motorway. I was dropped on a busy road and within minutes I was on a late night bus heading towards Manchester. It crossed my mind to go see Dave in Stockport, but decided not to. I didn't want to worry him, and he wouldn't want a fugitive on his hands. I was the only passenger on the bus and the driver looked back at me and enquired: "how do you fancy a Chinese meal?" I said "no thanks" but it didn't prevent him parking up the bus and nipping off into a restaurant for quite some time to dine. I waited for quite a bit and then went into a fish and chip shop next door and bought a few cans of pop to wash the sand out of my mouth. A woman in the shop asked to buy my shirt. I declined. We hit Manchester a little after 12 and once again I set off towards a motorway.

I met a friendly, but highly suspect taxi driver, who let me travel free of charge in his cab. He took me to the M62 (again), but after a couple of hours walking I hadn't secured a lift, and crossing fields I found myself in Rochdale (?). At 6am I got a bus back to Manchester where I waited for the first coach to Leeds at 7:30am.

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Saturday June 17, 1978

Sun rises at 04:43 Sun sets 21:20

Another party. Jacq and I went to Bradford this afternoon where I collected the air tickets from Denise. It was Jacq's first meeting with my former constant companion.

A bright, sunny afternoon, but I dislike the town intensely. We were back home for 4 or 5. After tea with the clan the two of us walked to the Crown at Yeadon. Philip K, Jane and co told us that Jed is having a party tonight, and so Jacq immediately approached the young man and secured our invitation. We purchased a few bottles and walked with Jed to his house, where his DJ brother has millions of brill records. We didn't drink to excess but did a lot of dancing and laughing.

A guy by the name of John taught Jacq to say "Doctor Bob!" like Miss Piggy on The Muppet Show, and far into the night the house, and indeed the street, rang to the sound of screeching puppet piggy voices.

Miss Carol Smith was at the party. She now owns her own hairdressing salon.

It was 5am and the birds were forming their own choral society when we finally decided to call it a day. Fourteen neighbours had committed suicide en masse out of protest at the noise level.

And so it came to pass that Mig and Jacqui left the party at Rawdon with the morning sun on their faces to venture out into the unknown.

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Friday June 16, 1978

Jacq had a party at the YWCA in honour of a party of Frogs who were passing through Leeds. I went straight round to her place from the YP and she washed my hair and gave me a clean shirt in her little room. Her room-mate is enormous ~ like a pregnant Indian elephant, or whichever type of elephant is the largest.

A couple of Greeks, a Scot and a Welshman joined us at the George tavern opposite the Infirmary where we made merry until closing time. The pub landlady resembles Hylda Baker.

Back at the YWCA I met Coun Mrs May Sexton, the principal or governor, or whatever they call 'em. She told me she would like to see capital punishment restored. So do I. It was a good, humorous party with loud pulsating music and sandwiches. We danced all night. At 4am I helped clear the devastation and at dawn I hitch-hiked home, completing the journey in a couple of hours.

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