Sunday December 26, 1976

1st after Christmas. It isn't Boxing Day today. I don't think so anyway. Boxing Day cannot fall on a Sunday. However, Yuletide or not I'm well aware of the excitement you undoubtedly share for the gripping adventures of the Hay clan. Now read on.

He [William de la Haye no less See Dec 21] was granted a charter [still intact and well preserved in the Erroll papers] of the feudal barony of Erroll in the Tay estuary, county Perth, most of the witnesses being also Anglo-Normans from Cotenin. He [William de la Haye that is] married a nice lass by the name of Eva a Celtic heiress, of Pitmilly, and possibly of other lands near the Tay estuary, and the old legend that the lands of Erroll were acquired by a Falcon's flight, in reward for an ancient victory over Viking invaders, may have been derived from the clan of which she was heiress....

Is this a Nut House? Surely only a loony could fill his diary with such rubbish? I wonder what Margaret Thatcher is putting in her diary at the moment? 'Lunched with Ted at his place before going over the ruddy devolution problem with Quintin [Lord Hailsham] at his place. Shirley [Williams] had a nice gown on today. She says she picked it up cheap in the C & A sales....' and so on.

Wednesday October 6, 1976

Good Old Uncle Harry's birthday [54th]. Take my umberella with me to Leeds this morning and, quite naturally, this particular region of the British Isles sees temperatures in the mid-nineties. Not a drop of rain to be felt within 48 million miles of my soddin' umberella.

See in the late editions of the EP that Margaret Hilda Thatcher attended the memorial service for the late Sir Edward Heath, thus ending months of speculation that at the time of the former PM's death the pair were not on the best of terms. Margaret Hilda really should have Sir Edward stuffed, mounted and placed on castors so that she can wheel the old gent onto the platform at the party conference each year. Votes would pour in.

Take the bear round to John's at 6 o'clock with Mum. See JPH and actually hold him in my arms. He's absolutely gorgeous. Mum cannot take her eyes off him. He was more interested in sucking his clothes and even thought Mum's ear was a source of nourishment. Maria looked a little pale. Didn't see much of John. Molly was full of cold, and so was Jim. Home at 7 o'clock for dinner and then it's decorating the hall and landing until 11.45pm. Believe it or not, I quite enjoy daubing paint on doors, walls and banisters, &c. So rewarding to stand back when it's all completed knowing you are responsible for the whole bloody lot.

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Tuesday October 5, 1976

Karen Gadsby, 17. MM, 21. Another filthy, wet day. Get soaked at lunchtime in Leeds buying a Teddy Bear for John Philip Hugh at Schofield's. It's only three days since I purchased a bloody umberella [£3.80]. But did I have it with me?

Home at 5.15. Spill a cup of white-hot coffee over myself after a delectable evening meal and all they can worry about is whether I've stained the settee or not. As it happens, it was unmarked by the volcanic deluge.

With Tony, Stuart, Andrew and Simon [I think he's Simon anyway] to the Odeon in Leeds to see 'The Omen' with Gregory Peck and Lee Remick. Very good. A clever ending to it too. Go see it if you get the chance. [No doubt you've all watched it on TV recently and said unto one another: 'What a load of crap, indeed'.]

Home at 11. Mum and Dad, Lynn and Dave have been to see John, Maria & Co at Ridgeway. Maria came out of hospital today.

The Conservative party's annual tea party has begun at Brighton. Margaret Hilda Thatcher is threatening to dance in the streets if she's elected to the premiership at the next general election fiasco. Oh God.

