Wednesday March 15, 1978

Oh bugger the old English handwriting today. I feel absolutely revolting. Nevertheless, I crawled out of bed and attempted to make an effort at the YP, but by 11:30am I was dead. In fact, at that fateful hour I was compelled to enter the lavatories of the Yorkshire Post and did wretchedly vomit forth. It was ghastly. At 12 I 'signed off' for the day and returned homeward. The omnibus bearing my pale corpse to Guiseley was within seconds of inspecting the remainder of the contents of the above mentioned stomach.

At home the situation is cold to say the least. Mama and Papa are still considering closing their respective diplomatic delegations and to me it seems that nothing but an out and out war is inevitable. For the remainder of the day I sat ~ quiet as a mouse ~ armed with a gas mask and copy of the New English Bible. Oh, it's all very sad. But this is what marriage is all about I do suppose.  I expect Mr & Mrs Thatcher (Conservative) often fall out in similar circumstances. Goodnight.

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Tuesday March 14, 1978

The March winds did blow. In fact, the blowing on Hawksworth Lane was gale force. The meteorological freaks will be having a field day.

David Greenwood, Lynn's boss, is celebrating his birthday tomorrow ___________________.

Mum: slewed

I came home from work to be confronted by dear Mama with the reddest face I have ever laid eyes on. She puts it down to the combination of the sun ray lamp and alcohol. She and Daddy quarrelled this afternoon and she decided to drown her sorrows. I promised not to tell a living soul that my mother has consumed a whole bottle of sherry whilst reclining 'neath the glowing lamp. She is thoroughly ashamed of herself. I say it's all well and good. If my dear old Ma can't get slewed once in a while, who can? By 6:30 Dad was still absent and she went round to Edith's.

Alexandre Dumas is a real dead beat. 'The Man in the Iron Mask' is boring me to death. After a couple of minutes with it I'm either asleep or distracted by something else.

Meanwhile: back to the excitement. At 9 o'clock I went to lay siege to the Blackwell residence and was roped into an old photo appreciation session. We had hysterics over some ancient images of Edith's granny, and much wine was partaken of in the process.  At midnight Mama returned homeward and I sat with Ernest (Edith was in bed) listening to his wartime reminiscences. It was almost 3:30am when I arrived home.

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Monday January 2, 1978

_.Bank Holiday in England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. Mum & Dad's birthday. They come round so quick these days. We bought them more Royal Albert (china). Yes, a coffee pot this time. Mum intends having a special cabinet erected in some prominent position in which to display her china collection. A dinner service is next on the list.

Birch Tree at Wilsill.

A warm, almost Spring-like day. With gusto we all went (Mum, Dad, Jacqui, me, Lynn, Dave, Sue, Pete and Chris Baker) to the Birch Tree Inn at Wilsill for a nosh and a slight booze. Mr & Mrs Baker were supposed to join us but Dave accidentally sent them off on a wild goose chase around North Yorkshire. Those of us who did manage to find the place did have a good time.

Tonight Jacqui and I went out with Sue and Peter to the Commercial. To be honest I'm bored to death of booze, but one must keep up appearances. From the pub we went on a tour of picturesque Yorkshire Chinese take-aways, where we bought curry, chips, &c. The greed was on a phenomenal scale.


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Saturday December 3, 1977

_.Mother's coffee morning in aid of Mark Sansom, a 19 month-old brain damaged child whose parents want to send him for treatment to Philadelphia, U.S.A. About 60 people turned up. I stayed in my bed and was visited by my nephew. He must think I'm a lazy rat. Sue came up to see me and had me in stitches when she told me she'd given a cup of hot coffee to an old lady with Parkinson's Disease, who proceeded to shake it all round the room.

I got out of bed at about tea time and remained in circulation until about midnight. Didn't hear from 'the lads'. Saw a Jack Lemmon film on the BBC which was hilarious.

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Saturday November 12, 1977

I woke at about 12 and could hear Mum yelling about something from her bed. Evidently she did hear Jacqui and I listening to the stereo in the early hours and is far from happy about it. I hid for quite a while beneath the sheets until some sort of plan of action could be worked out in my enfeebled mind. I decided upon the straight, honest, Richard Nixon approach and just marched, with head held high, into her bedroom and said sorry. She was perfect from then on and just said in that famous, soft, musical voice: "Michael, you take your mother for granted." I fear I do. And she's ill too. I am a swine.

