Friday May 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

'Big Mick' the pot bellied darts player with Hells Angel tendencies went to bed last night and died. His wife regularly babysits for Maureen. The tap room was a sad place this afternoon and all the darts team appeared wearing black as a mark of respect. It must have been Big Mick's ticker. Marie Barnes and Mags called in. It was a joy to see them. We are going to the Linthorpe to see them in a few weeks. Jane and Margaret worked tonight. Edna, perched at the bar, has a face like a wet weekend. 

Daily Trivia: a son has been born to Lord and Lady Ralph Percy, a male heir for the dukedom of Northumberland. The eldest son (of the current duke) is unmarried and weird looking. Sadly, two dukedoms are on the cards to expire by about 1990. Portland and Newcastle. Such a pity. Perhaps Mrs T will end her days as Duchess of Grantham. She will soon have won four general elections on the trot. Not even Disraeli managed that. 

-=-

Thursday May 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Bert.

Cold. The over enthusiastic woman from Kenmar (fruit machines) bustled in and talked none stop for half an hour about gas boilers. Yawn. Mum phoned with news of the Uncle Bert saga. They waited for him to arrive at Horton, but he didn't appear. Eventually they phoned Nottingham and he was there. It seems he came by train to Leeds, but was late, and so made his way to Guiseley and the Station Hotel where he phoned every Baker in the phone book, to speak to Lynn, without success. After an hour he hobbled back to Leeds and took the train back home to Nottingham. She says he was very angry and 'more or less put the phone down on me'. He spent £17 on rail fares. What a cock up. 

At 3:30 we went to Linfood Cash & Carry and spent £40 on gigantic jars of tartare sauce, &c. Bulk buying is fun. To Club Street for half an hour where we ate bars of chocolate and sipped lemonade. Samuel, sitting on my knee, smells like an old sheep. He had eaten braised lamb splodge for lunch. Such a cute boy he is. Back to the Moorhouse for 6:30. Dog tired. I could sleep for a week. One needs the stamina of an ox in this game.

-=-

Wednesday May 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Overcast day. Phoned Susan. Mum is on her way to us, she says, with a surprise visitor they are collecting at the station. It's Uncle Bert. They arrived at 2:30 having agreed to collect Bert at Leeds Railway Station but as usual paths were crossed and Bert is still at large, wandering the streets on his artificial limb. We had a traditional Mandarine Napoleon. Dad bounced Samuel on his knee and flew him through the air like a bird. They went at 5 to find Bert and take him to Horton. Somehow I cannot see this visit having a satisfactory conclusion. 

Marita.

We dressed hurriedly, packed baby into the car and went to Horsforth and MM and Marita's for dinner. Immediately, Samuel decided he didn't like the plush refinements of 12, Rawdon Road, and began to bawl. He cried like he was in pain, and yelled through the stuffed peppers, watercress soup, turkey in brandy sauce and trifle. He had lucid intervals but hysterics for four hours. It was a pleasant night despite Samuel's Maria Callas impersonation. They are going to Yugoslavia again this summer. They regularly buy cut glass in Dubrovnik. We left at 12, or so.

-=-

Tuesday May 15, 1984

 Full Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Dr Hampson says he will not resign his seat but his PPS job has gone. The PM is reported to be livid that he kept his arrest secret for 10 days and she first heard of it when she opened her Sunday Telegraph at Chequers. Very lapse of the Home Office. 

Samuel giggles properly now. He has rushes of high wind too. We put the blame on his chicken dinner and chocolate pudding. His nappies look hideous these days. Really grown up, if you get my meaning.

The Moorhouse.

Cleaned the beer lines and brasses. The place looking like a new pin. LG came in. Affable and complementary he was too. He went to inspect the cellar and came back praising my cleanliness. He went off after 10 minutes, no probably half an hour, and is heading to Majorca next week, and so said goodbye until June. A very relaxed meeting. He left and then in walked David Tyne on a 'routine' visit. He bought Ally and I a drink and chatted for ten minutes. He asked if we have any regrets and of course we said 'no'. He thinks I've put on some weight. He isn't wrong. LG & Tyne caught us at an opportune moment. 

To Leeds with the pram at 3:30. A pleasant walk. Dead tonight. Jane looked bored stiff. A good manager would keep her working flat out, but instead I went upstairs and watched 'Dallas'.

-=-

Monday May 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

A hot day. 

Bessie phoned to say that Andrew is agreeable about the 'godfather proposal' and Ally reassured her that the boy doesn't have a large solo performance at the christening. At 3:30 I went up Dewsbury Road for a breath of fresh air and afterwards we had bars of chocolate and cups of tea. Ally opened up at 5:30. Mum phoned to say they will call on us on Wednesday after visiting Susan and Lynn. Why? We are seeing them next Monday, and Leeds is a bit of a detour after visiting Guiseley.

Dr Hampson.

News: Earl Jermyn says, in the DT, that he will return to Ickworth Park in September from tax exile when he marries and chastises the PM for not scrapping capital transfer tax. Quite right. Mark Thatcher has brought Texan bombshell Karen Forston and her mother to Chequers no doubt to arrange wedding plans. St Margaret's Westminster in August, eh? Dr Keith Hampson, Tory MP for Leeds NW was arrested last week in a gay strip joint  in Soho after molesting a plain clothes copper. Hampson is Heseltine's PPS but wasn't carrying top secret documents at the time of his arrest. Twice married Dr Hampson says he was thoroughly pissed and depressed one night and that he staggered into this den of iniquity unaware of what was in store.Yet the proprietor of the gay establishment says Hampson is a regular client. I object to the police acting as agent provocateurs. Leave the poor little poof alone and let him get on with it. It's another promising career in ruins. Silly sod.

-=- 

Sunday May 13, 1984

 3rd Sunday after Easter

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Uncle Peter.

