Wednesday May 24, 1978

Princess Margaret and the 1st Earl of Snowdon were divorced ~ on this the 159th birthday of Queen Victoria. I don't think she'd have been amused at all. Mind you, it is 1978, and when everybody else in the kingdom are tearing up their marriage certificates I suppose it's only right that one or two members of the Royal Family should do likewise. Moving with the times, and all that. It's about the only excuse I can give.

The only other violent eruption I can envisage this year in the Royal House is Prince Michael of Kent's marital intentions with Marie-Christine Troubridge.

Politics: a recent opinion poll suggests Margaret Hilda Thatcher might not become prime minister at the next general election. It is infuriating to see the present enfeebled prime minister growing to look more like Sir Winston Churchill and all the more how one expects a Conservative leader to look while at the same time the 'true blue' leader is a peroxide blonde housewife smothered in Max Factor ~ going through the change ~ &c. It really is intolerable. The political analysts are now saying we won't be going to the polls until next Spring and the thought of a jubilant James Callaghan and Denis Healey rolling, frolicking, and skipping midst the crocuses at Westminster just doesn't bear thinking about. Another Labour government would take us to 1984, George Orwell and all that.

Home news: Just watched tv this evening. Mama is back to normal I think. Her moods can put a tremendous dampener on things.

Lynn came home with a new hairstyle ~ a perm. She's such a pretty girl ~ one of the finest maidens in the parish.

Edith and Ernest are going to Devon tomorrow to view a house near Kenneth's that's for sale. Mum says it's a bad idea that they go south. She hasn't told them of course. I agree when she says that moving at that age can do more harm than good. Ernest has many friends up here and to old people that can be the difference between an active, youthful mind, and a geriatric cabbage.

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Wednesday April 12, 1978

Snow again, but warm and sunny later on. Work was quite busy and the Budget dominated the papers which is a great bore. I won't notice my extra £1 I can tell you. It (the Budget) may have been Denis Healey's last one. Sir Geoffrey Howe could be at the helm by Christmas.

I am reading (from the library yesterday) the diaries of Samuel Pepys 1659-69. I always imagined the diaries covered more years than this but it seems the poor man went blind after ten years of copiously scribing away about such things as the Great Fire of London. In 1983, if I'm still here, I may well have written more than Mr Pepys, and who knows where it will all end if I'm fit and well in the 2040s. Ooh, I do feel historic.

However, the only exciting thing for me to communicate is that I phoned Jacq at 8. The poor girl's working again tomorrow and we aren't going out until Friday.

Christine phoned me on Monday and mentioned going to Yeadon Fair, but if no vast multitude of friends wish to accompany us I can't see the point of it. Jacq, Christine and I on a roundabout would look really pathetic I think. Miss Sate was very cheerful and seems to enjoy the YWCA with all its grotesque inmates and odd characters. I think she's incredibly brave and valiant.

I was reading a report today in an old copy of The Times (from last week) which stated that in 1941 Sir Winston Churchill in a letter expressed his desire to be cremated. Good heavens! How would we have managed the remainder of the war without him? Thank God they didn't grant him his wish. If Lady Churchill had been burnt at the stake in the 1940s then today Britain would have a marvellous Graham Sutherland portrait of the old boy to admire.


Canaletto ....

In front of the TV this evening. Pete N and Dave B joined us of course. The Duke of Beaufort was on BBC1 talking about Badminton (House) and the horse trials, &c. Dad made his usual cutting remarks about the aristocracy. All you need is a red face, tweed jacket, two acres and a Canaletto and Papa's wrath is immediately aroused.

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Tuesday April 11, 1978

More snow. What's more, the whole house is full of daffodils and my nasal cavity aches and squelches 'neath the strain of it all. Spring is no joy for me. Yellow is such a loud, dazzling colour.

At 12 I left the YP and sought refuge in the library. Poor P.G. Wodehouse and Alexandre Dumas were returned to the shelves virtually unread. I was violently assaulted by the library assistant because I owed 45p in fines. Crikey! Who does she thinks pays for the rotten books in the first place? Harold Robbins, believe it or not, doesn't grow on trees.

I met Jacq at 1pm and we went to the murky, disinfectant-smelling Central. I disabled the juke box when I shovelled 5p pieces into it and it's obviously only programmed to take 10s. But the obliging landlord fiddled around beneath the lid and I ended up getting 6 plays for 10p! Coo! Jacq is fagged out. She was in Thorner yesterday typing and today she's doing the same in 'Leeds 10'. She couldn't be more specific, but I think it's behind the Corn Exchange somewhere.