Haworth: the parsonage.

After lunch Jacqui and I got a bus to Haworth (Bronte Country and all that). It's like Hell on earth. I soon see why Charlotte, Emily and Anne never reached the age of 40. Bleak is hardly the word. What's more, it snowed. We dashed round the parsonage and then into a cafe where hot tea and cream buns failed to revive us. Felt ill and cold. Jacqui giggled. She can hardly wait to tell the folks back home who have never seen a desolate moor or the rampaging spectre of Heathcliff.  We spent more time on the road than we did at Haworth, and at 5.30 we got a bus home.


Tonight we thawed out and watched TV. Saw Penelope Keith and Lord Carnarvon on the Michael Parkinson Show.

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Friday November 11, 1977

Met Jacqui at 4.45 at the bus station and the weekend began disastrously when the bus broke down and we got caught up in a snow storm. By the time we arrived at Guiseley after 6pm it was so bad we were compelled to seek refuge at the Station Hotel where I phoned for assistance from home and we both had half of lager. I was carrying a pheasant (courtesy of Delia, who did not desire removing it of its feathers and innards) and the bird's beak poked through the polythene bag, dripping blood over the pub carpet.

Dad collected us. He says Mum may have a kidney stone. Dr Mellor says she must shed a stone in weight. Her blood pressure is high. She is pale and ill.

Jacqui.

The rain, snow and gales persist and at 8 Sue, Pete, Janet Simon and Chippy take Jacqui and I to the Fox & Hounds. They then leave the two of us alone and we saw none of the usual Friday night visitors. No Tony, Martyn or 'Piss and Crete'. We had a few at the Fox and then went to see Judith R and Kathryn at the Hare where I became quite pissed. I blame the vivacious Miss Young entirely for my condition. We sat in the Tudor Bar until midnight and then I ran around in the car park with my 'inflated' umbrella until it was smashed to pieces in the high winds. It disintegrated into a warped mass of fractured metal and plastic.

At home the two of us drank 2 bottles of Beaujolais and listened to the record player at a very low volume until about 5am. Nobody could possibly have heard us. Sue and Pete slept on the settee - snoring contentedly - until I had the foresight to awaken them after 3. Poor Pete dashed off home. He's working at 7.30am.

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Wednesday November 9, 1977

Mum was taken ill after tea. Have we perhaps been subject to poisoning? God knows, but one thing's for sure - the Norfolk visit for Mum and Dad is now in jeopardy. (I bet Jeopardy is far nicer than Norfolk anyway. The climate is better than ours at this time of year, and Jeopardy has no ghastly Broads to contend with).

We watched a play on the BBC which, quite remarkably, is good. The leading lady, whose name escapes me, deserves an Academy award for her portrayal of a deaf and dumb Bradford prostitute who stabs an alcoholic pimp to death in the Lumb Lane. Wonderful family viewing. It made such a change from all the sex and violence so often awash on our TV screens in these restless times. (I'm spreading the writing out tonight because I want to get to bed).

Dumas: infatuated with typist.

You will sit back and raise your hands in horror that I'm only on page 728 of 'The Count of Monte Christo' (and I can't even spell his soddin' name right). I know it's truly pathetic, but I'm afraid the book is becoming incredibly dull. The count is certainly taking his vengeance very seriously and incredibly slowly. One would think the guy had all the time in the world. Either Mr Dumas had connections in the paper manufacturing industry or he was infatuated with his typist.

Bed at the usual time and attempted to reach page 750, but failed.

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Sunday October 2, 1977

17th after Trinity.I received a frosty reception this morning. Mum said my behaviour was reminiscent of Uncle Harry. Dad said he has never seen me as drunk as I was last night. They both set about recalling some of the incidents that took place in the Commercial but I stopped them. I didn't want to hear.

John Pinder, Alison Dixon and Dave B.

Lynn just sat looking at me and grinning and poor Alison dodges out of the way every time I go near her. Evidently I ruined her dress with drink and half drowned her in the process. Poor girl. John (Pinder) and David gave me funny looks too. Blimey, what did I get up to? I can recall very little and shudder to think what passed between Sarah and I.