Ally opened up with Margaret and I stayed with Samuel. Upstairs inspecting the geraniums I looked out and saw a Rover car approaching carrying Auntie Mabel, but who was she with? It's Uncle Peter and cousin Beverley. He is so very likeable. The double of Grandad Wilson. Beverley is 16 and training to be a nurse 'like our Jackie'. Mabel and Beverley sat outside with Samuel and I stood in the darkened lounge with uncle Peter having a run down on various aspects of the family history since 1980. Stephen Myers is in a unhappy marriage. Cousin Derek is still fishing _____, Julie is happy and working in a health food shop in Leeds. He says he is still waiting for a phone call from mum. He says he phoned her four years ago but she was in the bath. 'She's having a long bath', he snorted. They do have these periods of separation. At 1:30 he took Mabel off for Sunday luncheon and I took Samuel across the park but he didn't enjoy it, and wailed. Fish for lunch. A failure. Burnt cheese sauce.  Ally and Jane worked later. I stood with big Brian talking about the pubs of the Yorkshire dales. He remembered old George Deacon and didn't know he is deceased. Tap room quiet - like the Royal Mausoleum at Frogmore.

-=-

Saturday May 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sunshine. I didn't go downstairs but sent Ally down to do half an hour in the bar with Audrey.We have decided to escape for the afternoon and the chosen victims on whom we have decided to descend are the Gadsbys of Wilsby. The whole bunch of them usually gather there after shopping at Asda and we can do them all in one swoop. Sure enough we found them assembled and arrived just in time for lunch. Little Hayley was trundling around in a trolley-type thing. She is very much like Karen. Steve is no longer driving for Burtons and has purchased an insurance round in Bramley. He didn't sound toon enthusiastic about it. Samuel was entranced by Hayley. It must be a weight off his mind knowing that he isn't the only tiny person around. At 3:30 wewent on to Guiseley. Susan sprawled in the garden like a beached whale. Christopher, full of hell, was ransacking the kitchen. Pete calmly watching a film midst the debris. Nexxt time we see her Sue will be cuddling a new pink bundle. On to Lynn's. Sat in the garden admiring the new erection. Sandwiches on the lawn. Frances came and sat upon my knee. Lynn very brown from the constant worshipping of the sun.Back in Leeds for 7. We were packed out.

-=-

Friday May 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Ally's back ache is much the same. This is a worry because Mum has suffered with her back down the years. Childbearing is the cause of this. At least we have a good hard bed on which to rest our weary bones. Soft modern comforts must have contributed to ther numerous dodgy backs up and down this nation.

A day of no particular excitment. Ally took to bed at a reasonable hour to ease her pain. Is the pub combined with a new baby too much? She says not, but we do lead an exhausting way of life. Just look at the easy time had by Lynn and Sue. Ally says the life of a typical 'housewife' would bore her to death.

When will we see LG?  It's been a month now with no sign of him. However, it must mean he is happy with us.

-=-

Thursday May 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Bitterly cold in and out. More in than out in fact. Have I told you our boiler has croaked? Well it has and subsequently we have a layer of frost in the flat. Snow on the top of the wardrobe, &c. Are you getting the picture? We breakfasted around the fire, the gas fire. Downstairs is no better. Old men wrapped in overcoats sipping ice-cold ale. I shudder to watch. Karen is off attending her sister's 'hen party'. I am with Margaret (Milne). Ally upstairs ironing. She hasn't been downstairs for ages. Samuel is so time consuming. He sleeps less and less. Food too, he's something of a pig. Financially tonight is the most dead since our arrival. Unperturbed to bed. Ally has back-ache. She must get to a doctor.

See in the Daily Telegraph that Countess Spencer's son, the Hon Rupert Legge is engaged to Victoria Ottley. Other trivia ~ Lady Gweneth Cavendish, 93, grandmother of the Pcss of Wales's lady-in-waiting Gweneth Baring, has snuffed it.

-=-

Wednesday May 9, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c

Still dull outside. Who cares? Our alarm clock is on the blink and refuses to sound off. Samuel laid patiently peeping through his bars and his slumbering Mama refused to follow my example of climbing out in the chill of the bedroom. The brewery phoned to say the dray isn't coming until tomorrow. This is no trouble.

Samuel almost sat unaided. He wobbled for a few seconds and then keeled over. Just after 2 we escaped to Bradford where Ally left me at Club Street to go for her hair doing ~ a perm. She was back at 5 looking like she did two years ago. A crinkly fringe, &c. At Club St until 7-ish when we returned to the pub where we went unmolestered by the bar staff. We spent a few hours upstairs together. TV abysmal.

To bed with Noel Coward's journal. He was certainly well in with the Queen Mother. She has a leaning, they say, for homosexual company, a comment which certainly upset her private secretary Sir Martin Gilliat. I can see his point. Ally, all curls, on the pillow next to me.

-=-

Tuesday May 8, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Overcast. We intended turning over a new leaf today by getting up at 7am and running an organised machine, only to sleep through the alarm clock and wake at 8:05. We had the usual dash around. Ally was grumpy and grumbling about everything and I stood at the kitchen window watching her muttering to herself and into the Hunslet horizon.

Samuel wants to crawl. Lay him on a rug and he'll kick furiously, but he has yet to build up enough energy to move. He has the right idea though. Ally has given him baby rice and mixed fruit slop which he eats splendidly. He is clad in woollies from Bessie and a chunky polo necked sweater resembling a lifeboat man or a whaler and not a 17 week old baby.

A good day for luncheons. We took the vast sum of £14 on food. 

Opening the flood barrier.

News: Ralph Bonner Pink MP, is no more. Another by-election. The Daily Telegraph reveals that the King of Tunisia has meningitis and now cannot marry his fiancée in Hampshire on Saturday. Prince Edouard-Xavier de Lobkowicz, 23, a scion of the royal house of Bourbon-Parma, has been found murdered in Paris. They say Gadaffi has shot some of the London siege murderers for 'bungling the job'. I do hope so. I cannot decide who I loathe the most ~ A. Scargill or Colonel Gadaffi. At least Gadaffi lives in Tripoli. Barnsley is a little closer. The Sovereign declared open the Thames Flood Barrier. Ken Livingstone was bowing and grovelling like the rest of them. Mondale and Hart are continuing to fight it out in the US of A. Ron and Nancy are visiting Ron's roots in Eire in June after the D-Day landing 40th anniversary shindig at Dunkirk. The Queen is going to Normandy on HMY Britannia. Olympic rumpus: Russia isn't goint to send a team to Los Angeles. It's a retaliatory step because Jimmy Carter stopped a US team from visiting Moscow in '80. The Olympic Games should be ended once and for all. More trouble than it's worth and invariably they end in blood and tears. It was the quietest night ever. Bed at 11:30.

