Thursday December 22, 1983

5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

Shortest Day

Butcher's Arms.

Soddened. Couldn't reach L. Gledhill, but left a message with Jane at the brewery asking him to phone me. Porridge at dawn. Horrible breakfast TV. Selina Scott really put her foot in it telling the nation that Santa Claus doesn't exist. Can you imagine the sobbing children throughout the realm, sitting around their TV sets? 

To the Butcher's Arms at 9:20, where I 'bottled up' for a 'crippled' Rob. Les Gledhill phoned after 12 and told me to stay at Pudsey until Saturday and asked about the Moorhouse and 'can you do the job?' I of course replied 'yes' and he said he will see me after Christmas. Rob was gleeful and says I have the Moorhouse on the strength of this very vague conversation, but I'm not banking on anything. Frantic day. The till is like a computer and it takes an Einstein-like brain to operate it. Ally saw Dr Duck at 10. The baby can come any time from now until mid-January. Ally weighs 10st 3lb. Not too hideous. There's a lack of seasonal cheer at the Butcher's. Ally baked tonight and I put marzipan on a cake at 7. Butcher's 8-11pm. Hilda and Tony called in. I was too busy to socialise for long. They introduced me to Michelle Myers (nee Pickles), my cousin-in-law, who was in drinking with a girl friend. Home at 11. Saw in the Daily Telegraph that Marlborough House in London may once again become a royal residence. A good thing.

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Wednesday December 21, 1983

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

Butcher's Arms.

Bloody wet. To the Butcher's Arms at Pudsey, where Rob has injured his back lifting a barrel onto the gantry. He is something of a Sarah Bernhardt, I fear. It looks as though I will be here until Saturday because young Master Piper is incapacitated. Kath made 80 Christmas dinners for a pack of factory workers, and yet the festive feeling isn't quite here yet. Poor Ally spent the day going back and forth to Bradford. At 3 we sat down and had turkey and wine . The Pipers have Yorkshire terriers who scurry around like rats. The staff here knife each other in the back, metaphorically of course, reminiscent of the 'Reign of Terror' in the French revolution. Home at 4:30. Cary Grant is soon to be eighty and they (the BBC) are regurgitating all his films. Gammon and pineapple. I then slept in a heap in my chair. Returned to Pudsey for 8. Uneventful. Rob's cellar could be cleaner. Saw Paul Edwards at a fish and chip shop and told him to circulate the news that I am in Pudsey until Christmas. Couldn't reach Gledhill though he did visit Rob at 5.

Tuesday December 20, 1983

 Full Moon

5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

The Brown Hare, Harehills.

Rain. Phoned L. Gledhill who wasn't in. Phoned Don Whitfield at the Brown Hare and he asked me to be at Harehills for 2pm. Ally washed a batch of nappies and half of them came out frayed at the edges and looked shoddy. They cost us £13 on Saturday. Ally drove me to Leeds and left me at the Brown Hare at 2 and went on to her Mothercraft class at Odsal to watch a film on childbirth. The Brown Hare is a new, red brick erection with a bar longer than I have ever seen. Don Whitfield is a happy go lucky country and western singer. His wife Audrey is a fresh faced chain smoker. He employs boys from the university to work in the bar - a good idea. It's very Linthorpe in its organisation. I worked in the bar - another Christmas party for OAPs. More atmosphere than last Saturday with everyone singing along as if they're at the City Varieties. An amazing cellar. Don's doing almost 20 barrels of ale a week. Ally came back for me at 6 and we bombed off home to watch TV and eat plastic bags of fish in sauce. 'Dallas'. Awful. Ally's childbirth film was worthwhile and she became emotional. We discussed births. Uncle John phoned at 11:30pm from Bourn, near Cambridge, just for a chat. He had no idea of our great change in lifestyle or of our forthcoming baby and didn't receive the letter I posted in April or May. He asked for Mum and Dad's address and said he'd phone us again soon. He laughed at my tales of horror from the Why Not. We do have a very similar sense of humour. To bed. Ally has indigestion and the baby kicked furiously beneath her peppermint nightie.

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Monday December 19, 1983

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

Filthy, wet day. We went out and found Mandy metro taking in more water. Something is going to have to be done, or the floor will give way. We went off to find Hunslet and visited Michael and Beverley Pirie, Australians, at the Moorhouse Inn. We were very pleasantly surprised and Ally was especially delighted at the size of the private living accommodation. The tap room looked as though it needed watching, but the lounge was full of good, quiet people devouring lunch. The pub takes about £2,500 a week, and the Piries make about £80 per week from the catering. It seems a good place to start in. We left after 2 and went shopping in a wet, busy town. I bought Ally 'Diorissimo' perfume and things of a practical nature from Habitat, and went to Samuel's where we bought each other a watch. Police were on the streets clearing shoppers from Marks & Spencers where a bomb scare had brought the IRA threat to the Christmas scene. 

