Foggy, wet and damp. Party at 102, Grosvenor Road, Muswell Hill, London N10. I got a coach from Leeds at 12.30 and read 'The Count of Monte Cristo' until my eyes ached. We were in the centre of London before I deposited the book in my luggage. The coach driver, making his first venture to the capital, was lost, and we circled Buckingham Palace five or six times before one of my fellow passengers enlightened him as to the whereabouts of Victoria. All very trying it was.
Met Jacqui at about 5.30 and, in pouring rain, we went by bus to Muswell Hill, which seemed just as far from London as did Leeds. It was miles!
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| George Davis: drinking with his relations. |
Jacqui shares a marvellous flat with a couple of other birds - one a sexy Australian. We ate and listened to records until the first party guests arrived at about 9 o'clock. Lononders frowned at the suggestion that we should first go to the pub until closing time. Weird lot. All the men wear one ear-ring, and several claimed to be related to George Davis, the bank robber of Headingley wicket sabotage fame. Didn't know whether to believe them or not. Most people (were) quite pissed, but gallons of wine didn't do much for me at all. The party was good. I thoroughly enjoyed it. My northern accent amused endless people and I brought hours of amusement to scores of Londoners who had never actually met a Yorkshire man before. I remember drinking Pernod and chatting to a Greek.
Jacqui and I get on very well. We were the last survivors at about 4am.
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