Lynn, Dave, Alison and John went to Haworth and all that Bronte country for a picnic with the spare trifles and left over pate from last night, and the half consumed bottles of Cinzano. They know how to enjoy themselves, don't they?

I entertained Tony and Martyn. They had a good time at Rawtenstall. Martyn kept saying 'fucking this' and 'fucking that' and dear Mama was only in the kitchen. I registered my displeasure. __________. I didn't mention the Muswell Hill campaign next weekend. They left after half an hour and I re-immersed myself in 'Decline and Fall' by Mr Waugh. The picnic party returned at 5 and Jack Simon came to photograph Lynn and Dave for an engagement portrait. I watched from the window as they frolicked happily on the lawn. Isn't love nice?

Just watched TV tonight. 'Poldark', the Sunday film, and all that. To be honest, I felt horribly tired. Will I live long enough to receive my telegram from the King? If I ever get one from a president I'll tear it to shreds.

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Sunday September 25, 1977

16th after Trinity. John's 21st birthday. ________.WE ARE A UNITED FAMILY.

John: 21st birthday.

Decline and Fall.

Joy went back to Leeds last night and is going to visit Paul (with the handbag) in Halifax today. Jacqui slept here on the settee. We had breakfast at about 11.30 and John came up afterwards and we celebrated his birthday with a few bottles of wine, which saw us through until about 2. Dom(inic) Melville, whose birthday was yesterday, joined us. Jacqui demonstrated the art of tap dancing on our kitchen floor which was hilarious. Lynn loved every minute of it.

John (who had gone home at 12) returned at 2 in pouring rain to commandeer Pete and I for a spot of labouring work. We dismantled a porch and carried it from Netherfield Road to some remote part of Guiseley and helped to erect it there. It was his birthday present. (The labouring). I haven't given him a proper present yet. He quite understood. He called me a 'bastard'. The three of us did a lot of laughing. John was especially cheerful.

Peter and I returned to Pine Tops and had a late lunch, or tea. Jacqui had a pleasant chat with Mum and Lynn. We watched TV and I refused to leave my chair until after 8.

Joy returned at about 7.30. She hadn't been to Halifax and instead her lover came to Leeds. The poor soul has no sense of direction. They left at about 8.30 and I promised to go to Muswell Hill on October 8. Jacqui is a nice girl.

In bed tonight reading 'Decline and Fall' by Evelyn Waugh. A very good novel. In fact I was sat laughing in bed. Ho Ho Ho.

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Thursday September 22, 1977

John's official birthday party with his Mummy and Daddy and brothers and sisters. He came up at 8.30. ______. The six of us, plus David and Peter, went to the Commercial where we were joined by Chris Ratcliffe ________. At 10.30 I went out with John and asked him to come back home with us for a few drinks, but he declined. _______. He said he and Maria are going to Oakwood Hall on Saturday and I said I'd go along too. Jacqui will be in Yorkshire to help me 'freak out' in true style.

Later, Dave and I clowned around with gladioli (dead ones at that) and I played with something called a shuttle that Mum had acquired from (Abraham) Moon's Mill.

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Wednesday September 14, 1977

Lynn and Dave: engaged

One of the most historic days to affect the House of Rhodes. Dad was working 2-10 for the first time since April and when Lynn and Dave came in at 8.30 they seemed very concerned that Papa was absent. When Dad eventually got back at 10 - it happened. Yes, you'll never guess what "it" was. Susan called me from the lounge and said: "David wants a word with you in the kitchen". I had no idea what all this cloak and dagger stuff was about but on entering the kitchen it hit me right in the face. A pale and drawn looking Dave, holding a bottle of Scots Mac, asked: "Can you stay in here for a while because I want a word with your Mum and Dad?" "Oh God" I exclaimed, "you cannot be serious?". I couldn't stop laughing. He was actually asking for Lynn's hand in marriage. It had happened at last. Within minutes Sue and I are back with the happy couple. They are to become engaged on September 28 - the third anniversary of the start of their relationship. We celebrated with a couple of bottles of wine, gallons of lager and of course the Scots Mac. They are planning to marry next September. It is all top secret, of course, until September 28. Mum and Dad took it marvellously. Dad thought an engagement might take place when they came back from Italy.

