Friday September 23, 1977

Eileen showed me an article in that glorious relic 'Woman's Own' which I found hilarious. It states that the Royal Family is becoming far too large, the biggest one in fact since Victoria's day. Laugh at the thought that by the year 2000 the south of England will be overrun by minute Queen Mothers, devouring and devastating crops and making a general nuisance of themselves. _______.

Royal Family: too large.

Burdened with a ghastly hangover today. I'm home completely shattered at the usual hour and spend the time until 9 o'clock readying myself for Angela (Singer's) party. Jacqui phoned at 9.15 and by 10.15 we were teamed up outside the Yorkshire Post and we made our way to Headingley.

I loathe going to parties stone cold sober, but I soon remedied that. It was rewarding watching bleary eyed journalists eyeing up Jacqui and Joy. Peter Fearon attempted to woo Joy with his Fleet Street routine which failed brilliantly. She then went off to dance with a Daily Express man. I became quite drunk.

Carol Johnson and Roger Ratcliffe arrived at the same time, but not together. The girls thoroughly enjoyed themselves and were very sociable. Did I do a tango with Brenda Rankin? I hope not.

Joy brought me home and I foolishly had them in for coffee, giggles and screams, slamming doors and other loud robust noises. Naturally, Mama was awakened by the commotion but made no assault on us downstairs, luckily. They set off back for the depths of Roundhay at some unbelievable hour and I departed to my chambers for a few hours shut-eye. A very pleasant party. Angela Singer deserves to be the first woman editor of a national newspaper.

-=-

Wednesday January 5, 1977

Peter Fearon approached me again today about my joining the ranks of the journalist brigade. Kathleen overheard the conversation and reminded me of my non existent future at the Yorkshire Post. I'd probably make a good reporter but I never do anything about it. Kathleen went upstairs to the personnel department to get an application form for me but came back saying Mr Austin-Clarke is hardly my closest friend. Malcolm Barker is wanting a junior male reporter and K suggests that I compile a letter to him saying the usual thing that grovelling serfs like me are supposed to say to editors of well-established newspapers. I must do this for peace of mind.

Rang David G in Stockport tonight to say I'm going to see him on January 15. We have to get the holiday sorted by then or we'll be knackered. I will get on to Pete M so that we can go over in the van.

Retire to bed at 11 with 'Claudius the God', by Robert Graves, a continuation of 'I, Claudius'. A bit heavy going at first but I may well be sat here with it clasped between my knees [the book] at 2am.

-==-