Monday May 7, 1984

 Bank Holiday in UK

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Bitterly cold. A bank holiday instituted some years ago by a Labour government. May Day indeed. It all shreiks of Joseph Stalin to me. 

Samuel woke at 5:30 wailing in his cot. Ally and I squabbled about who loves him the most and who should pick him up. Needless to say, I do. At 7:30 I went downstairs and came up for breakfast an hour later. Frank and Bessie had slept heavily and B thinks a cold is about to erupt. They were at Susan Hellier's wedding on Saturday and endured a meagre reception at the Potters Heron. Sausage rolls, &c. The aristo neighbour on Chilland Lane is now identified as Robert (Robin) Napier, heir to a baronetcy. Frank says he's a drip.

See in the Daily Telegraph that Ronald Reagan is related to all the crown heads of Europe. They always seem to link US presidents to the old Irish kings ~ you know, Brian Boru, and the likes. Our Sovereign lady is is one of George Washington's nearest living relatives. Beat that.

A flat lunch. ______. A miserable crowd all wrapped up like sherpas. As you know our boiler is defunct. Poor Samuel will be blue. F & B left at 4:30 or so. Good old Frank did his usual chores, fixed the vacuum cleaner and hung pictures, &c. Bessie bought Samuel a pelican and enough knitting to clothe Samuel until he's 5. A quiet Bank Holiday extension until 11:30pm. So many of our customers are OAPs who go home to bed at 9:30.

-=-

Sunday May 6, 1984

 2nd Sunday after Easter

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Dismal. The little warm spell has passed by.That's summer over and done with. Down to the furthermost depths of my cellar to swill, swab and shuffle. Who knows when LG will call upon us again.

Ally excited about seeing her Mum and Dad. They got here for 2:30 bearing gifts of plenty for Samuel, who was clad in his Prince William-style romper suit. We all think Samuel is the double of Frank but they don't see it, and Bessie says he looks more like her cousin Evelyn Braithwaite, who ever that might be. Both look fatter and they blame the surfeit of banquets. 

We ate an enormous luncheon ~ roast beef &c. Collapsed afterwards. I opened up at 8 (?) and then Maureen and Jane appeared and I floated off back to join the others.Samuel, aware of the visitors, refused to go to bed and grumbled furiously about this intrusion into our peaceful domesticity. At 10o'clock I went down to find the place packed to the doors and both bar staff in the cellar trying to connect a barrel of Sovereign keg. It was frantic. When all had gone we had cheese toasties and showed F & B around the downstairs. Felt whacked.

-=-

Saturday May 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Poor Diana Dors has run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. Aged 52, she has suffered from cancer. We lazed around this morning. Ally sat amid the debris of breakfast reading chunks from 'The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole', newly arrived from our Book Club.

Club Street.

Maureen's vacuum cleaner has exploded spewing red hot flowing rubber over the lounge carpet. Like Mount St Helena. Maureen only wants to do one 'early doors' instead of the two offered. Her husband Sam seems to be something of a case. He is an out of work country and western singer with an abnormal appetite for pork pies and mushy peas. We decided, quite suddenly, to escape to Club Street for the afternoon. So, off we went down the Queen's highway, Samuel in the back of the car kicking his legs and blinking in the sunlight. The little house looked well. Nutty Norman, scantily clad, was smoking in his garden. We hid from him. Mrs O'Brien came to inspect Samuel in his pram and gossip about the new neighbour across the road. Mrs Greenwood's house is still for sale. At 4 we went to the market and bought a piece of beef. We spotted Sister Laidler, who delivered Samuel, buying cucumbers. She didn't see us. Back for 6:30. No drama, tragedy, or touching human sob stories. Margaret worked.Her husband Dougie came in.

-=-

Friday May 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

At lunchtime Ally took Samuel to the clinic and had him weighed. He is 12lb 10oz. Ally says the clinic is full of screaming, hysterical babies and Samuel just sits amidst them calm and collected with a curious look on his face. Samuel had a spoonful of rice ____. He chewed it for a bit and took the lot. And so the weaning process has begun.

June, Joe Cullen's tart, was in the back bar swilling vodka as if Mr Chernenko has launched his attack on the west and we only have eighteen minutes to oblivion. She will have to go in the path of her barred out august paramour. Tonight, Ally spotted them groping together in a car in our carpark, but they made no attempt to enter the premises. I told Maureen we will have to scrap her 11-12 daily shift and that I will do it. Instead I asked her to 'open up' at 5:50 as from next week, for two days. This will work better for us because early evenings can be tiresome. This evening Ally stayed upstairs. Frank McCarron came in and announced that Diana Dors is fighting for her life. Poor thing. An up an coming rock group, called The Cult, who inhabit the tap room, asked Jane to give them a lift home, presumably for a gang bang. She declined. Bed at 12 after a cheese toastie.

-=-

Thursday May 3, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Samuel is clad in his new gear. What a beauty. He had a spoon of Delrosa syrup.

Busy in the bars. Another riotous 'Giro Day'. More beer is spilled on the floor (by the customers) than consumed. The tap room looks like Lake Windermere. Ally went upstairs in a state of collapse and I battled on with Margaret and Karen. I ejected a pissed young pool payer who was infuriating everyone. For a while I thought a brawl might ensue.

The dear PM has been at the helm for 5 years today, and is said to be planning a third term from 1987/88. I think she could do it. I'd like to see her surpass Walpole. 

Andrew: out of favour?

Fuss and nonsense on breakfast TV about the Prince of Wales kissing Prince Edward when they met in Cambridge. If brothers want to kiss then why not? Kevin Keegan does it on the football pitch, so why can't yer crowned heads? Poor Prince Andrew has taken a knock. Recently in Los Angeles he sprayed photographers with paint, he says accidentally, and then back  at home for Easter he wasn't at Windsor for the church service and the gutter press claimed this is because he is out of favour with Her Majesty. In fact the prince was up in Scotland at Floors Castle standing as godfather to Lord Edward Innes-Ker, son of the Duke of Roxburghe. Such a lot of twaddle is printed about our long suffering royal house. The annoying thing is that the majority of the British public believe what they read in the newspapers.

--=-

Wednesday May 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Mum.