Lynn is like a changed person. For days now she's been uptight and sharp tempered. We all noticed it. Now we know why. The nerves must have got to her. Good old Dave joining the family is a great thing. Mum and Dad of course think he's marvellous. Blimey, another wedding in the clan! I always thought that Lynn and Dave would do the obvious but ___________________.

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Monday September, 5, 1977

 A most interesting day all in all. Lynn was nasty this morning about me going to the barbecue on Saturday. It made me angry because never have I felt so right about an action in my whole life. ___________.

At tea time Susan made a massive meal for the family expecting the arrival of Mum, Dad and Uncle Harry - but they didn't arrive, and the food intended for them was devoured by me at various periods throughout the evening.

I phoned John G in Rawtenstall and told him we'd be over on September 17. Watched a TV programme on Lord Lichfield which was good. Mum, Dad and Harry and the dog, Tan, arrived at about 10 and we had a minor home brew session which took us through until 12.45. We discussed the Lane Fox family and the fact that old Wetherby people Brigadier Hargreaves, the pompous Lord Lieutenant, and Sir Kenneth Parkinson, our beloved chairman, are married to sisters.

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Thursday August 11, 1977

A hot day. Sat in the garden with Mum and Susan until lunchtime and had the occasional lager. Just like been on holiday again. The temperature was in the 70s when I set off to Leeds at 4pm and if there's anything I feel least like doing on a hot, summers afternoon, it's work. However, it's inevitable for plebeians such as I.

Just me and Wendy at the YP until I left at 11.

Grouse: family reunion?

Hundreds of thousands of grouse will be having family reunions in the moorland heather tonight no doubt reminiscing on past escapades together and chanting the occasional prayer. Some of them will weep, or at least do the grouse equivalent, which is, I think, when they bash their wings together whilst frantically squeaking. Yes, tomorrow is the Glorious Twelfth.

Home in a taxi with a witty driver who, on parting,  bid me "Goodnight and God Bless". Who the hell does he think he is? The Pope I suppose.

Made a couple of salad sandwiches and retired to my chamber not particularly knackered. I've been a good deal worse.





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Wednesday July 27, 1977

Dandy Nichols: transported.

Tired and shattered after the holiday. Sat in the lounge all night and never moved from the armchair. Occasionally I fell to sleep but for most of the time I am attentive and watchful. People like me won two world wars, you know. Newscaster Richard Baker may well have thought, while drooling over the nine o'clock news, that Michael Rhodes was in a deep sleep, but Mr Baker would have been very wrong. Michael Rhodes, whilst admitting to closing his eyes and letting out a snore here and there, was in fact soaking all the days news into his brain. From underneath a crumpled newspaper he distinctly heard the venerable Mr Baker informing the nation of the government's intention to abolish the House of Lords, re-unify Ireland, declare war on the USSR, and have Dandy Nichols transported to Australia.

Mama, bless her little heart, informed us today that from a week on Friday she is joining the ranks of the unemployed. She wants a few months holiday, tranquillity and peace.

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Sunday May 29, 1977

Whit Sunday. Tony and I had another heart to heart chat until dawn on the usual subject - women. 'Is it better to love, or to be loved?' and 'is it better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all?' were the age-old questions posed, &c. He says he's given up with _______.I do not believe him. No sooner will she be back from __________.Horribly sad really.

Picked Linda W up at 12 and went to the Commercial. It seems to be on again with Miss White. Tony and Linda have had more than the usual amount of turbulence in their two month relationship.

Nora: metabolic upheaval

Back to Pine Tops where Mama is in a foul mood. She moans about me 'using' her and says that no Sunday lunch will be put out for me again if I stay out all night on a Saturday. So, it's goodbye to Sunday lunches then. She knows damn well of my whereabouts and at 8.30 yesterday evening she was quite amiable about my arrangements. Weird, bad tempered old bird. She was also rude to Tony and Linda and told me afterwards that she could not be sociable with my friends on  a Sunday lunchtime. A rude and ridiculous thing to say. Is perhaps poor Mum undergoing some metabolic upheaval. She is 42.

The Yorkshire Post was up to its usual standard this evening. John Cameron brought Tony and Linda to see me at 9 o'clock and I showed them round the library. Tony looked at the photos of Lady Ancram - whom he knew as Jane Howard when he lived near Arundel all those years ago.