I told Jacq that 1978 is the year that Michael Rhodes finds fame and fortune in a new job, but I'm not thoroughly convincing. Jacq's known me long enough now to realise what a slow, sluggish worm I am. I took my leave of her at 2 and went to the bank in Guiseley for £50 which I immediately converted into postal orders and posted to Barclaycard.


Postal Order.

At home by 3:45 I heard Denis Healey on the telly presenting his 13th Budget to Parliament. This non-event was recorded for the first time (no pictures). After all the rhetoric I am probably going to receive £1 a week more in my wage packet. Retired at 11.

-=-

Sunday February 19, 1978

2nd Sunday in Lent

A quiet day. Have felt very tired this weekend and have relished bed more than usual. When I eventually decided to emerge Susan & Peter were making lunch. Pork, Yorkshire puddings (flat ones), and roast potatoes. The aroma from the kitchen is one I will never forget.

I joked with Peter about Prince Andrew and his £20,000 income. 'What does an 18 year-old want with so much money?' he asks. I replied, much to his great annoyance, that the prince needs every penny for his new Aston Martin and the jewels he is buying for Kirsty Richmond. I love antagonising Nason. But I was surprised to read in the Sunday Express that our beloved chancellor, Denis Healey, is looking after Prince Andrew's cash until the time comes when HRH takes up royal duties. Bloody Hell, Andy, don't let Healey lay one greedy, slimy finger on it. Before you know where you are the man will have ploughed your money into the coffers of British Leyland or the Crown Agents.

Mum and Dad are home at about 4. They say Windermere was frozen and skating was to be seen there. Dad says the sight was like a de-industrialised Lowry painting. They've had a happy, but cold weekend.

I spent all day and night eating like a horse and watching television. Yes, Clarke Gable in 'China Seas' (1936) and the dramatisation of James Herriot's vet books on the BBC. Also watched 'Moulin Rouge' based on the life of Toulouse Lautrec and finally 'Julius Caesar' starring James Mason, Marlon Brando and Sir John Gielgud. My eyeballs are square.

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Thursday December 1, 1977

Feel revoltingly weak, dizzy and painful about the head, back, arms, legs. At work I did very little, and after collecting my wage, including a tax rebate of £20 by courtesy of Mr Healey, I left for home.

I took something hot to bed and read 'The Count of Monte Cristo', which I almost finished. Yes, nearly.  You may be needing tranquilisers I know, but there's no point trying to deceive you is there?

with JPH.

Maria, John and JPH came to see us this afternoon. Mum brought the baby up to my room and he crawled about on the floor. He liked my clock and kept saying "tick tock", "shoe", "flower", and made various horse impressions.

Saw 'Top of the Pops' tonight and eventually passed into a coma. For God's Sake I hope nobody creeps into my room during the night and switches off my life support machine.

Carole's latest treatment was a success and she may be out of hospital by Christmas. I was supposed to see her today but when she telephoned me with the news I told her I was ill. Bless her.

-=-

Thursday October 27, 1977

Phoned Chapel Allerton Hospital at 11.30 and spoke to a nice nurse who spoke for a while about Carole. She is extremely ill and today underwent tests for some nameless disease which everyone is keeping quiet about. No point in passing on any messages either, because she's too drowsy to comprehend anything.

I contacted Christine this morning (10.20am) and we arranged to go to the Fox and Hounds tomorrow night. This should prove exciting and pleasant after the stagnation of recent times.

Thatcher: grey and toothless.

Denis Healey presented a Budget yesterday and by the look of things I'll be getting a £20 or £30 tax rebate at Christmas. Better than putting your feet in acid I do suppose. It's chilling to hear that Mr Healey intends presenting three or four more budgets before going out of office, which means that the nauseating government may be with us until the Spring of 1979. Poor Margaret Thatcher will be grey and toothless by then.

No Squash this evening. Sarah must have gone off the idea, but I can't say I'm heartbroken. Sarah's ups and downs get on my nerves and hitting balls against a brick wall are not the top of my priority list at the moment.

-=-

Wednesday March 30, 1977

Princess Marie-Astrid.

More in the papers about the Prince of Wales and Princess Marie-Astrid of Luxembourg. The Daily Mail announces that Misses Sheffield and Eastwood and Lady Jane Wellesley are all 'decoys' and that the prince has been 'in love' with Marie-Astrid for a number of years. A load of bullshit. The very organ that has led us to believe that the prince is having an affair with Davina Sheffield is now saying we've all been fooled. You wait and see, the next time HRH is within six hundred yards of anyone remotely female the Daily Mail will be ringing wedding bells and proclaiming 'this is it!'.