Moorhouse Inn.

The Prince and Princess of Wales have visited the Harrods bomb victims in hospital.  ___________. At 5:30 we went wet and hungry into Da Mario's on the Headrow where I had a panzerotto, and Ally a seafood pizza. Saw cousin Di outside at the bus stop. We talked about the Moorhouse and agreed to phone Les Gledhill and offer to give it a go. Sat by the TV tonight. Ally phoned Bessie. 

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Sunday December 18, 1983

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

4th Sunday in Advent

Number 5.

An idle day - well for me it was. Spent hours wrapping Christmas presents we bought in Winchester. Amazed at the way we didn't dawdle. We usually do this in a mad panic late on Christmas Eve. It goes dark very quickly. So sooner were we out of bed when we were considering climbing back in it. Dave L phoned for the addresses of Lynn and Sue and mentioned that Christine Braithwaite had phoned him quite out of the blue, to say she is divorcing her husband and living back on New Road Side again. She now works behind the bar at the Chevin Inn. I went down the street delivering Christmas cards to our depleted clutch of neighbours. Spent some time with Phyllis Beale, mourning poor Bert. She had a Christmas tree standing no higher than three inches. Went to see Charles Eyden who told me he was born on September 7, 1899. Mary Moore was having a gigantic gathering for lunch and I inspected her festive table. She gave me a pudding and a jar of homemade mincemeat. For the remainder of the day it was one of peace. We sat by the tree lights and played Mario Lanza's Christmas LP, which always raises a laugh. Jim and Margaret called in at 7 and I showed him our leaking lavatory. He taped it up, but blames condensation.

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Saturday December 17, 1983

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green

Red Lion: Christmas party.

I still feel knackered after a good night's repose. Do you think I'm perhaps on edge about something? Christmas cards come flooding in. I went out before breakfast to buy a Daily Telegraph and I ordered a 10lb turkey from the Co-op butcher. It only cost me £5. Oddly, I haven't heard of any 'turkey shortage' scare this year. At this crucial time we are usally told that all the birds are dying in an epidemic, obviously to inflate the prices of those lucky enough to survive. We went in to town and bought a Christmas tree (with root) for £7. Town was like Hell and we came home after a couple of hours. The IRA have bombed Harrods. Dear God. I went out at 1pm to the Red Lion to help out at the hideous OAPs Christmas party. Old, senile dodderers spluttering turkey and pudding. Some of them, touchingly, wept with joy. Santa Claus came and so too did a Salvation Army band, and Les Gledhill. Chris Wills took Gledhill off to play pool and I worked my arse off. Something's wrong somewhere. The old folk staggered out at 5:30 and I did the bar until 8. Ally collected me in the motor. She was tired. We went home to pork pie and mushy peas. Afterwards we decorated the Christmas tree. Had a few beers and watched 'The Devil Rides Out'. To bed at 12:45. Ally attempted to push me out. What a darling.

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Friday December 16, 1983

 Waltergarth, Station Rd, Horton-in-Ribblesdale

Emmott Arms, Rawdon.

Mum woke us at 7:30 and cooked a breakfast. Just Ally and I ate because they never touch fried food. We said our goodbyes and quit Horton at 8:30. Pen-y-ghent was nowhere to be seen. Drove to the Emmott Arms for our liaison with L. Gledhill. Geoff and Alison (trainees from the Linthorpe) arrived here today to find the place in chaos. Eight people are booked in for Christmas lunch upstairs and no staff were on hand to prepare and so area manager Donna Lea is doing the cooking, and I am the wine waiter. A farce. I have never served wine at tables before, and felt self-conscious as I fumbled around with the bottles. I cannot have been too bad because they gave me a £2 tip. I finished at 2 and attempted to contact Ally, who had pootled off home, to no avail. I continued to try and contact her until after 6, and the most sinister thoughts passed through my mind. I sat upstairs with Geoff until 5:30, and then I opened the pub for him working until 7. Saw Philip Cartwright, who never changes. He was surprised to see me working for Sam Smiths. He relived our Pine Tops Christmas parties from '73 and '74. When I got through to Ally I am told she had been at hospital with Mary (Moore) who had cut her finger whilst carving a joint. Blood everywhere. I was so very relieved to hear her voice. Imagine if I had become a father without a ringside seat? Horrific. Tired and done in. Home. Food. Bed. Who would have ever thought I'd be running the bar at the Emmotts, such a regular haunt of my youth? You wouldn't recognise the place now. Very dismal and dilapidated.