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Wednesday August 25, 1976

Gasp...Gasp.. I'm still here anyway. The heatwave continues. Jim Callaghan has appointed one of his Cabinet ministers to be 'Minister of Drought'. It's a good idea really because the general public likes to have sombody to blame for the bloody awful mess we are all in. I for one will not be sorry to see our water supplies cut off. It's just what this bloody country needs. Britain needs such a crisis to help get us all back on our feet. We didn't have soccer hooligans in the war did we? Why was that, do you think? I'll tell you why. It's because all the young lads were up to their eye balls in a Malayan swamp, or sat playing 'knock out whist' in a trench in the Dardanelles. You mark my words. Stand-pipes in the streets and on the highways of Britain will act as a unifying force to the nation and before you can say Ethel Kennedy we will have a Tory Government in office once again. Margaret Thatcher may look daft, but under that peroxide exterior lurks a fiendish little brain.

Lynne comes up for tea at 6.30 and at 7 o'clock we're in Bradford to see 'The Outlaw Josie Wales' at the ABC with Tony - and surprisingly, with Carol J. I can never fathom Mr Brotherwood's relationships. One minute it's on, and the next ....The film is very good. Clint Eastwood as a cowboy. Back to Tony's new dilapidated flat until 12.30. Carol was peeved about something.

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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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Wednesday February 4, 1976

Efficient day at the office because Kathleen is at the Doncaster office for the day visiting the Vivien Nicholson-type female who came over here for the week not too long ago.

Sarah is in high spirits and I may be thick - you've probably known all along - but I think that sometimes she quite fancies me. Don't get me wrong. I've no plans to involve myself with her. No plans at all. Carole is the one for me at the moment.

I write to Carole again (I wrote yesterday) and spend all lunchtime at it.

Sarah and Eileen leave at 4 o'clock and I work with Carol until 4.30.

Marita is on page 1 of the EP! Pictured with her postman. Evidently he sent her a card on her birthday, or something, and her Dad was so touched he wrote to Malcolm Barker, &c &c.

Jeremy Thorpe is asking to resign now (as leader of the Liberal party) and the whole business is becoming more and more involved.

I don't see why he should resign because he's homosexual. If we can have a woman leading the Conservative party and a man leading the Labour party it seems only right and proper that the leader of the Liberal party should be something in-between. The man is a fool for offering to resign in the first place. In these promiscuous times I can't see the public objecting to the sexual escapades of a politician. (I do really. Just trying to write something controversial).

But seriously, Jeremy Thorpe may be a first class politician and I feel sad that he shouldn't have to go simply because he fancies young men with nice legs. After all, just look at Edward Heath. He is as bent as a £12 note but most of the Tory party continue to idolise him two years after his death. They'll be telling us next that Margaret Thatcher is a lesbian.

Home for tea at 5.30 and attempt to get in the bath afterwards which is foolish because John and Susan are on the same caper and they show more cunning that I do.

Carole rings twice. The first time we just have a friendly chat, but on the second call she's near to tears complaining about the way her mother and father treat her. They really are a pair of swines and I tell her to be more ruthless with them. The poor thing is far too soft and servile to fight back. She is coming to tea tomorrow night and we're going out afterwards most likely.

I go to bed with a cup of cocoa at about 10.30 to escape the winter olympics on TV.

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Thursday October 30, 1975

Took one and a half hours for my lunch today, and went to the hairdresser in the Empire Arcade for a shearing session. I emerged 30 minutes later looking considerably cropped, but feel a good deal better. My ears will certainly feel the pinch in all this fog, buit I hope it won't be with us for much longer (the fog - not my ears). I also laid possession to a blue cardigan with a zip-up front and a pair of pale blue trousers which drained me of £17 in all! The thought is unbearable and nauseating.

Leave work at 5pm and journey home with British Rail for a change. It's a good deal faster than by bus, and what's the point in having to stand all the way as far as Horsforth in a smoke-filled contraption when it's just as easy to rocket straight home in a fast moving train of the '70s. (No, I'm not taking up a job as publicity officer for British Rail. I wouldn't mind Richard Marsh's job though).

Mum likes my hair, and I notice that Dad's is shorter round the ears. They went to view the Craven Heifer this afternoon and said it was good except that ________.All they need now is a loan from the Yorkshire Bank.