Left at 11.30 with a subdued taxi driver who expounded no tremendous new theory to me.

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Tuesday May 17, 1977

Feel grotty all day. Stomach ache mainly, and anorexia. All the same I forced down two sandwiches and a pea and ham soup - but could easily have done without. You don't want me collapsing at work do you?

Kathleen suggested that I ought to go home early, but like King Charles I (you know, him with the ginger hair and no head) I decided to be a martyr instead.

Carole: grandmother's accident

Carole rang at 3 and we decided to go out again on Thursday, again to Oakwood (Hall). I asked whether her mother had been knocked down, the victim of a road traffic accident and she laughed saying: "Oh no...
it 's my grandmother". It seems that the old lady fell in the path of a van belonging to the Gas Board and passed a night in Otley Hospital emerging with three stitches. Carole's attitude is quite frightening and she insists that the sight of ones beloved Grandmama disappearing beneath the wheels of a bright yellow NEGAS van isn't half as horrific as it sounds. Having no living grandmother myself I can never experience such a phenomenon.

Spent an evening in front of the television. The headlines on the 9 o'clock news was the royal visit to Scotland. It's the first of the 'Jubilee tours'. The BBC must have taken leave of their senses. A royal item to be the first item on the news? Surely the first such thing to occur since the abdication Edward VIII.

Took a bath after the royal spectacular and then returned to the drawing room to find Mama reclining on a sofa sipping delicately at her glass of Guinness. No other exercise whatsoever is allowed - Dr Jacques's orders.

Sit with a mug of cocoa and decide I feel much better. My bowels have improved tremendously since tea time. I cannot help thinking that Uncle Bert might have brought a virus with him from darkest Nottingham. Dearest Uncle will get his head kicked in if I find this to be so.

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Friday May 6, 1977

No Carole tonight. Went into the Hare and Hounds at 8.30 with Tony.  CB comes in. She gave me a new copy of the 'Monty Python' book we bought in Sheffield two years ago. She tipped her cider all over the juke box in the hilarity of the occasion. Judith was very quiet.

CB: positively violent

With Sue, Peter N,  Martyn, Tony, CB to the Bod in Bradford. It's packed at Christine becomes positively violent about the place. Tony and Martyn met the two young ladies from Halifax and chat with them, but after a solitary drink Sue, Pete, CB and I return to the Hare & Hounds. The barman says, at 10.50, that I'm too late to buy a drink and the infernal manager seeks permission from Nigel Smith and his mafia-like cronies before I'm served.

I'm bloody speechless and vow never to go into the pub again. CB laughs and says she has also made such a vow before but she has always returned in the end and says it's obvious that next weekend I'll be back too. Not if I have my way I won't. Besides, staying away from the Hare will fit in with my plans, which are a) I'm tiring of J_____and it makes my presence in the Hare uncomfortable, and b). if Carole is back on the scene I don't want to go in the Hare with her, and c). it's a fucking tip anyway. Can't say tonight was enjoyable at all really.

Back home at 11.15. Auntie Mabel, Mum and Dad come back at 2am from cousin Dorothy's (White Horse). I sleep in the lounge because Auntie M claims my bedroom. She is staying until Sunday.

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Tuesday May 3, 1977

Carole: unfortunate maiden

A horrible day. Last night when I set out on my historic venture I joked with Mama on the subject of with whom I was spending the evening. She wanted to know the identity of the unfortunate maiden and joked about following me down the lane. Nothing nasty was said and all seemed quite normal until tea time today. I am much afraid to say she launched an extraordinary attack on the 'mysterious young lady'. "Well, Michael, if you can't tell me who you were with last night all I can say is she must be a right little tart". I was angered and horrified and this gave me the push to clam up altogether and I said that under no circumstances would I ever tell her. Mama carried on in her usual way - or perhaps I should say the way she behaves when she's infuriated. Later tonight she told me that the Silver Jubilee party is cancelled. A statement made in anger and I fully intend to ignore it. (I'm 'intending to ignore' quite a few things today, aren't I?)

Silver Jubilees only happen once or twice in a lifetime and no one is going to prevent me celebrating in the appropriate way.