The princess is of course very eligible. Granddaughter of Leopold III, King of the Belgians; daughter of the ruler of Luxembourg, but Roman Catholic. Dr Cobweb, the Archbishop of Canterbury is meeting Pope Paul next month. What will crop up in their discussions?  Comment from Mama: "Oh he will marry a princess - it's as plain as the nose on my face."

Work unspectacular. No Sarah. Spoke to Delia on the phone and she reminded me about my birthday tea next week. Yes, 22 years - aarrghh! Who cares anyway? Moses supposedly lived a long and active life and died at the grand old age of 450 or something.

Ruth: 24 years old

Sit in front of the television until 10.45pm when the England v. Luxembourg football match drives me from the room to the sanctity of my chambers.

Nothing on the news. Saw Sir Geoffrey Howe make a reply to Denis Healey's Budget. No phone calls tonight. Tony told me, on the quiet, that Ruth is 24 and has been separated from her husband for 2 years. Blimey, the girl only looks 18. Martyn has yet to be informed of this. Does Ruth know that Martyn is only 18? Age doesn't matter though.

Have a P.G. Wodehouse session after wallowing in the bath. Must write to David of Gloucester.

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Tuesday February 22, 1977

Pancake Day, or whatever you want to call it. Pissing down with rain all day but I'm not put off wandering into town to collect the record 'Body Heat' by James Brown. Got a bit wet even after taking precautions with an umberella. The soaking was worth it for this soul masterpiece.

Link to Body Heat by Mr James Brown

David Owen.

Yes, David Owen is the new Foreign Secretary at 38. It sure looks like we're going to be lumbered with (Denis) Healey as chancellor until the next rotten general election, doesn't it? (Why am I asking you? You know the outcome anyway. I suppose David Owen is now Sir David Owen, KG, the former prime minister?) The Foreign Office at thirty eight surely ensures some sort of promotion in the next 20 years and the premiership is only three or four places up the scale. Oh, I'm bored with this topic anyway. Politics is dreadful. Mr Callaghan is a silly old fool, and you know what I think about Margaret Hilda Thatcher. Don't talk to me about devolution either.

Sitting on the bus at 4.30  I remembered I promised John & Maria I'd pay them a visit for tea tonight and so I disembarked in torrential rain in Guiseley and telephoned Papa with the news that I would not be home for a heap of pancakes. Down to J and M's where I sit entertaining the baby whilst Maria did her bit towards making Shrove Tuesday the traditional thingy. JPH is taking notice now and his grin is even wider. Spent a couple of hours going through Maria's mail order catalogue and made a few orders. I played my new James Brown record over and over again attempting to indoctrinate the baby with it. We want him to be a little soul kid. I also held his face very close to the TV when the 6 o'clock news showed the Queen and Prince Philip in New Zealand. He must learn to adore his sovereign from a very early age. His mother however yelled abuse and sang Irish rebel songs at the TV.

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Tuesday February 15, 1977

Awful day at work. I'm sick to death of having to do Monday's work on a Tuesday. What they do when I have a day off I just do not know.  Sarah looks ghastly. She's had all her hair cut off and the reason why she and Delia didn't arrive to see me on Friday was because she went hysterical in the hairdressers.

Salad for tea which I detest. Susan and I go through the ritual of moaning about sodden lettuce and boring accessories.

Martyn: women drop at his feet.

Martyn rang at 8 to thank me for the photo of Her Majesty and the Silver Jubilee Lechery Society details. He experienced the delights of Miss Moorhouse on Ilkley Moor on Sunday afternoon and he wined and dined her that night. He's having a drink with her tonight in the Hare and I'm tempted to join them for a small sup. But glancing at my financial situation I decide to remain imprisoned here at Pine Tops. I could be jealous of Martyn, you know. His sex life is amazing and women drop at his feet wherever he goes. Denise thinks he's the sexiest lad she's laid eyes on in ages.

Mum and Dad go to the Commercial and I beg Sue & Pete to join me in fish and chips which they do at 10.30 when Pete drives me down to the (fish and chip) shop. I blame that ruddy salad for the pangs of starvation. No good for a growing lad.

Anthony Crosland is still deteriorating and is unconscious after his heart attack. I don't give him much longer to live. However, he could be like another General Franco and deteriorate for two or three months. Poor sod. Somehow I think he might have eventually had a bash at No 10, Downing Street. Will Healey now move to the Foreign Office?