At 8.30 I met Carole off her bus at the foot of the lane, and we walked down to the Yorkshire Rose for a quick one. The night is clear and crisp and we argued like hell about nothing in particular. After having a 'noisy' drink we walk back up the lane and watch Harold Macmillan on TV. He's a brilliant old boy and should still be leading the Tory party if you ask me. Margaret Thatcher is useless.

Carole and I just haven't got on this evening. Why I do not know. She's obviously mad about something, but she never tells me anything.

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Wednesday February 19, 1975

Beautiful day. A crisp morning with the sun as big as a football following us all the way to Leeds. One would hardly believe it's 93,000,000 miles away, or something equally fantastic.
Margaret Thatcher picked her shadow Cabinet yesterday. Willie Whitelaw is the deputy leader, and the repulsive Sir Geoffrey Howe is 'Chancellor'. Peter Walker and Geoffrey Rippon have received the boot, as it were, and the prodigal Reggie Maudling's been forgiven all his sin sand receives the Foreign and Commonwealth job. Definately a right wing leap for the Tories but I can't say that I disagree. The country needs a good old Churchillian party.

Go to town with Eileen at lunchtime and spend £1 on absolutely nothing. Must be a sign of the times. I can recall the days when I got one shilling and six pence a week, and on Friday I still had change in my pocket.

Prince Andrew is having another quiet birthday today. The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh are of course out in the Bahamas; the Prince of Wales, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, and Earl Mountbatten are in Nepal for the coronation of the King; Princess Margaret is on holiday in the sun, and Lord Snowdon is working in Australia. No one to help him celebrate. I bet they've had a job finding counsellors of state. The Hon Gerald Lascelles and the late Lady Patricia Ramsay will be acting in this capacity no doubt.

To the Hare with John, Naomi and Gillian. The latter young lady certainly knows how to keep hold of someone. Just because I got carried away with her in Peter's van last Friday she thinks I ought to be infatuated for life. Not on her Nellie. Chris, Laura and (Jane's) Helen joined us. Boring really.

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Tuesday February 11, 1975

Foggy day. See in the papers that the good old Prime Minister will propose a pay rise for the Queen and the other people on the Civil List either today or next week. Good old Harold. It's the one good thing he's done in his first year in office. He can't be such an old sod really. He only pretends he's one.

Margaret Hilda Thatcher is now Head of the Conservative party and Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition. She beat Mr Whitelaw by about 50 votes. Truly a historic occasion and I think nothing but good can come of it. Whether she'll ever become Prime Minister is another matter altogether. Good Old Harold looks like seeing the 1970s out.

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Monday February 10, 1975

A unusual Monday. After the usual ritual of work, John and I went to the Hare & Hounds where his ladyfriend had begged him to attend upon her. Quite a stunning piece she is too. Called Naomi, or 'Nay', an attractive name. It certainly made a change going out with a different crowd.

Had a letter from Denny today. She said she thought she'd been 'a cow' over the way she's ignored me and the happy family these past few months. I forgave her immediately. (Conceited swine that I am).

The Tory Fiasco reaches its cresendo tomorrow. Will it be Margaret Thatcher or old Willie Whitelaw? In my own mind I know that Mrs T will succeed, but anything can happen in politics. Have a bet with Sarah, Carol and Eileen. I stand to win 10p.

A year ago almost to the day I was saying that Mr Heath's (who's he?) leaning towards male company could not be doing him any good. I was right. One day you can be Prime Minister and the next you're just a middle-aged old puff who used to be a big shot in the Conservative party. Cruel, cruel politics.

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Thursday February 6, 1975

Pleasant day. Eileen and I mess about in town at lunchtime and I return home furnished with 'How Long' by Ace, a particular favourite record of Miss Braithwaite and myself.