Watched TV and thought about last night. Am I as mixed up and confused as Carole? Do I require a sharp blow on the head? Somehow I think so. Do you know that nothing would have stood in the way of us getting back together if it hadn't have been for the foolish, tragic thing she did?

Since yesterday I haven't worried about where £80 of my holiday money is coming from or what I'm going to be wearing on my feet this time next week. What can it be? No doubt you've heard it all before - especially in these miserable, confused pages. The hateful way opinions can change in a matter of a few weeks I am beginning to shame over. Just twelve or thirteen weeks ago I was closeted at Thornton-le-Dale with Miss Mather abusing the very name of the girl on whom my mind now is permanently affixed.

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Sunday April 24, 1977

2nd after Easter. Arose at 12. Edith Blackwell had just been in and Mama had entertained her to breakfast of eggs and bacon of all things. A peculiar thing to do I must say. Mind you, Edith is a peculiar old thing. (Yes, you've guessed correctly - "thing" is the word of the day).

I came down and had a cooked thing and went back up to my thingy and filled in the thing with that thingummy. Thing, Thing and Thing are covered in grease underneath John's thing on the drive. Those bleeding things never work right. I for one wouldn't have the patience to mess around with them. Not rellishing the idea of going into the thing this afternoon. No doubt thing will have left me a note informing me of a proposed catastrophic change in my social life. No Bloody chance, Kathleen!

The Hon Chris Monckton

Sue and I walked round to Ridgeway and took JPH for a ride, walk, push, call it what you will, in his pram. Jimmy was marking essays and breaking wind. He blamed the beer he'd had of late. Maria bundled baby up and Sue and I walked him in the sun up Thorpe Lane and to Pine Tops where he was pandered to and played with by his doting grandmama until his benevolent Uncle Mike returned him home at 4.

To work after dinner. Ursula confirms that Kathleen's plans for Friday nights are as sinister as I thought they were.

Chris Monckton invited me to his Silver Jubilee party at Wetherby Town Hall on June 18. I must go to that one. He has a sister you know and I'm sure a 'Hon' in the family would prove quite refreshing. The Hon Miss Monckton is about my age too.

Home by taxi at 11. The taxi driver talks of the death of the Leeds Rugby League player Sanderson who died on the pitch this afternoon during a skirmish with Salford players.

To my bedroom at 11.30 with Queen Victoria's correspondence with the Empress Frederick and vice versa, 1865-1871.

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Wednesday March 23, 1977

Callaghan: reptile.

Our reptile of a Prime Minister has pulled a fast one over on the feeble little party the name of which I cannot seem to recall. Yes, the Tory vote of 'no confidence' in Her Majesty's government failed and the reptile scraped through with a majority of 20 or so. No doubt you know more about it than I do because it will be history by the time you come to read this. I bet your 'A' Level tutor has dictated Mrs Thatcher's speech to you recently. You know, the one referring to Jim (Callaghan) as 'Jim of all parties, and master of none'.

But to get down to the really important things: Spring is certainly in the air, folks. Indeed, as I walked down the lane today I made every attempt to ignore the fog, drizzle and biting wind and instead my eyes searched the hedgerows in vain for signs of those pretty Spring floral offerings - namely daffodils. None to be seen. Not a bud on a tree. The youngest sheep I've laid eyes on qualifies for a telegram from Her Majesty the Queen congratulating it on it's longevity. The word 'lamb' is about as relevant in today's society as 'dodo', 'democracy' and 'statesman'.

Tony is in Worksop. What a revolting place to be on a Wednesday night. Spoke to Barry via telephonic communication. He says he's working 'too hard'. Cannot contact Martyn because some unhelpful person or persons have seen fit to conceal our telephone number book in a place unknown. I can only just recall Mr Brotherwood's number (Ilkley 3173), but Martyn's evades me. I think it begins with a 3 and has a 9 in it somewhere.

Sheep: Telegram from Her Majesty?

Motherdear has spent the day in bed. A bad, irritating cough and aching bones. Probably influenza. She doesn't look too bad tonight but ought not to struggle into work for a few days.

Back to the subject of sheep. How long do they live if allowed to grow old gracefully? I ask this because the one I spied this morning was aged. When was the last time you saw next week's lamb cutlets in a wheelchair? I'm not mad either. Oh no.






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