Thursday October 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Damp, wet and autumnal. The trees on Hunslet Moor are going bald. That cantankerous old sod Lord Shinwell is 100 years old today. Earlier in the week I read in one of the papers that no peer has ever struggled on to see a centenary. This is inaccurate. The old Countess of Kintore, a Scottish peeress in her own right, lived to be 100, and died in September, 1974. Wouldn't it be nice to see Mrs Thatcher survive until 2025?

Looking at yesterday's paper over a cup of tea I splattered a mouthful over the breakfast table on reading a letter from Sir Charles Mott-Radclyffe. Good to know that in this year of NACODS we still have wonderful 18th century-minded folk. How reassuring. Ally wasn't amused but it certainly tickled me.

Ally is much better today, but still with a glowing nose and oozing glands. We thought Sammy might be catching cold too but today he seems unaffected.

Audrey informs me that another regular customer has died and I told her to prepare a list, every morning, of those customers who are still alive, for my inspection. Perhaps it will be easier that way.

The news is all NACODS and Manny Shinwell. Nigel Lawson was on the news talking about the pound which is at its lowest ebb today since 1976. The chancellor (of the Exchequer) looks more like the Prince Regent than the Prince Regent. 

It was a quiet night but not without incident. A drunk in the back bar accused those nice boys who work at Systime (Computers) of stealing his ale, and later on, after I'd closed, gone upstairs, and removed all my clothes, he came back, banging on the pub door saying he'd lost his overcoat and house keys. The saint that I am went down to retrieve his tatty Gannex only to have him disappear into thin air leaving me in the rain clutching at my Kung Fu-style dressing gown. I am far too soft and caring. This guy will obviously have to be clotched upon his return. Bed at midnight. Ally was reading her 1982 (and only) journal. How simply we lived then.

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