Pleased to see the flags flying in Leeds and indeed above Guiseley Police Station, for the twenty third anniversary of the accession of Her Majesty the Queen. These anniversaries certainly come round quickly. Two years time and it will be the Silver Jubilee.

The Tory party fiasco continues. The revolting reactionary Sir Geoffrey Howe is now standing for the leadership, along with the Nation's Sweetheart Mrs Thatcher, William Whitelaw, one of the bulldog breed, old James Prior of whom little can be said, and an unknown person called Peyton, who was originally thought to have become extinct along with the Dodo and Lord Hailsham.

Do nothing at all in the evening other than watch the TV, and play my new record a few times. Bed at a relatively early hour.

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Tuesday February 4, 1975

Busy day again. Kathleen goes home at lunch with 'flu. Never seen Kate ill before. See in the Sunday People that another young lady is denying a romantic relationship with the Prince of Wales. The difference this time is that she's married. Yes, Mrs Rosalind Ward, the wife of a young millionaire landowner. Like Edward VIII and Mrs Freda Dudley Ward in the early '30s. Can't really say I believe it, but you never can tell.

Wait for ages in the cold for a bus home and meet Marita on Wellington Street. We come home on the 35 together. Hear all about the love, passion and ecstasy of Sheffield at the weekend. Her 20th birthday celebrations went with a bang in more ways than one I can imagine.

See in the EP that Margaret Thatcher won todays battle for the Tory leadership, but even better news awaits me on my arrival home. Dad informs me that Edward Heath has conceded defeat and will not stand in next Tuesday's ballot! The Grocer is gone! Ted Heath is no more! Tories all over England will feel numbed by it all, other than Margaret Thatcher and myself that is. Mrs Thatcher captured my heart sometime last week when the current affairs programmes were going to town over her. An utterly charming lady, whom I'm sure the Queen would love to ask: 'Come on, Margaret. Form a government!' A weird feeling hangs over us all. As though a great cloud has moved from above, letting the sunshine through for the first time since 1965. Only the ending of a war, the death of a beloved monarch, and the freedom from prison of a man who has served 29 years for something he never did, can be likened to the resignation of the hopeless Edward Heath. To be rendered insane at the height of ones political career is tragedy indeed.

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Saturday February 1, 1975

Sleep until lunch at 12. Leap into the bath in order to revive myself, but even after this experience I don't really feel much better. All that sleep didn't seem to do any good.

See a film on the BBC and then go play 'Ruslan and Ludmilla' by Glinka and the prelude to Act III of Lohengrin by Mr Wagner. Yes, we aren't all unsophisticated Donny Osmond fans up here you know. The classics are as welcome here as they are in Covent Garden, and in some cases even more so.

My first free Saturday in years. Yes, I have the occasional one off, but it's much more pleasant to know that it's a permanent thing.

The papers are full of Edward Heath and Mrs Thatcher. I must admit, at first I abhored the idea of woman Tory leader, but these past few days have heralded a change. Good luck to her anyway. We certainly having nothing to lose. She can't make a worse mess of it than Heath did, and even if she does we'll forgive her because she's only a silly, dumb blond.

To the Hare & Hounds for a couple of drinks before moving on to a pub in Bingley, one of Andy's hang outs. The highlight of the evening was when Dave rang me up at 7 and said he was coming out. I'd no idea he was home this weekend. When the pubs shut John, Dave and I go to the new take-away in Guiseley. Food is horrible and what's more _______walked past on the arm of her boyfriend. ____ignored her completely.
Home in time to see a good Bette Davis film. Laughed all the way through. Sit in Lynn's bedroom until the early hours reading Agatha Christie.