To try and keep a journal, run and pub and a baby is asking the impossible. Gone is that old wit and sparkle because I have no time to think or be creative. Believe me, I am still full of humour and fun. It just doesn't come out onto these pages much. Dad and I went down early to clean the beer lines but the mild XXXX exploded and I had to phone cellar services at the brewery.The guy didn't appear until 2:30 and he casually strolled in whistling a Hoagy Carmichael number. Then the Piries arrived to talk about a court case. I ignored them and went upstairs to have lunch with the others. Mum had made beefburgers. Previously they's been out with Samuel for a walk up Dewsbury Road and had stood eyeing a microwave oven in Des Butler's window. Over lunch Mum says Billy Wright phoned her on Easter Sunday to say he would be at their pearl wedding celebrations on June 19. Have I said that they are all coming here to celebrate, about 30 of them? Should prove devastating. I must phone Dave G to give him Samuel's christening details. At 3 Mum kindly offered to babysit and Ally and I went into town to spend £20 on baby clothes at Schofield's. The lad has a fat money box. We have bought him old fashioned baby wear ~ the style made popular by Prince William of Wales. You know the sort I mean. The stuff with an elasticated embroidered front and puff sleeves. Mum and Dad went off to see Sue at 5 o'clock. We are hoping to get to Horton near Ally's birthday. I worked tonight with Karen. Not too hectic.

-=-

Tuesday May 1, 1984

 New Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Papa.

Mum and Dad rolled in at 11:30 looking tanned and happy. Dad has long grey curls and could be mistaken for Lord Lichfield any day. They brought an Easter egg for Samuel who is calm and happy today. They see a great change in him and remark on his strong resemblance to Frank D. I have a sickly headache, the kind I suffered from in my schooldays, and have taken a couple of ultra-relief pills swilled down with Mandarine Napoleon brandy. We sat for a couple of hours playing with Samuel. Poor Papa becomes very emotional looking at babies. He is a sensitive man. His eyes go damp when watching films like 'Brief Encounter' and that sort of thing. We looked at an old group photo including Uncle Albert taken in 1907. Great Uncle Oliver is on the extreme right. We dined on brisket, cauliflower cheese, and later Ally and I walked across to the Blooming Rose and had a quick drink in a half hearted way but returned to the Moorhouse for 10pm and sat with Mum and Dad. It was a quiet night in the pub. The loss of Joe Cullen has left a void which cannot be filled. We retired at 11:30 and ate chunks of cream cake. I had a cherry brandy as a nightcap. And so to bed.

-=-

Monday April 30, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Another warm one. At 2 in walked (Peter) Lazenby and Tony Harney (they had seen Michael Brown's poster on the back wall at the YP). Neither of them change at all. We sat at the bar in the tap room recalling the times we grovelled around Blackpool. I was always something of a celebrity of those debauched 'father's day' trips. Poor Pete asked if I knew Dave, his brother, was dead, and I muttered my sympathies. Six months on Pete still looks very moved by Dave's passing. They left at 3 promising a return visit. 

-=-

Sunday April 29, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Low Sunday

Cooler today. Cousin Jill is 22. 

We held a staff meeting at 11. A congenial affair with coffee and biscuits.Samuel attended and watched the proceedings from his mother's arms. We had to give everyone the hard word about the stock problem, and scrapped the staff 10 minute break at closing and ironed out one or two minor irritations. I'm sure they all thought it was a waste of time, but Ally and I felt as though something useful had come out of it.

Tony & Geoff.

Auntie Mabel, Marlene, F, Mark & Debbie came at 1 and sat outside with Ally and Samuel. Mabel pushed Samuel in his pram through the tulips of Hunslet Moor and he wailed in his high pitched voice throughout whenever she glanced at him. His pet lip came up and tears welled in his eyes at the very sight of her. Most odd, because she is such a sweet, old thing. At 2:30 we all went in to the tap room where Frank and the kids played pool. They stayed until almost 5 o'clock.

Tonight comes Jill, Tim, Hilda, Tony, Geoff Elmer and his spouse, Margaret. They stood until after 12.

-=-
 

Saturday April 28, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Warmer. Summer madness in fact. From opening the doors at 11 we could sense the tension and almost hear it crackling amongst the usually placid natives. Should I go upstairs and find a gum-shield? That is the question. I was on my guard watching silly Joe Cullen, who was snarling like a mad dog at bearded Eddie, the sarcastic creep who usually stands in the lounge. At three they took their argument outside where Joe bopped Eddie and knocked him to the ground. The other brawler is currently on bail awaiting trial for molesting a 12 year-old girl. I went out and got between them once fighting commenced, and 'clotched' the pair of them. Joe had been asking for it for a while. Give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself, &c. I am splattered with blood. To escape this carnage at 3:30 we went off to see Auntie Mabel, who was watching snooker on TV in a darkened room. Samuel wailed throughout. He didn't like auntie's spectacles. Marlene, Frank anbd Debbie came and we had salmon and cucumber sandwiches and pots of tea. No news. The Harwoods were fresh back from Brid. Uncle Peter visited Mabel recently. Back to the Moorhouse for 7. A quiet evening with no visitors. Mabel and Co are coming here at lunch tomorrow.

-=-

Friday April 27, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Warm. This cannot be bad. The pub smells of sun tan oil and we are faced with the sight of pink, newly burned flesh, &c. However, the heatwave is bringing the local nutters out of the trees. I stood at the door like a bouncer turning away the multitude of drunks, who then staggered off in the direction of the Junction.

Lunchtime saw the end of the pathetic London siege, and off went the murderers to a ticker tape welcome in that pin-prick of a country. So, it's all over. They are burying the poor dead WPC tomorrow in Salisbury.

Samuel has found his voice and he sings now like Kiri Te Kanawa.

-=-

Thursday April 26, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Warm. The siege in London continues. Of course these barbaric Libyans will get away Scot-free. A member of the Kennedy family has been found dead from a drug overdose in a seedy hotel room. 'The Kennedy family prepares for yet another burial', says the Daily Telegraph. The Kennedys aren't exactly dropping like flies. The last one to croak was Bobby in '68, and so in fact they are long overdue a bereavement of some sort.

