Tuesday October 8, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Cold. One of the tabloids says Prince Andrew has a new love in the shape of theatrical assistant Mandy Gough, 24.

Tebbit: skeletal.

Rose at 7. The decorators who arrived yesterday are battling on outside. It has been in an unfinished state since they first came in June. The British workman is no more. Lunch. Watched Norman Tebbit's speech at the Tory conference. V. good. Standing ovation, &c. The PM seemed to grimace somewhat at his endless attacks on the opposition. Margaret never seems to resort to personal attacks as other leaders seem to do. Norman seems very skeletal and has list some vigour. Viscount Whitelaw is like an eighteenth century squire. Like Lord North. Rob Piper came here. Pale. Full of cold. Moaning about the Butcher's (pub). He fancies a move. Things there are stale. He has been at Pudsey for two years yesterday. Ally weak at the knees and near to collapse. We played with Samuel this afternoon. I went down (to work) at 5:30 and came back at 11 to find my wife abed and out cold. Did the tills and watched the Tory conference on 'News Night'. The PLO have hijacked an Italian cruiser and are sailing for Port Said. It's too complicated to even think about.

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Monday October 7, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ducal jailbird.

Horribly quiet. A furore about Sara Keays sniping. More importantly a PC was stabbed to death in Tottenham last night during one of those ludicrous riots. The locals are inflamed by Trots and Marxists, &c. Shoot the swines, say I. Sir K. Newman was on the news, looking pale, saying he may have to use plastic bullets. My God. Any European police force would have used CS gas and water cannon long ago. What a mess we are in. Enoch Powell wasn't entirely misplaced in his outburst in 1968. The Duke of Manchester is probably going to become the first ducal jailbird since the days of the Wars of the Roses when his court case comes to an end. 'Ermine at the Scrubs' ~ a good title for his future memoirs. We went with Dad to Lynn's at 4. No mention of Davis's 'snip'. I think she thinks I have strong views on the subject. Absolutely not. David Baker's testicles are his own affair. We left at 4:45. Dad to Sue's for the night. Ally worked the bar 5:30 to 8pm. I bathed Sam and did the Barbara Barnes routine.

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Sunday October 6, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

18th Sunday after Trinity

Rain. That pleasant snatch of Indian summer has gone. How lucky we were. Dad, Sam and I went to the cellar after breakfast to 'bottle up'. Dad singing loudly throughout. Afterwards I stuffed the chicken and looked at the Sunday Telegraph. The ghastly Sara Keays is publishing her memoirs next week to coincide with the Tory conference at Blackpool. The bitch. How evil can you get? You would think that because she has a little daughter she would want the whole sordid, sorry mess to be forgotten. The strumpet that she is. However, the PM was right in not re-calling Cecil Edward (Parkinson). Perhaps in '87 after the third victory? A book review of Nancy Mitford's biography. I wonder why they didn't get Aids in the 1930s? They were all as bent as nine bob notes. Sir William Heseltine is to become the Queen's private secretary from April, 1986. He's been the deputy since '77. An Aussie, no less. Robert Fellowes moves up from assistant to deputy. This afternoon I watched the 'omnibus' edition of 'Eastenders' much to Dad's chagrin. He isn't a soap opera buff by any means.  We had roast chicken at 3:30 washed down with a cheeky wine. Ally looks washed out and no doubt __________. An evening upstairs with a steaming TV. Watched a play ('Thunder Rock') which bored the pants off Ally and then watched Melvyn Bragg interview Sir Alec Guinness, that retiring yet genius thespian. Dad wasn't morose. Sam is captivated by him. To bed.

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Saturday October 5, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Against our better judgement we drove over to Guiseley at 3:30 knowing full well that Papa was due to come here and that our cars might pass on the way. We stopped at Grandways in Horsforth for a 5lb chicken and took a bunch of pink carnations to the cemetery where I stood looking blankly at that mound of un-turfed earth holding Mum's remains. ____ There is plaque (temporary) proclaiming 'Nora Rhodes'. We arranged the flowers and Samuel took handfuls of green marble chippings from another grave and scattered them. Ally was cross, but I explained that the long-dead occupant of the grave wouldn't mind at all. Poked at the earth and came away with dirty finger nails. To Lynn's. No mention of David's 'snip'. Sue is working at Harry Ram
sden's. To Leeds at 5. Dad was in the carpark reading the Daily Telegraph in the car. We went in and had a stodgy, fried tea. We looked at holiday snaps. In the bar tonight we were joined by Geoff & Phyllis. Much talk of organs (the musical variety). Dad is so sad. He actually said that when the low flying jets come over Horton-in-Ribblesdale he prays that one will come down on Waltergarth and finish him off. He cannot see how he can go on living alone. Awful.

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