Friday August 23, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Dad was padding around at 3am switching off the lights. The place was flood-lit like the Eiffel Tower. Ally banged around but I refused to get up until almost 11am. Violence in the tap room. Brian Millar and his hyper-active, nymphomaniac ex-fiancée, Helen, had a "domestic" which erupted into a brawl. All were ejected. I wasn't feeling particularly athletic.  Dad painted our kitchen.

The Daily Telegraph diary mentions that Lord Avon died last week. It's the first I've heard. Wasn't he a government minister? Of course he was the son of Anthony Eden and was only 54. A gay bachelor.

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Thursday August 22, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

The Woolpack, Yeadon.

Dad and I spent the day in the cellar splashing paint around. Ally came down plying us with ale and by 2pm we were tipsy and nostalgic. Uncle Peter dropped in at lunchtime and came down to inspect our daubing. Later Dad offered to babysit and give us a night out. Ally, not feeling up to it, said no, and so I sat sulking watching 'Top of the Pops'. She then appeared looking very dressed up and had obviously relented. We went to the Woolpack at Rawdon. Shocking beer. Then to the former Peacock at Yeadon. It's now called 'Images'. Then, to the Drop in Guiseley. Met Chippy (now to be addressed as Gerald), looking like Tom Selleck, the thespian. He was with a boy called Ian. We went on at 11 to the former Wikis, now Beau Brummels. Became very pissed on strong bottled lager. We squabbled in the car coming home. Ally had not enjoyed it, and had not wanted to come out in the first place. I went to bed. God knows where Ally slept.

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Wednesday August 21, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Dick the Shit (i.e. Richard the Turd)

Dray. The anniversary of the coming to power of the Tudor dynasty and the fall of poor 'Dick the Shit' at Bosworth field - the 500th anniversary no less. I have great reservations about the whole affair. Surely, Richard III was more trustworthy than the cunning old Welsh chappie who usurped him? 

We worked pm alone. Dad remained upstairs with the Daily Telegraph.

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Tuesday August 20, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Dad paints. He came down to the bar this evening and found himself in the company of old Donald MacGregor, the cynical and twisted Scot. Dad will allow most things to wash over him but cynicism, never. I can be cynical, because I am young, says Dad. But Donald MacGregor is old enough to know better. Many topics were discussed from mourning, to charitable bodies, and the starving millions in the world. Dad put on his political MP-like face and would not be coaxed away from old Donald, who sweated profusely and who swore more and more violently as the night wore on. Others in the bar chuckled. For three nights this week we are working without staff. Aren't we a diligent little pair?

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Monday August 19, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Dad still painting. I phoned Donna (Lea). She promised to come with more white paint later in the week. The three tins I have here will go nowhere. Rob (the stocktaker) phoned to say our stocktake planned for tomorrow is now cancelled because of a 'rush job'. That's another manager for the chop, by the sound of things. The transportation dept from the brewery also phoned to say the dray will be here on Wednesday, instead of tomorrow. What a carry on. Has Tuesday been cancelled? Samuel has received an invitation to the birthday party next Monday of his cousin, Thomas. Dad is puzzled by this because he asked Lynn what festivities were planned for Thomas's birthday to be told 'none'. Lynn blamed the bank holiday. Poor Thomas. He goes almost unnoticed because he is so very quiet. Just like a small doll. _____.

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Sunday August 18, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

11th Sunday after Trinity

Dad came in at lunchtime laden with decorating tackle and set about the cellar. He disappeared below just before 2pm clad in white overalls and wellington boots. At 3 I started painting the hallway and staircase leading up to the flat. The bloody place looks like a convent - white emulsion everywhere. I got to the foot of the stairs and my paint ran dry at 8pm. Ally opened up, and Gary came in at 8. We dined on a chicken and a bottle of Litre vin. Dad came down to the bar for a drink tonight - a well deserved one.

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Saturday August, 17, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

I feel weak, but battle on. Ally went off to Linfood. I opened up at 11 but escaped when Margaret came in. Tonight - no staff - Janette phoned at 9 to say they are coming to see us with the baby and two of her sisters, Marie and Jackie. They arrived at 10pm but we didn't speak to them until 11:30 when we'd cleared the place of the over enthusiastic bog-hoppers of the McCarron family. Jackie and Marie are two opinionated young Scottish ladies, who are attempting to talk Janette out of breast-feeding, and they sat extolling the virtues of 'spoiling' children and of refraining from any form of corporal punishment. Let's hope that Janette will see sense and breast feed little Charlotte. John lets everything wash over him. Jackie, 22, has a 12 year-old step-daughter, two others 'steps' and is expecting one of her own in March '86. They are both so like Janette. Phoned Dad at 8pm. I chose a bad time to call. He was sobbing down the line, and my first three ten pence pieces dropped into the call box without a word spoken. My God.

