Friday October 14, 1977

Fog. Deep, deep fog. Sue, Pete and I went to the Fox & Hounds at 8 o'clock where we were joined by Chris and Pete M, Martyn and Tony. ____________.Chris was incredibly cheerful. He told us he's joining Sue, Pete and I on our trip to Rawtenstall tomorrow. The more the merrier. That's a dictum to which I strongly adhere myself. Chris told me that Carole is ill in hospital with kidney trouble again. She had a similar illness of similar proportions when she was 12  or 13. I will post her a 'get well' card.

Because of the weather I had no desire at all to go trailing over the county in search of females or more drink, and so when the lads left at 10.15 I told them I was staying with Sue & Pete. In fact we had a very good night at the Fox - a place which I previously had no love for at all.

Home after 11. Mum says Bing Crosby is dead. He collapsed whilst playing golf in Spain. Elvis, Marc Bolan and now Mr Crosby.

Watched the film 'Billy Liar' on TV. Ghastly.

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Tuesday September 20, 1977

Martyn phoned. We talked about Stockport, but he disagreed with everything I said. He made some comments about Carol J being a 'nice girl'. ________. Tony rang too to talk about the Jacqui/Joy visit. He suggested picking up the girls at Leeds City Station but I told him they were coming up by car.

Jacqui phoned at lunchtime to say they are staying at Elmete Lane, Roundhay, from about 9pm on Friday. They are going to phone me when they arrive and I will meet them and take them on to Angela Singer's party at Headingley. Chris phoned for John Grady's number.

John came to see us for a few minutes. We are going out on Thursday, first for a few drinks with Mum & Dad and then on to a disco with Sue, Pete, Lynn and Dave.

I made one of my irregular visits to Hough the denist who just glanced at my teeth and told me to come back at the end of October. What a wasted journey.Feeling quite energetic I walked from Rawdon to Guiseley where John (or is it Tim?) Mounsey (of Oakwood Hall fame) picked me up and brought me half way up Hillway. He's a good laugh and although we've lived near each other all these years I hardly know him.

Fred Mulley slumbering ...

Saw in one of the papers that the Defence minister, Fred Mulley, is probably going to be replaced following the embarrassing but hilarious incident at the Silver Jubilee RAF display at Finningley when he dropped off to sleep in a chair next to Her Majesty the Queen, who was not amused.

Sat and ate Susan's home made toffee this evening laughing at Magnus Magnusson on 'Mastermind'. One of the Sunday papers carried an article saying that Diana Dors is suing a magazine over allegations that twenty years ago she played strip poker with Mr Magnusson and Bernard Levin. Very improbable I know and like a Monty Python sketch, but I bet it's true. Something as ridiculous as that must have some truth in it.

Diana Dors, speaking in the Sunday People after Elvis bit the dust referred to Presley as her 'SVENGALI'. That was a new word to me. Am I illiterate?

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Wednesday August 17, 1977

Mr Presley is all over the newspapers this morning. I think that they are making too much of his death. Granted he was a singer, and one of the first 'rock and roll' stars, but why go over the top?

I am looking forward with some relish to the London-Bognor Regis excursion at the weekend. Work is something I could do without at the moment. It's all so bloody boring, you know. How are things with you? I expect they keep you 21st century wallahs busy, eh? For years they have promised more leisure time for the masses, with a three day week and all that, but as time goes by I find my leisure time doing quite the opposite - it's shrinking. More and more work seems to be the thing. What's the chance of spending four days each week on a yacht on the Thames? It's about as possible as my chances of becoming President of the United States of America. Have you read the novel "1984"? Well, I hope you aren't all living like that in your world because if so you won't be reading this now.




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Tuesday August 16, 1977

Tony came over this evening while I was in the midst of cutting the lawns and he procured me for drinking purposes. I'm flat broke, but he says he has more than enough cash to buy us both a couple of pints of Guinness.

Elvis: dead at 42.

We went over to Baildon but it was very quiet compared with the Bacchanalian reception we received last Tuesday. Darryl Wills and a friend came in.

We returned refreshed to Pine Tops at about 10.15. Mum informed us that Elvis Presley is dead. I find it hard to believe. He was only 42. He's six days younger than Mother to be precise. No doubt a flood of hysteria will sweep the world as is the general trend on the demise of a Super Star of Mr Presley's rank. (Rudolph) Valentino and Miss Marilyn Monroe for example.

We had our usual Tuesday night 'Panorama' type session with Dad and tonight it was crime and punishment and the death penalty (again). We all became somewhat heated.

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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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