Monday April 11, 1977

Bank Holiday in England, Ireland and Wales. Last night  was ghastly. Feathers abounded and my poor lungs almost gave way to it all. Gasping and wheezing my way through a Bank Holiday is hardly what you'd call enjoyment, but I suppose it's better than being at the Yorkshire Post.

The morn is warm and sunny and the birds are singing gaily. In fact I accidentally kicked a sparrow off it's feet thinking it was a stone. What's wrong with the bird-life in Cumbria? Our feathered friends in Yorkshire wouldn't let you do such a thing.

Breakfast again consisted of eggs, sausages and the lot. Have a laugh with Maria about her half-cast Irish accent. She has a good sense of humour for sure, and the weight is falling off her. A slip of a girl in fact.

A photographic session outside the accursed Kell Head (pub) and then whilst I'm inspecting the urinals John, Sue, Peter and the baby disappear down a lane on some sort of nature trail. I gave chase and after 10 minutes I found them hiding in a field in the hope that I'd walk merrily past and fade away over the horizon. They had even gone to the trouble of lifting John (baby version) in his pram over a five barred gate and into a derelict barn to perfect the dastardly scheme. Swines that they are.

The party arrives from Uncle H's abode and Mum pays her bill. She was still fuming about last night's snub. Lynn laughed and said that Susan resorted to smoking in bed to calm the violence of her temper over the 10.30 closing horror. The offending cigarettes were borrowed from Mrs Maria Rhodes.

Hurriedly pack and within half an hour we're back on the road to St Bees - in somewhat more clement circumstances than yesterday. I take off shoes and roll up trousers and hurtle myself in the direction of the sea. Maria likens my prancing over the sands to that of a frisky stallion. A photographic session followed as the clan gathered 'neath a concrete barrier in the weak sunshine. Memorable it was.

Fish and chips back at Uncle Harry's and at 3pm we're on the trek homeward. Me, Mum, Dad, John, Maria and baby in one car, and the others with Peter. Stopped off at the Anchor Inn again but otherwise it was straight home. The usual Bank Holiday traffic jams but that can only be expected. On a starving rampage on my arrival home. The Cumbrian sea air must have brought it on because I just could not stop eating. Beans on toast, cheese, jam, buns, cream crackers, &c. You name it, pal, I ate it tonight.

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Sunday April 10, 1977

Easter Day. Raining at first, but brighter later. Woke up with an incredible hangover. Have I died in my sleep? Feel really grotty at first. A run up the garden to the (Kell Head) pub and a dip in the bathroom followed by eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread &c &c rejuvenated me greatly and by half past eleven I was quite ready for anything. The rain proves no deterrent and the whole party sets off in a convoy for St Bees. Yes, the seaside. A quick dash in the drizzle on the 'front' by most of the party was enough but for the more adventurous the call of the pub proved irresistible.

Have a few drinks with Uncle Harry who tells me that once (during the war) he worked down the pit. Yes, a miner no less. I didn't know that. Mum sat in the car, closeted with JPH, and was thoroughly enjoying it by the look on her face. How long is it since we had a baby with us at the seaside? Must have been when Susan was in nappies. The rain was pounding in St Bees and following a Cabinet meeting in the pub comes the announcement that the party will adjourn to the Nethertown HQ. However, on our return to H's caravan the sun  broke from behind a cloud and cascaded down upon us. We danced in a frenzied mob on the Nethertown beach and hurled pebbles at one another. Cameras came out too. Baby was pushed up and down in his pram and some of the boys found solace in crab murdering. Papa stood gazing out to see, in dark spectacles, like Fidel Castro. Isn't it strange how salty sea air works up a thirst in young men?

Back to the Kell Head for a couple of hours. Plenty of Elvis Presley and egg mayonnaise sandwiches too. All quite pissed we were - again. Then back to the Nethertown encampment. Blimey, it's up and down like a yoyo isn't it? See Lord Grade's 'Jesus of Nazareth' on Uncle H's minute tv set and prepare ... yes, you've guessed it ...to return to a certain pub presided over by a certain fat barmaid. The Kell Head again. For some reason, probably because of the fact that it's Easter Sunday, a sobering influence hangs over the lounge of the above mentioned tavern. Uncle Harry isn't three sheets in the wind. All very distressing, eh? At 10.30, when I'm just about to settle down and start some serious drinking 'Big Jean' drops a bombshell upon us. "I'm closing on time tonight, Ducks", she calmly announces. Mum especially looked horribly pained and I had to offer assistance to John who came over all faint. Big, horrible Fat Jean has no right to do such a thing. Don't patrons have rights? Are we to be walked upon as though we're in the Soviet Union? No, No, No. But yes. Back to the caravan for a French-cut (pyjama) party with Dave and Pete. Didn't really feel like drinking at all and sat watching the light ale running away.

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Saturday April 9, 1977

One of those horrible mornings when one wishes one had remained in ones bedroom. A nice sunny day true enough, but the chaos and pandemonium and general escalation of activity due to our forthcoming departure north for Easter took away the elation and joy.

