Sunday March 20, 1977

Whilst Martyn and Tony were presumably playing scrabble in a steamed up, dimly lit vehicle with two scantily clad maidens last night I took the opportunity of placing myself at the back of the tent, furthest away from the entrance and on an upward incline. Thus, my nights comfort was assured.

To be honest, the lads had no time to play scrabble in the time they were bidding their fond farewells to the ladies. Whilst waiting I smoked one cigarette and drank half a bottle of chilled beer, which puts their time of absence from the tent at approximately four minutes because you know I don't mess around with bottles of ale.

Back to this morning anyway: Me and Martyn were awake by 8am and our chatter brought Tony from his slumbers ten minutes later. Spam sandwiches for breakfast with Linda and Ruth. Our morning repast was somewhat marred by the sight of the bespectacled ogre from the neighbouring tent with a Joan Armatrading phobia. He cannot have been much older than public school leaving age. His tent was quivering (with fear?) as I consumed my sandwich and swilled Coca Cola. Only public schoolboys can frown like that. You know how I mean, that Winston Churchill look.

James Hunt: race of champions.

To Brands Hatch at 12.30. £4 entrance fee - each. Blimey, the five of us must have paid James Hunt's wages for the day. Mr Hunt won the Race of Champions, as we fully expected him to. The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Warm enough in fact to sit on the grass and eat more Spam sandwiches moistened this time with cottage cheese.

Tony, Martyn, Ruth, Linda and me. 

Racing good. Linda hilarious. Tony impersonating Peter Cooke and Marty Feldman rolled into one. Marvellous day. Then went on to Linda's father's place in Slough and had chicken and chips in his caravan with his common-law wife and Linda's common-law brother.

We visited every village in Kent, Buckinghamshire, Berkshire and Derbyshire. Saw Windsor on the horizon. Whipsnade, Cliveden House, High Wycombe all came in our path. Hit that nasty big road at Watford at 10pm and thus began our journey north. We stuffed ourselves with sweets in the car  and collapsed in hysterics into the motorway cafe at Leicester again.

Tony, over his brew, said Ruth's hair looked quite nice when in fact it looked exactly the opposite and when she said she felt like a wet lettuce I answered: "Well, why don't you get one, then?" Wet with laughing. Home at 1.30am. House in darkness and silence. To bed. Camping is all very well but one night is quite enough for me. It takes a David Livingstone to last out any longer I'm sure.

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Saturday March 5, 1977

By the time I had climbed out of bed, bathed and shaved it was one o'clock. Quarrel with Lynn about money. She says I am a damn fool and I end up agreeing with her. I have only £2.30 to last me until Thursday and £1.30 of that will disappear on Monday when I visit the dentist. This leaves me with 80p to enjoy myself at Christine & Graham's engagement party. I also need about 90p in bus fares! Shit. Ah well, if I start worrying about financial matters life won't be worth living & so I won't mention this again.

After lunch the sun was still shining brightly and I decided to take a stroll. With hands thrust deeply in my pockets I marched down the lane at a speed not unlike James Hunt in a Grand Prix. Pass the Hare and by 4pm I'm in Burley-in-Wharfedale. By 5 I was crawling through the doors of WH Smith in Ilkley to a warm greeting from the sultry, bespectacled shop assistant whom I fear fancies me. She is a 6th former. Mr Brotherwood entertains me to tea of sausage and mash. he finds it hard to believe I've walked the whole of the eight or nine miles from Guiseley. I passed out in a chair whilst attempting to focus on a Robert Mitchum epic.

with Christine: ruby studded turnip?

Martyn comes and we end up back at the Hare. CB is in and once again she is broken hearted and screaming for vengeance or revenge or whatever they call it when ones pride has received a sharp blow in the genitals. To the Rose and Crown. Boring. CB is incredibly attractive.


 Tony gives me his flat key and then disappears to Il Trovatore with Martyn. CB and I go back to the flat and sit drinking Southern Comfort and Scotch and listening to a Billy Paul LP. She says it's disgusting how she comes running back to me every time one of her relationships is floundering. What are pals for? We laugh and chat. She says she wants nothing but a turnip for her birthday which I'll do my utmost to obtain. I suppose if I were the Shah of Persia I'd give her a solid gold one (turnip) studded with rubies, &c. But I'm not the Shah of Persia.  The lads are ringing the doorbell at 10.30 and our  tete-a-tete comes to an end. Martyn goes home and the three of us squabble. I fail in everything I say because they're both Pisces and I'm a just a cynical Aries who argues for the sake of arguing. 

Mr Billy Paul

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