Received a call from MM who says he and Marita are coming this evening with Dave L. This put a spring in my step for the afternoon. I do enjoy visitations. People always seem pleasantly surprised with our little pub. They expect the worst coming to Hunslet. (I am writing this with my son and heir upon my craggy, ageing knees). Sure enough, my visitors rolled up at 8. They arrived simultaneously with a miserable wedding party of ten or twelve. The bride had to sit down for fear of delivering her baby. It was one of those affairs where the bridegroom wore a carnation which was so big it resembled a cauliflower.  Dave L is scatty as ever. Bored again of teaching he now wants a pub. He's even considering taking on the Star & Garter, near the Duncan, on the Headrow in town. His trousers stopped at the knee. We had a busy night which surprised everyone. We didn't harp on too much about the days of yore, which tends to upset Dave. MM and Marita are seeking a new venture. They are bored of selling three piece suites and rolls of Axminster and have considered a sandwich shop in town. Money is to be made in food. Upstairs at 11 for coffee and beefburgers. They are all a little amazed that Ally and I have achieved our aim in life so early.To bed quite knackered after one, or was it two?

-=-

Wednesday April 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Hot and sunny. Dray day. 

Ally is tetchy and grumbly and complains she is feeling tired. She does look pale and needs some sort of tonic, if you ask me. People in public house management are denied sleep. Nowhere is sleep discussed in the management contract. Neither is sex. We stayed upstairs in the flat in a quandry of indecision. Eventually we decided that Ally should sleep and I would do 'the ironing'. Samuel wanted to play and we re-enacted scenes from the Battle of Britain. I ran around the room with Samuel held aloft. He was an aeroplane of course. His giggles are exceptional. Ally slept on in our flat, cum laundry. Bessie phoned. They are coming here next Tuesday when Frank is seeing someone in Burnley. But that is our 'Ossett night'. At 8 Frank phoned back to say he's in Kings Lynn on Tuesday and so they will come here on Sunday May 6. Mama phoned too. They are coming here next week. She says she doesn't want Samuel growing up without knowing his grandmama. I am sure we wouldn't let him.

High society news: Earl Jermyn is engaged. The premier baronet of England, Nico Bacon, received an heir on St George's Day, and so did Viscount Melville.

-=-

Tuesday April 24, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Bernie McC.

Another warm, bright day. 70 degrees. Early start. Mick Thompson came at 8:30 with a bacon sandwich tucked under his arm. We have a £25 stock surplus. Thank God. I fail to understand this stocktaking business, but I suppose life has to have its ups and downs. Rob Piper at the Butcher's in Pudsey was £200 down on his last stocktake. Phoned LG who seemed dour. We are to go ahead with a staff meeting and he suggests we order 20 ounce glasses and be ever vigilant for the viper within. Ally worked with Audrey and I sat in the carpark with Samuel, who snoozed in his pram. Ally scampered around Hunslet Moor collecting our beer glasses and tidying up. Bernie McC (pissed) came and peeped in at my son and declared with much laughter that I cannot be the father, but that he is most definitely Ally's son. A long evening. No enthusiasm. Ally and Jane ran things and I stood with 'Mad Peter', a gay cockney, who insists he owns a stud farm in Eire, when in fact he lives on his weekly Giro on Beeston Hill.

-=-

Monday April 23, 1984

Bank Holiday in the UK

St George's Day

Harry, England and St George, &c. Will HM fill the Garter vacancies? The Duke of Beaufort croaked, but who else? The Earl of Westmorland will collect the KG one day, and I had hopes for Johnny Spencer but they have faded. They'd never tolerate Raine in St George's Chapel. Perhaps she should send the star and garter to Colonel Gadaffi, and place nitrogycerin in the case?

The Libyan embassy siege continues. It was a hot, steaming day. Samuel's first bank holiday Monday. We took him outside in his pram and Archie played at Nanny Barnes. Quite touching that men who are childless seem obsessed with them. A quiet afternoon. Few customers. They are all in Blackpool or Brid.

Moping all night with nothing to do. Maureen worked. Michael Brown phoned and suggested we do a pub crawl in Holbeck on Wednesday. Ally wasn't too happy about this and so I'll cancel, nay postpone, this. I find Michael Brown excellent company but prefer Ally's on my only day off of the week. I was a fool to say I'd go.

-=-

Sunday April 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Easter Day

Easter day and not an Easter egg to be seen anywhere.Poor, little deprived Samuel. Ah well, he knows nothing about such things this year. I created a gigantic breakfast and then Sue and Pete went out with Christopher and Samuel in to the park. The blossom tree near the pub is in full blossom and one wouldn't believe we are stuck in the middle of Leeds. Susan waddled away with the pram. She has the Wilson ladies 'bandy legs' and from the rear she is very reminiscent of my aunt, Eleanor Myers. Pete still doesn't have an ounce of fat on him and looks very John Cleese-ish. We took them home at 2:30. Peter having spent some time at the bar with Frank & Bernie McCarron. We drove to John's. He wasn't in. On to Lynn's to look at the foundations forn the new erection. Blenheim in the early stagers must have resembled this. The Bakers went on to see Audrey, who remains bed-bound still. Back to John's. He has the children. We showed them our wedding video cassette which followed 'Star Wars' and preceded 'The Wind in the Willows'. JPH is fatter. He and Catherine are very polite children.

Moorhouse: Jane is 26 today. Very busy at 10:30. Ally slept from 8:30.

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Saturday April 21, 1984

 Birthday of Queen Elizabeth II

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Hot & Sunny. Her Majesty the Queen is 58 years old today. God Bless you, Ma'am. I ate my 'full-English' breakfast singing 'Happy Birthday dear Queen' which amused Christopher. 'Happy Birthday to You' is his favourite tune and Dad sings it with gusto everytime they visit Horton.

We dragged out the outside tables, umbrellas, &c. Sat in the carpark sunning ourselves and slurping. A summers day in April cannot be bad. Joe Cullen came over and told me of his sexploits with the nubile June. He is still copulating in the back seat of cars, in hedgerows and other rural settings, ~ and he's 40 years old.

Chicken salad and afternoon naps. John sauntered in at 9pm with Christopher Ratcliffe. After ten minutes they escaped to the Blooming Rose for Tetley's ale. We were so dead in the bar here. We went upstairs at closing and caught the end of a Woody Allen film. Hilarious. 

