Wednesday August 24, 1977

A wet, November-type of day. The YP was uneventful and sombre. However, tonight is the thing to discuss. Martyn and I went to the Bod by good old bus, and a wet one at that and met Wendy (age aprrox. 27 years) and Anne (age unknown, but slightly younger than Wendy). After just one paltry drink we went by taxi to Annabella's, which I immediately recognised from the the only other occasion I had been there some 2 years ago (it was Christmas 1975, with Carole, on a coach party organised by David from Hawksworth Lane.)

We all ate, drank and danced marvellously. I gave a demonstration of my party piece, and a skilled one, of letting down inflated, knotted balloons. No one, it appears, has seen this done before. I managed to save at least 2 dozen of these gaily coloured objects which had throughout the evening given the effect of the January Sales in a nudist camp.

I must stress that neither Martyn or I  consumed excessive amounts of alcohol. You can believe what you wish on this subject. Anne and I made hogs of ourselves attacking the buffet for 'seconds'. The 2 anonymous Smiths shop assistants joined us and the Egyptian sand-dancing was started up again. We were in hysterics. Martyn and I home in a taxi at 1.30 which only cost us £1 each. Not bad.

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Monday August 22, 1977

Phoned Anne at Smith's to enquire about a couple of free tickets for Tony and myself for the 'do' at Annabella's on Wednesday. She managed to get me some.

Tony came over after tea with a letter from the Health Authority informing him of his interment at Bradford Royal Infirmary on the morning of August 24. This means no 'do' on Wednesday for him and no bank holiday trip for him and Martyn at the weekend. He suggested Martyn and I go to Annabella's instead. He left at about 7 o'clock.

We (the family that is) watched a Frankie Howerd film 'Up the front' which is ghastly. He is a brilliant comedian but the scripts they give him to perform with are rubbish. Bed at approx. 11pm.

PS. While reading 'The Times' today I saw a letter on ancestry which claimed that going back to 1066 each person can claim to have 700 million ancestors. I just cannot believe it. The writer (a Mr D. Reid) also claims that every Briton is descended from King Edward III. This is rubbish.

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Sunday August 21, 1977

11th after Trinity. Woke at 11 feeling quite dead. Mr Brotherwood Senior, grinning broadly, deposited a cup of tea by my bed and made a quick exit from the room. Tony was outside beating his sheepskin car rugs with a large wire brush. He laughed on seeing me and joked about the pinkness of my eyes and deathly hue of my palid cheeks. We then attacked slices of hot buttered toast with Mrs B's constant chatter as a back drop.

Groucho.

See in the Sunday Times that the genius Groucho Marx is dead. Let us hope that, as in the case of the late, lamented Mr Presley, the BBC will now show all the Marx Brothers films because 'Duck Soup', 'A Day at the Races' and 'A Night at the Opera' are masterpieces of comedy. The Elvis films are starting on the BBC next Wednesday.

We went back to the White Horse taking Mrs Brotherwood with us. Tony and I drank tomato juice. Mrs B was on the sherry.

Sunday lunch was at 2 followed by a slight kip and then we hit the road for the north at 4pm. Home via Goodwood and picturesque Sussex and various other bits of that area of which I know nothing. We ate our packed picnic of cheese and spring onion sandwiches in the car, and I had mine as we passed Kew Gardens at about 6.30.  We were at Bradford and in the Bod at 9.30. At times Tony  had been doing over 100mph on the M1. Wendy and Anne were in the Bod and we planned to go to Annabella's with them on Wednesday and to the WH Smith party, I think. I'm surprised we weren't thrown out for all the attention we were drawing to ourselves. Three pints of Guinness, no money an one hour later I returned home to find everyone at Edith and Ernest's and in a state of intoxication. Even Lynn and David back from Italy - not as brown as they should be.

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Friday December 19, 1975

Dave, from No 40, Hawksworth Lane, arranged a trip to Annabella's disco in Bradford. All the gang went, by coach of course, and we drank and made merry until 2am.

Carole and I were squabbling again and I realise we haven't quite seen eye to eye lately.

CB was with us. I bought Dave L all his ale. I don't object to this of course because you know as well as I do that I'd do anything for David. These college chaps can't afford to eat or live - let alone booze.

Home at 2.30. John was three sheets to the wind and proceeded to make more than a bit of a racket on our arrival at the palace.

Goodnight one and all.

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