Princess Louise, Duchess of Fife

I sat reading the morning papers amid the panic of suitcase packing. Princess Anne is the main topic in the press. Will the Queen's grandchild be Master or Miss Phillips, or will the Cap'n be forced into accepting an earldom, marquesate, or even a dukedom? I've read in the papers that no precedent exists for a monarch to bestow a title upon a grandchild by-passing the parents. But in fact the granddaughters of King Edward VII (daughters of the Princess Royal, Duchess of Fife) were created Princesses in 1905. Here's the citation coming up: "King Edward VII was pleased to declare on Nov 9, 1905 that his daughter, HRH The Princess Louise, Duchess of Fife should bear the title Princess Royal, and that her daughters should bear the title of Princess with the qualification of Highness, and should rank immediately after all members of the Royal Family bearing the style of Royal Highness." Why not make Anne Princess Royal and  create all her children Princes or Princesses as indeed the offspring of Charles, Andrew and Edward will be? This would solve all the petty problems of peerages, honourables and such like.

To Cumbria at 1.30 or so stopping at the Anchor Inn at Skipton (sic) on the way. Mum, Dad, Lynn, Dave, Sue, Peter, John, Maria, JPH,  and me. Ten of us. Get to Uncle H's before 5. He's pissed out of his mind and cooking a diabolical meal for us. We all eat grinning all over our faces. The Yorkshire puddings were like nothing on earth. All go to the Kell Head pub which is in the middle on nowhere. (2 miles from Egremont and St Bees), where all except Mum, Dad and Harry are to pass the next couple of nights. By 7.30 we're all in the bar. The baby hates the place and he cried and screamed until midnight. I don't think the little fellow appreciated the juke-box the sound of which vibrated on his bedroom floor. We all sat there until about 2am. The 'landlady' - call her what you will - is affectionately known as 'Big Jean' Sherwen. Never a more repulsive woman could you wish to lay eyes on. A horror indeed. All pissed up and singing. Dave, Pete and I in a caravan in the garden. Dave wears 'French cut' pyjamas - what he does in the privacy of his bedroom is no concern of mine, but I cannot help marveling at them. Die laughing in fact.

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Sunday February 8, 1976

Wake up at 9am when Uncle Harry announces from the foot of the stairs "breakfast is served, and I'm just going out for the milk." I lay with head pounding listening to Mum laughing in the next room. David proceeds to fall out of his bunk and onto the top of me, and Peter lays in bed chanting ditties that would make even the lewdest of rugby song fans blush.

Have toast and marmalade for breakfast and discuss the hazy events of last night. Harry and I have the same political views entirely.

At about 10.30 we set off on a tour of Cumbria. Harry, Carole and I in the first carriage, Lynn and Dave in the second, and Mum, Dad, Sue & Pete in the third.

We get as close as we can to Windscale Nuclear Power Station, and also visit the site where Uncle H is to have a caravan. He may get a job at Windscale, but I can forsee only danger and the prospect of nuclear holocaust ahead if Harry Rhodes is let loose there. Perhaps Henry Kissinger should be told before it is too late.

Spend an hour or two in the pub before Harry pays for a great chicken lunch. He only eats a mouthful and is taken ill by it. He's in a bad way.

Back to Ravenglass for 3.30 and we all go down to the beach. Carole and I go for a walk and she has hysterical fits when I accidentally push her into a tributary of the River Esk. I can see Harry looking at Carole when we're in the car because she never opens her mouth. He thinks something is wrong, & cannot understand she's on quite a different wave-length to him. She is blinded by words consisting of more than four letters, and Harry tends to use these long words rather a lot.

Every time I say goodbye to Harry I fear it may be the last time because he's such a frail, old lad for 53.

Leave at about 4.30 and have uncomfortable, cramped journey home with David. Carole comes to Pine Tops until 9.30 and then I see her onto a bus homeward.

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Saturday February 7, 1976

Up at 8.50am which must be the earliest I've been up on a Saturday since I gave up Saturday mornings at the YP last Jan.

Have a bath and get a bus to Carole's. I catch her with a cigarette. She says she was only smoking because she thought I wasn't going to turn up. If she ever gives up I will eat my right ear.

Go to Otley market and buy a £3.95 waist coat which matches my levi-type jeans, and buy a film for my camera.

We got off the bus at Hawksworth Lane and Carole left her suitcase in the luggage rack and we almost lost it for good, but her presence of mind retrieved it within seconds of us alighting.

Set off for Uncle Harry's at 1pm. Stop for a few drinks in Skipton and arrive at Ravenglass at 4.30 or thereabouts. After roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in his wonderful little cottage we go to a local pub - all nine of us - and stay until after 11pm. Carole doesn't say much and I think she finds it hard to communicate with Uncle Harry, who is perhaps too 'deep' for her.

Back at the cottage Harry puts on a Spanish record and raves about it all night. By 1am everyone - except me - are shagged out, and drifting off to different sleeping spots, but Uncle H and I sit by the fire until 4.30 to solve the problems of the world.

He says he won't be around for much longer and if he's still here in five years it will be a miracle. I tell him he is not an alcoholic, but he says he's seen hundreds of men like him on mortuary slabs and that he most certainly is one. 'You see, Michael' he said 'you can tell an alcoholic not by what he drinks, but by what he doesn't eat.'

I do know that Harry has the apetite of a sparrow with stomach cancer. I fear for him very much. Typical, that out of all my uncles my favourite one has to have suicidal ambitions. He's not too late to be cured, but he hasn't the will to live. Other than this we talk about Margaret Thatcher, Airey Neave (who he says is the real power behind Mrs T), communism in Britain, fascism, King Juan Carlos, holidays in Spain, Mr Jeremy Thorpe, homosexuals, and Harold Macmillan. And throughout we have the Spanish LP banging away in the background keeping a good many of the guests upstairs awake.

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