And, so to bed.

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Friday April 20, 1984

 Good Friday

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

In days of old I complained , nay played hell, about the archaic licensing laws on this Holy day. Not now.

It was a quiet afternoon. A dead loss in fact. Bright and sunny though and at 2:30 we drove over to Guiseley and collected Sue, Peter and Christopher. She had a rabbit casserole and Yorkshire puddings on the table. She is big (pregnant big) but not like two years ago and is set in her mind that she is having a girl. I do hope so. Another troublesome lad would be hopeless. Christopher is becoming Peter's double. We had a few drinks with the Nasons but didn't go daft and at some reasonable hour we went upstairs for coffee. Poor Susie is like a whale. Undecided about names. They like the name James, hate Benjamin, and Samantha is high on the list.

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Thursday April 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Maundy Thursday.

Very busy. Easter fever. Conversation with Susie. They are coming for Easter. The poor girl never goes out. They haven't had a holiday since their honeymoon in '80 and Christopher must be very trying. Spoke to our mums. Mine is busy with Easter walkers, and Ally's is worried about Frank who has another stone in a kidney. The man eats too much. 

Samuel is 14 weeks old. Frantic tonight. Tap room packed. Must be Giro night. The old man whose dog barks when I call 'time' at closing stormed out complaining about my beer. Sod him.

Had a glimpse of the Sovereign on the news. She was with Torvill & Dean - of all people. Does Her Majesty have a soft spot for these sickly ice-skating types?

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Wednesday April 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

The siege (at the Libyan embassy) goes on and the Home Secretary has left his dinner with the Queen at Windsor to conduct the whole business personally in St James's Square. Bomb Tripoli, that's what I advise. 

Our so-called day off. We stayed here to do the lunches but only took about thirty bob in two hours which is hopeless. To Club Street, dear Club Street. The place looked very well and the garden a mass of spring flowers. I went to have a haircut and spent £5. Not my usual 'hair stylist' because he doesn't open on Wednesdays. I came back at 5:15 to find Ally at Mary's. I joined them for coffee and biscuits. It's a relief to learn that nobody has dropped dead on the street since Charles Eyden. Mary had us gripped with the further adventures of .Nutty Norman', the Club St lunatic. The man is permanently in his pyjamas. 

Back to Leeds. Watched TV. Danny La Rue on 'This Is Your Life'. A plethora of homosexuality filled the studio. They were all out in force. We sat together ~ the three of us. Ally went down at 11 to help rid the pub of the boozy clientel and came back in a rage. Some members of staff will have to go. Bed.

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Tuesday April 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

PC Yvonne Fletcher.

A WPC called Yvonne Fletcher has been shot dead in London by some thugs from inside the Libyan embassy who now, presumably, have diplomatic immunity under the Vienna Convention. How disgusting. Send in the SAS, Maggie. Who cares about Libya anyway? Nothing more than a rat-infested pin-prick, a blob, somewhere in Africa. Surely, the severance of our relations with Libya will not affect us one tiny bit. And as for Colonel Gadaffi? He is on a par with Arthur Scargill. The PM is in Portugal but no doubt keeping an ear to the phone. The Home Secretary is dining with Her Majesty at Windsor. We dined here, bloody furious at the invasion of our streets by the (expletive withheld) fanatics disguised as diplomats.

Bessie's sister Joan has sent us a 'new baby' card, a little late, and a Mothercare suit. Samuel looks so grown up in it. He does beam brilliantly. He sleeps so well and then when he awakes he doesn't wail but waits patiently for someone to notice him.

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Monday April 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c.

Ally was tired out today. I came upstairs at one point and found her sleeping on the couch like a beautiful doll, with Samuel asleep across her lap, his smooth white legs hanging like sausages. 

The brewery.

I phoned Rob Piper at the Butchers and scrounged a lift to Cadtaster (sic). He came at 5 and sat in the car blowing the horn. We drove to the brewery talking about staff and stocks. He has it all sewn up. He does no work and yet has the same staff hours as me. Where am I going wrong? We saw Fran O'Brien in the car park. He is a creeping bastard. We all went into the dull Regency-style room, where LG interviewed us last year, and we sat around a large table covered in a green cloth. Like a billiard table without the holes. About a dozen of us. I was sat between Don Whitfield, and a man with spectacles called Littlejohn-Scott, from the Hansom Cab where he says the clientel are 'heathens'. He looked like Dr Crippen or the murderer Christie. Colin Black is in love with Colin Black. He is about 3ft 6ins tall and suffers from the Napoleon syndrome. LG was his usual self. Dear Donna went through the minutes of the last liaison  committee meeting. Nobody ever says a word. We have eight new beers to sell from next month. David Tyne bought us all a drink in the pub next door and Rob and I left after ten minutes. LG took me on one side and told me that he has put a letter to me in the post re our stocktakes, and I inmmediately thought to myself: 'Aye aye, it's the bloody chop'. What a queer old business this is. It's worse than ancient Rome. Back to the Moorhouse. Ally was coping nicely. Maureen says I look pissed. After two halves of Sam Smith's bitter? Not bloody likely.

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Sunday April 15, 1984

 Palm Sunday / Full Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c

Tommy Cooper: dead.

Tommy Cooper dropped down dead on the TV at 8:40pm. I suppose that is how he would have wanted to go. The audience roared with laughter as he went and thought he was clowning around. Poor man. 

It was a good afternoon in the pub. Ally didn't come down and roasted a joint of beef. It was deliciously pink. We ate at 3 and watched Badminton on the TV. 'Horsy' Badminton, not shuttlecock Badminton. Lucinda Green won (again). The Sovereign was sat with the new Duke of Beaufort. Read the Sunday papers, &c.

Palm Sunday, eh? Looking at some of my customers, as I did tonight, one would think they are getting crucified next week too. My God. Miserable buggers.

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Saturday April 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Sunshine. Dawn rise and a 'full-English breakfast' en masse around the table. Katie splattered breakfast cereal everywhere. They went off at about 11, the girls waving regally from the car. Ally went into the tap room and stood drinking with old Archie. I went to find Samuel and played with him for an hour or so. What a doddle it all is.