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Tuesday April 6, 1976

Budget Day. Mr Healey didn't do much at all and I don't know why the BBC bothered covering the 'event' because sweet sod all resulted from Denis's lengthy oration. However, beer is going up 1p a pint and the price of a bottle of Scotch is going up by 32p. Callaghan's first day at No. 10, and I bet Audrey's made friends with all the neighbours. What colour scheme has she decided upon for Jim's bedroom?

Carole rings at 7.30pm whilst I'm out pruning the roses, to say - or rather to sob - that 'the family' (if that's what they can be called) have ignored her all night, and she mumbles about killing herself. I cannot be expected to continue gardening after being told that my girlfriend is about to end her life so I lay down my shears and meet her on Thorpe Lane. We go for a long ramble, taking in Esholt Woods, Westfield fish and chip shop and the Yorkshire Rose. Carole looks horrific and I'm sick and tired of the whole affair. Why should I be depressed by a domestic squabble that's too inferior for words? Carole never gives me any of the details so how can I be expected to sympathise? She's a good deal happier when we part company at 11, and arrange to meet in Guiseley tomorrow night.

-==-

Wednesday April 16, 1975

Don't expect much today because you'll be very disappointed. You see, John is alseep in bed, and it's quite late at night and the brightness of the electric lighting in the room is disturbing his slumbers somewhat. Anyway, to recap on the days events: Saw June briefly this morning as Jim drove me to Leeds- just a very, very brief glimpse because we rocketed past her at about 60 mph. However, brief it may have been, but my poor little heart almost didn't withstand the excitement. From Horsforth to the far-flung reaches of Kirkstall I travelled with it (my heart) in my mouth.

Later the same day: John deposits me in the Hare and Hounds and then takes Chris and Naomi to Bradford where Gillian is propping up a bar. (Did you know that Chris and Gillian are, as they say, 'going out'?) You know now anyway. I was left with Helen Lockyer in her Pa's car I might add, Miss C. Smith and Mr A Graham. Reluctantly I'm dragged off to the Station on Henshaw Lane. Philip Knowles comes in with a blond chick and leaves after supping only half a bitter. Denis Healey must have gone to his head or something. Half a bitter! Yuk!

-==-

Tuesday April 15, 1975

The Right Honourable Denis Healey, MP, Chancellor of the Exchequer, presented his Budget this afternoon, and I'm saying nothing whatsoever about it, other than he did nothing too drastic or outrageous. Just the usual load of old rubbish.

Busy day at the YP, and I'll be glad when Friday comes around again. A week off is just what I need at the moment.

I see a good feature in The Times on the Duchess of Windsor, still battling on at 78 years old. The poor old soul received sweet sod all from the British people, and the Royal Family ought to be ashamed. Three years since the duke died and they've done their utmost to forget all about her.

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Monday March 10, 1975

A filthy day. Rains non stop and to make matters worse I had to go up to the Merrion Centre with Mum's Mother's Day present and swap it for one more in keeping with her size.

The noise in the YP building is becoming much worse, and our nerves are on edge and cracking up. Sarah looked pale all day & Eileen is still under the influence of flu. A sad state of affairs indeed. Nothing in the news other than the grim details of the Lesley Whittle murder. The Prince of Wales has returned to the (HMS) Hermes for a further 6 months at sea, and the little, cherubic Prince Edward is eleven years old today. Revolting Denis Healey is to open his tatty Budget box for all to see on April 15, and Alison Dixon's dog, Frisky, passed away into the great unknown over the weekend. It's amazing what one can dig up by way of news when one tries hard enought.

Home for tea at 5.15. Mess about in the lounge for an hour or so afterwards, and decide that my hair needs washing. (You all wanted to know that). Tonight is the final episode in the 'Likely Lads' series. It will be the end of a fantastic set of programmes.

-==-

Tuesday March 26, 1974

A horrid day. The so-called Chancellor of the Exchequer introduced his first budget this afternoon and everyone is quite livid about it. Electricity is going up by 30 per cent and my train fares will cost me an extra £5.20 per annum. But, he didn't clobber the pensioners, which is a worthy thing I suppose.

At lunchtime I trapped my finger in one of the filing cabinets and my finger nail went black within seconds. This incident rendered me useless for the remainder of the day.

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Monday March 25, 1974

The Minority Labour Government presents its first Budget tomorrow. No doubt it will be an absolute stinker. Healey may be a Yorkshireman but he won't be doing anything for his fellow county-dwellers. I'm dreading the possible tax increase. Mother thinks he's a delightful little man - all fat and jolly, etc. How can any sane woman fall for the charms of this latter day Stalin? poor Mummy, one fears for her sense of reason...