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Thursday December 15, 1983

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

Waltergarth, Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

Fog. We went to Rawdon where I saw my dentist. He charged me £4 to do absolutely nothing but poke around in my mouth. Whatever happened to old Hough? Struck off perhaps, for mauling some poor housewife. By 10:30 we were at Sue's. She gave me a whisky. Christopher looked very grown up in his woolly pullover and he sat on my knee looking at a picture book. He seems an intelligent child, and no quite the lunatic people make him out to be. Sue looked thin and not in the least pregnant. On to Lynn's where the house was like an igloo, only colder. The children were blue with cold and ill-humoured. Lynn complained that she isn't mature, ______ and has no money, and was generally 'low'. Back at home we have a note from Les Gledhill asking me to phone. This I did, and he asked me to meet him at the Emmott Arms at 10am tomorrow. We went up to Horton at 5:30 and dined with Mum and Dad. Afterwards we decorated their Christmas tree and sat by the coal fire. Dad sat weaving the rug we bought him when he retired. Bed after 12.

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Wednesday December 14, 1983

 5, Club Street, Lidget Green, Bradford

Tony.

The old King and Uncle Tony share a birthday today. The old King (George VI) was 40 on the day of Tony's birth. Needless to say we sent a card (not to the old King, which would have been pointless, but to Tony). Sarah C phoned from the YP. She is just the same. Spent the day, the whole day, writing Christmas cards, after having breakfast in bed. Ally cannot sleep these days and was up at dawn pacing the rooms. The toilet has sprung a leak and we now resemble the RMS Lusitania taking in water everywhere. Phoned Dave Lawson. He has bought a house in South Elmsall, and now speaks in a south yorkshire accent. He thought Ally wasn't due until april and gasped when I told him her time is now due. Phoned Dave G. He and Lily have won a 10-day holiday to Mexico, or an island off Mexico, from January 7. Sat by the TV. Coronation Street. Len Fairclough's funeral. Cheese and onion toasties. No word from L. Gledhill and so tomorrow we are escaping to Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

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Tuesday December 13, 1983

 The Red Lion, Thornton Rd, Bradford 8

Club Street.

We left the Red Lion at 12:30 after Chris and Elaine's return. The stocktake showed a £7 defecit, but that's no problem. Chris says he will continue with the ban on our canine friends, and we took our leave and returned to Club Street. Sheryl was in at opening time to deliver her daily 'homage' of 'arse licking'. We made our escape quickly. The King is dead, long live the king, &c. Customers are apt to become unnerved  at the sight of two managers in the pub at one and the same time. Elaine pets and slobbers over her dog, Michael (named after Mike Walker from the brewery), and was so loud that the stocktaker sat with his fingers in his ears. 

At home I had fish and chips. Ally went to mothercraft classes to learn about heavy breathing and stretch marks, and I went out to buy a TV licence. Our licence expired in September and the woman in the post office looked at me aghast as though I was one, or even both, of the Kray twins. Looked at old newspapers and felt cosy at my own home on my own settee. It was odd not to ring a bell and call 'time' at 3 o'clock. News: Sir Keith Holyoake, KG, died last weel. That leaves a vacancy for me. Lady Docker has croaked too. Is Mrs T in her last term as PM? Will those foul peacewomen succeed at Greenham Common? Will Di give birth to twin princes in 1984? Is the NGA doomed? Phoned Mum to say I cannot be definite about visiting on Thursday until I have spoken to Les Gledhill. I do hope we can fit in a quiet weekend at Horton.

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Monday December 12, 1983

 Red Lion, Thornton Road, Bradford 8

Switzerland arrived at Thornton Road. I was up at dawn shovelling snow and cleaning the beer lines, &c. Ally helped filling buckets with slops.  Mrs Sheryl Hepworth, 36, the Red Lion cook, formerly Miss Seymour, claims kinship with Henry VIII and 'Princess Diana', and reckons she is in line to the Dukedom of Somerset. Last year she drove her husband, Reg, insane, and he was closeted for 8 weeks in Linfield Mount (the place where Mrs Rochester would be incarcerated if Charlotte Bronte was to write 'Jane Eyre' today). Sheryl is an aligator, only more sly. Our climax at the Red Lion. Les Gledhill paid us a quick visit to say he'll phone us on Wednesday to make arrangements for some work before Christmas. He doesn't want me 'moping' around at home. Obviously, he doesn't know me. I have never moped. Worked with Rita. Jean and Enid stayed back for drinks. Ally did the tills upstairs. We have somehow acumulated an extra £25 and so we took it for ourselves. It is the done thing. 

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