Oh, yes. LG came in yesterday and immediately switched off the till in the back bar saying someone  had been tampering with it. He said I would have to sack all the bar staff if the stocks remain in the doldrums. He left saying he would come back today, but he didn't materialise. I have a letter from the brewery asking me to attend a meeting on Monday. No doubt I'll see his Lordship at that gathering of managed house elite.

No sign of John tonight. When is he paying me a birthday visit? Quiet tonight. No visitors. And so, dear reader, to bed.

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Friday April 13, 1984

 

Dave & Lynn.

Moorhouse Inn

Friday the Thirteenth. Busy as usual. Awaiting the arrival of the Bakers. They came at 7. Ally worked from 5:30pm whilst I bathed Samuel and when he drifted off to sleep I changed and listened to a few records. Lynn came up and reported the pub was packed and we went down to find the place busy and Ally working flat out. She has a slender, waspish waist looking divine in a peppermint Laura Ashley number.

We dined with the Bakers upstairs while the barmaids battled below. Lynn and Dave are putting an extension on Thorpefields. The erection will stick out from the back of the dining room. They do this sort of thing on Tranmere. We went down to the lounge at 9 and had a few swift ones. Ally was drinking 'Nourishing Strong Stout'. Some ruffians came in but left after only one pint. We sat until after 2am supping Mandarine Napoleon brandy and various assorted liqueurs. They were very chatty. Lynn was thrilled when we asked her to be Samuel's godmother. David was touched at this because I think he is quietly devout. We gave them a guided tour of the cellars and went up to bed after coffee and Nat King Cole.

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Thursday April 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

I played Hercule Poirot tonight and stood at the bar in the tap room mixing with the Hunslet folk and observing the staff. Talked to Kevin, a mechanic, who went on and on about the metro. As you know, cars do nothing for me. Karen and Margaret were working. ______. To bed with Noel Coward (diaries) but I cannot get past 1955. Diaries reveal so much.

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Wednesday April 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Samuel was awake at 5 and fed and he squealed again at 6:30 and I got up and changed his soggy clothes. He beams with such a glow. Mick Thompson, the stocktaker, was here at 8 and he gave us a £55 defecit. Ridiculous is this. It's a case of think of a number and halve it, or do I mean double it? This Thompson person might be competent but he's only about 16 (or at least he only looks like a teen). Ally refuses to worry because she says it's all just guess work. I agree with her. Ally tried to phone LG but got nowhere. These people must hide behind the furniture at Tadcaster. 

After lunch we escaped to Club Street and Ally went over the carpet with a vacuum cleaner and I went out to buy some fish and chips and sniggered at the vociferous fish fryer who was lambasting Nigel Lawson. A letter in the Daily Telegraph says Caligula, in ancient Rome, introduced VAT on takeaway food.

Back to the pub for 8:30 and installed the stereo in the flat. Ally played a Bob Marley LP and jigged around. The sound was exquisite after weeks of the dismal thud of the juke box below. To our beds late after listening to Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and Grace Jones, &c. We shared a pint of Guinness.

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Tuesday April 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Overcast. Up at 7 for a bowl of Weetabix with my piglets. Breakfast TV trundles interminably on. I went down to clear the beer lines ~ a process which went on until 10. Hung around waiting for the dray which didn't come until about 1. I fear I have ordered too much of everything. Clutching my Mandarine Napoleon as if it's the last bottle on earth. Ally, in a fine bossy mood asked Audrey to wash the shelves which she did with a long, unsmiling face. A bearded pain in the neck was stood in the bar irritating me, but we do have some good little characters. We ate ploughman's lunches. Saw the TV at lunch. The Badminton Horse Trials with HM clad in a headscarf and mac in a ploughed field. Good old Lord Lane has quashed the Tisdall girl's appeal, and rightly so. String 'em up, Maggie, that's what I say. 

Knackered. The Piries came over from Ossett, with a team, and we beat them at everything. She is a surly, Australian cow bag. It was a busy tap room because of this soiree, and many regulars abstained including dear Edna Wibley (?) I mean Wilby and old consumptive John. Ally was furious with the Piries who were ignorant to a fault. Jane coped. _______.

Saw the Princess of Wales on the late news at the state banquet for the Emir of Bahrein. She waddled into the Waterloo Chamber looking like a giant sloth.

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Monday April 9, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, &c.

Samuel woke for a feed at 4am. He hasn't done this for a while and we went back to sleep sluggish and heavy. Sunshine. I played in the cellar and continued mucking out the fryer. Ally went off to Morrison's at 10.

I forgot to say that on Friday Frank H brought us their old settee and armchair - brown, 'velvety' -- it will do until some Louis XIV cast offs from Versailles turn up. Anyway, this afternoon I collapsed on our new item of furniture. Ally disapproves of me sleeping anywhere but in bed and grumbled as I lay, open mouthed, dreaming of a land free from industrial turmoil and where the likes of Arthur Scargill are incarcerated in psychiatric hospitals. 

LG turned up at 7:30 and Ally was looking especially lovely to brighten his evening. He wasn't violent about the stock horror but was understanding and helpful. He tapped away on his pocket calculator and had us quite baffled. Rob is coming back on Wednesday to give us a quick check stock. Maureen worked. I escaped for ten minutes to see Mrs Thatcher on 'Panorama' - interviewed by Sir Robin Day. What a level headed excellent woman she is. Bed at 12.

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Sunday April 8, 1984

 Passion Sunday

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds.

Lay long in bed. We get worse. Ally is of the opinion that we should pretend we are in our old office jobs and emerge at the same time every morning as in the days when the alarm clock always sounded at 6:44. It is a difficult thing to do though. Scrambled eggs and baked beans. The Sunday Telegraph, &c. Read Al Haig's Falklands reminiscences.

Samuel has said goodbye to many of his baby ways already. Ally went to the bar and worked with Margaret at 12. I played with Samuel and he eventually fell asleep in my arms. I went down briefly to see the darts lads about Tuesday's fiasco, but the team leader is away in Bridlington. Taffy was snooping around.

Later watched Erroll Flynn and Flora Robson in 'The Sea Hawks'  and Ally made fish for lunch. Spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning the deep fat fryers. A revolting job. Watched the Tv but we tend to use it as a backcloth to our chattering. Ally opened up again at 7 and stayed down until after 9. I went down from 9. Looked at snapshots of the recent wedding of Frank and Bernie's daughter. We saw the vicar who said yes to July 22 though it is the date he expects to become a grandfather and so he may be nervous and jittery. We don't want him dropping Samuel in the font. Bed at 12.