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Wednesday January 29, 1975

A busy half day.Kathleen gives me a half-day off because she feels I've worked too hard lately - and this is the reward. Meet Christine outside the CA and we make our way to the Ostlers where I consume several pints of lager and spend a small fortune on the juke box. We go looking for tartan material in order to make some 'Rod Stewart style' scarfes. Don't find any we like, and proceed to make our way to the bus station. Masses of photographs are taken in a booth whilst waiting for a bus, and then fight and squabble over who is having which ones. Home at 3.30 or something very close & then sit in a chair with Agatha Christie. I really am passionate over reading at the moment, and having to wait for volume 2 of 'Edward VII' is hideous. Collapse underneath my book and sleep for ten minutes, which is weird for me. I'm becoming an old man before my time.

To the Hare with John, Christine and Chris at 8.45 - have a few lagers and then back here for coffee. Christine and I sit listening to records whilst John and Chris talk holiday brochures. I haven't the stomach to do so. A few nights with all these glossy magazines and I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Margaret Thatcher, Hugh Fraser and Ted Heath have been nominated for the Tory leadership, and it'll be a close battle between Uncle Ted and Mrs T. I'll die if the old bag wins. The thought of a woman Tory leader is repugnant in the extreme.

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Wednesday January 22, 1975

Dad wakes me at about 10am with a cup of tea - no sugar of course. I don't think I've mentioned the fact that on Monday afternoon I stopped taking sugar in tea, coffee or whatever other drinks I will be partaking of in the future. Sugar can't really be beneficial, and besides, with the price of it rocketing up and up it's bound to make it last longer at home. It all tasted weird at first, but now I'm quite used to it. Sit in bed gulping tea and reading of the death of the Prince Consort in my new book. How anyone can be devoted to someone else, like Victoria was to Albert, I shall never know. I do tend to be a loner. The thought of a permanent partnership with a young lady brings on suffocating nausea. Marriage for me is out of the question for five or six years at least. Two years ago I felt quite different. June would have been down the aisle and then swept off to a little hotel in Majorca if she'd have let me. Thank God she didn't.

Saw something in the paper the other day suggesting that Hugh Fraser, the feeble husband of the sexy writer Lady Antonia Fraser, is to stand in the election for the Tory leadership. I quite fancy the idea myself. Margaret Thatcher just wouldn't do. And with Mr Heath going about killing dolphins just for the sake of it, I see no point in him remaining leader any longer - the poor sod is obviously off his rocker, i.e. mad.
Meanwhile later that evening: whilst on the phone to Chris, Dave walks in and drops a snowball down my shirt front! The winter is come at last! About bloody time too.

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Tuesday September 24, 1974

Typical Autumn day. Very bright, sunny, but cold and chilly.

Nothing in the newspapers worth mentioning, though the electioneering bumf is once more rolling off the Press. Anthony Crosland attacked dear old Margaret Thatcher, who, if I remember correctly, abolished school milk and performed a great, kind service to the millions of little milk-haters throughout the United Kingdom.

Mother says she's lost heart with creepy little Harold (Wilson), and intends placing her vote with Mr Thorpe on Oct 10th.

Marita rings me at the YP in the morning and says she'll be at the Generation Bar in order to celebrate John's birthday tomorrow, and Denny rings in the afternoon to say the same thing. Quite looking forward to Wednesday's birthday gathering in that small ale cellar beneath the Jubilee pub close to Leeds Town Hall. With some relief on my part, though not on John's, tomorrow will see the legalisation of his drinking habits, which have gradually increased over the past 2 years.

Sit watching TV all evening. Nothing other than election rubbish, which deals with speculation that another so-called Labour peer is planning to defect to the Liberals. Harold Wilson refuses even to accept that Lord Chalfont is a member of the Labour party. Cowards way out I say.

That aristocratic drunkard, Lady Jane Wellesley, is making a name for herself in electioneering circles. Her brother Lord Douro is a Tory candidate in the Islington constituency, and she's going round the streets singing slogans and handing out leaflets. The Prince of Wales can hardly marry a girl who has led an active political life, and I suppose this is the straw that'll break the camel's back. Her drinking was bad enough, but this?


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