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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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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