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Saturday April 7, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, &c.

Ally was thoroughly exhausted today, and except for emerging to see to our son and heir at his feeding and changing she remained firmly entrenched in our vast bed. I stayed upstairs playing with Samuel. One cannot leave him awake and alone. He has changed these past few days. Taking more notice, giggling louder, and looking at his fingers.

Will John come today? ______. Ally slumbered on into the afternoon and I persuaded her to get up and eat at 4. Then, when I opened up at 7, it was back to bed. Just Margaret and I. A quiet night. Had cheese toasties (again) and after closing I watched a dull Dracula film. Finally I got a chance to look at the Daily Telegraph. Marshal of the RAF Sir Arthur 'Bomber' Harris is no longer with us. So too goes Sir Mark Milbank, Bt, former Master of the Royal Household. 

And so, to bed, dear reader.

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Friday April 6, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Frances is three today. She spoke sweetly to me yesterday on the phone and sounded so grown up. She is a difficult child to get to know and seems morbid and petty at times but is a gentle thing. Received cards from Sarah and Jacq. 

Prince Andrew has been banished to St Helena, no doubt because of Koo Stark and Katie Rabett. He is making a stout Hanoverian prince and will not retain his good looks for very long.

John Wilson (1853-1920)

We expected John with trepidation. Ally would do anything to get a good night's sleep and fears another late night.The hours ticked by and he didn't appear, but then in walked Hilda and Tony, Jill and Tim. All very cheerful and happy. Hilda gave me three old family photos to copy. One of Rella (Fawbert), one of John Wilson (1853-1920) and a group, a seaside shot of Uncle Albert with his niece, Edith Annie Horsfall (who was of a similar age to her uncle), and two unknown boys. The photo of John Wilson was taken circa 1910, when he was in his 60s but he looks like a 98-year old propping up a chair.  Edith Annie was the only child of Mary Wilson (1874-1974), my great-aunt. I remember visiting Auntie Mary at her home in Manningham Lane, Bradford, in 1972. She converted Mum to using tea bags. 

Someone was sick in the porch. Carrots abound. Why does veg feature so much in vomit? Upstairs with the relatives at 11. They all peeped in on Samuel. Bed late after I made beefburger suppers all round.

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Thursday April 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

My 29th birthday. Up at 7 feeling awful. Sitting in bed Ally gave me a pink and blue tie and a card with a frog on the front. A card - to 'Daddy from Samuel' - brought a lump to my throat. 

A traumatic birthday really. Rob, the stocktaker, came at 8:30, and LG at 9 with the new optics. We have a £142 defecit which was something of a body blow. The loss is in the draught bitter and lager. Mum and Dad went off to Guiseley at 3 and we sat wearily. I worked all evening like a zombie. Margaret bought me a brandy for my birthday and at 10:30 I was heartily glad to go upstairs. John phoned to say 'happy birthday' at 10:45. Poor Ally says I have had an awful birthday but I am contented. I have a son who is beautiful beyond belief and a wife who is an angel.

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Wednesday April 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Out into town at 9 with Samuel. The boy despises head gear and kicks and struggles when Mummy dresses him. Crisp and sunny. Ally headed straight to Laura Ashley. We dumped the pram near the curtain fabrics and went upstairs. An elderly spinster, very plain and very large, was trying on a wedding frock and looked like Mount Kilimanjaro. We hurried back and found Mama and Papa upstairs. They helped with the lunches and we had a few drinks afterwards. The Mandarine Napoleon came out. They say John has made an offer for a house on Back Lane. We had no idea he wanted to move.The house that Sue wanted on Moorland Crescent is no longer on the market, and they are going to look elsewhere. We drank in the bar until Maureen came in at 5:30 and we went upstairs. I was furious when Maureen told me later that the Piries had called in after arranging a darts and dominoes evening here on April 10. The bloody cheek of it. I wasn't consulted.

Samuel was niggly and playing up. He must know that we want to go out and leave him. He was in bed for 9pm and at 9:45 we hurried into town and the bistro on Commercial Street (it is the former Betty's Tea Rooms). A disappointing dinner. I had veal in horrible cooking sherry - so sweet. It was supposed to be veal marsala. I didn't let on to Ally that I was disappointed. She also had veal, but in a mushroom sauce. I was pissed and staggered out stripping down the stairs. Ally looking beautiful in a peppermint striped Laura Ashley creation purchased today. Back to the Moorhouse for 11:30. Samuel had been awake until 11 and was now sleeping peacefully. We went down to the empty pub and sat in the lounge. My God, I enter my 30th year tomorrow. To bed after 3am.

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Tuesday April 3, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Busy with food. Dray day. All banked. Bloody Hell, it's all go. 

News: The President of Israel had lunch at Windsor yesterday. Marvin Gaye, the Tamla (Motown) personality, has been killed by his disgruntled Dad. Wasn't Marvin fraternising with Lady Edith Foxwell? 'Heard it Through the Grapevine' will soon be back at number one, no doubt. Almost nine in ten families have some sort of social service assistance. A frightening statistic, eh? 

Jane (Tudor) worked tonight. Old Harold says she is a calming influence on the tap room rowdies. She is slow but I'm sure she's reliable. 

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Monday April 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Pisses down. Albert Tatlock is dead. Joan Parkinson left and went without the theatricals I was expecting. I was kissed goodbye, which was nauseating. 

Balderdash in the papers about the Princess of Wales expecting twins. Rot.

Are people taking drugs in our tap room? The ever watchful Edna insists they are. I must admit that a certain element of the clientel are very 'Dylanish' and look like renmants of the long gone hippie era. Will I go down if the beloved CID raid the bar? Dad will have to be consulted. I do not want to be running a den of iniquity.

Samuel beams. He's sturdier. Looking very much like Frank but Ally giggles and says it's only because they are both bald with sticking out ears.

This Gary Hart person is frightening. He's been going everywhere in the US telling everybody he's Irish. They say he's taking the rise out of the Kennedys. Blimey, he'll be drowning his secretary next. Modale is a spineless fart.

To bed relieved at Joan's departure. Knackered.

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