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Friday August 16, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Dad is coming on Sunday to begin painting the cellar. Unfortunate, because I feel shocking. I am wrapped in a pullover shivering like buggery. Undoubtedly, an attack of 'flu. At the bar tonight I sat drinking brandy and port which warmed me a good deal, but did little else. I really should have been in bed but you know how  Ally disapproves of illness. She had to suffer on Wednesday, and so I have to suffer today. I phoned Jacq Sate and also spoke to Ian. I asked them if they could babysit on the night of Diane and Paul's wedding which they readily agreed to do. I joked and said I would leave them some milk and digestive biscuits. Poor Sammy. I do not think he will wake up. You see, he's never met Jacq and it would be disconcerting for him to wake up and be confronted by a strange lady watching Daddy's TV. 

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Thursday August 15, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

HRH The Princess Anne is 35, and Gary Booth is 22. HRH is cruising on Britannia in the Western Isles as she usually does on her birthday, and Mark (Phillips) is at Gatcombe Park astride his tractor. What a separate little couple they are.

MM and Marita appeared last night at 8. Ally wasn't feeling 100 per cent and struggled to come down to the bar. Joined by Dad from Menston. He looked tired and old. This year has aged him a decade. The MMs are fresh back from Yugoslavia where they shared a pension with a couple of 20 year-olds and noticed, painfully, the age gap. The years creep by.

Tonight (Thurs) Gary came in early doors for a few pints of pils lager, and was joined by a friend, a youth of similar age, to discuss their latest 'leg over' and the Leeds Utd fixtures for 1985-86. _________.

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Wednesday August 14, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

To Harehills at 9:30. I took my test at 9:45 in our new, gleaming vehicle. A Mr Harland took me. I did well with the exception of reversing around a corner which I cocked up, and needless to say - failed on this point. Everything else was OK. I came away unperturbed. One day I will succeed. Ally and Sam went shopping in Harehills and I met them after the test. The heavens opened. We went to Menston for lunch with Dad and Janette. I bought fish and chips for everyone. A depressing afternoon really. Dad was quick tempered with Sam. _________. Janette looked pained and thought Dad was being harsh. I must admit to a softness that will do my son no good. I cannot find it in me to be strict, and give in to him a good deal. I know this is wrong, and in twenty years time when I write here about my selfish, spoiled and evil son you can all then exclaim: "who is to blame?" -- and I will hold my hand up. To Sue's at 3 for another episode in the Hungarian Uprising revisited. One day I feel sure that Sue will be beatified. If the Pope can do this for a dead Nicaraguan nun then I'm sure that a hard-working Guiseley mother might qualify.

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Tuesday August 13, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

No staff again. Ally and I cleaned the bar thoroughly. Washed the optics, &c. Some of the old regulars sat tittering at our industry. I half-heartedly looked at the Highway Code. I have no nerves, which is probably my problem.

Lines on My Forthcoming Driving Test

Tomorrow I'm taking my driving test,

I've taken it before, in 1974,

That was eleven years ago,

Keith's Mum says the roads have changed since then,

Haven't we all?

E. Jarvis Thribb (17).

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Monday August 12, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Karen Hudson was late for my driving and whilst waiting we took Samuel on to Hunslet Moor. The robbing window cleaner says I owe him a fiver from two weeks ago when he did the windows in a hurricane. He will get this money over my dead body. Karen came at 10:15 and I had a passable lesson. It all seems to have come together. She is a nice girl. Very blunt and down to earth. She is confident I can pass the test, but it all comes down to what happens on the day, the instructor and the Gods. 

No bar staff pm. We enjoyed ourselves tremendously.

World News: The PM has bought a Barratt house in Dulwich for £400,000. Does she think that her tenure of No. 10 Downing Street is shortly to be terminated? Oh dear.

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Sunday August 11, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

10th Sunday after Trinity

Much rain. Ally feels awful. _________. Still, we got up at 8 and after breakfast I drove to Harehills to show Ally the test centre at Hillcrest House. She wasn't in the mood to sit watching me manoeuvre the car and so we returned to the Moorhouse with raw tempers. Ally can be a wicked little thing at times.

Little Charlotte Nora is a week old today, and as yet has no surname. For her to become a Rhodes she will have to be registered by John. Without John's signature the baby will be officially Miss Drysdale. However, a Rhodes by any other name would smell as sweet, sayeth the Bard.

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Saturday August 10, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

To Menston today bearing Dad's spectacles which he left here last week. He's been a mess without them and borrowing Brian's (his neighbour at Horton). He spends many hours with the Daily Telegraph but says he doesn't have the concentration to read a book. I think he is frightened of becoming too like his father, who sat for hours with a weighty tome upon his knee, ignoring all around him. I can see the old boy now reading a biography of James Joyce. For many years I took this to be Lord Haw Haw ... but that was another James Joyce. At Menston Dad and John were painting the kitchen. Dad very subdued. I sat watching them ... yawning. Oh dear, what a life.

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