Saturday March 17, 1979

_. St. Patrick's Day

Thick snow. British Summer time begins. Peter arrived after lunch but he was taken ill and vomited everywhere. We decided he was too sick to go home & so he occupied Susan's bed and muggins here gave his bed to his sister, and was reduced to spending the night on the sitting room settee.

Just watched TV tonight. The inactivity was like a dream after weeks of endless toil at Bill North's runny, dripping maisonette. Anyway, I'm now £50 better off, but death might not be all that far away because I failed to post Christine a birthday card for the first time ever. This recent breakdown in communications has reached a tragic, unexpected low. We'll be recalling diplomatic legations before long.

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Friday March 17, 1978

St Patrick (Ireland)

Bank Holiday (N Ireland)

I was awakened at 6:00am by the radio singing away in the Luxembourg tongue. The bedroom light was burning brightly and within minutes I was cramming clothes into a ruck sack with one hand and brushing my teeth with the other hand. All very chaotic. Left at 7 with a happy heart and a dry, thickly lined throat. Drinking heavily before a long drive to the capital is not ideal.

Jacq was waiting at Victoria. To the Shakespeare pub nearby where gin ans Scotch ran like water ... or dry ginger. Jacq looked very well peeping at me beneath a fringe. Her long skirts with frilly petticoats hanging below. It was so good to see her.

Back at the flat I had rounds of toast whilst listening to the Doobie Brothers Greatest Hits singing away on her record player. Indeed, all is right with the world.

Tonight we met Cheryl and Steve and went to an Italian place on Muswell Hill Broadway. I had no appetite but enjoyed myself. Cheryl is a natural comedienne. Afterwards, Steve took us to his rugby club where the floor is swamped beneath two inches of beer and pissed guys stand raucously flashing everywhere. By this time I was already in financial straights. My tight jeans and boots didn't look quite as out of place at they do in Yorkshire.












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Wednesday March 17, 1976

St Patrick's Day. Christine B's official birthday today. Yes, in this respect she's very much like the poor, worried old Queen.

Go down to Carole's at about 8 o'clock after standing around in fog. The pair of us (and we are a pair) meet Chris and Christine in the Hare & Hounds and have a fun time. Laura and Dave come in and we go down to Apperley Lane and The Queen's. We all got a bit pissed actually and it didn't feel like a Wednesday. Nobody mentioned Princess Margaret all evening which was nice of them. Chris and Christine complement each other so well. Sometimes I still feel that I fancy her.

The papers today are splattered with gossip about Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon and other than that I'm saying nothing further today about the affair because I do not believe it is half as bad as the Daily Telegraph like to assume, and besides, if the princess fancies a bit on the side who am I to comment?

James Callaghan will probably be disappointed in the 'Premier Stakes' but all the papers automatically assume he'll be the next (Labour) leader. Things can't be as simple as this! Some little squirt like Eric Varley or Stanley Cohen will be the next Prime Minister. You mark my words.

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Monday March 17, 1975

St Patrick's Day. Snowed today. Bloody weather. The Yorkshire Post today carries an article of some hilarity. Namely, the gathering at Ampleforth Abbey of a merry band of gents - the Knights of the Order of St John of Jerusalem. You're thinking that nothing amusing could possibly be drawn from this article, aren't you? Well, you're very wrong indeed. Oh, indeed, yes. Because staring up from the picture around which the story is based, is the very familiar face of our old pal, Chris Monckton, a knight of the venerable order. Along with his dad, Major-General Viscount Monckton of Brenchley, and 48 million other upper class religious freaks, he is partaking of 'three days of prayer and meditation in preparation for Easter'. I'm not going to say any more on the subject. Instead I'll just titter away to myself.

In keeping with the traditional Monday evening see the tv. Then sit around in bed with 'The Luck of the Bodkins' by P.G. Wodehouse, which I obtained from the library on Thursday or Friday. Can't quite remember which day it was.

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Sunday March 17, 1974

3rd in Lent. St Patrick's Day. Out of bed at 12.30 - which is really 11.30 because we altered the clocks at 2am. Truly pathetic. Why should we always be messing about with the precious time I don't know. It seems so wasteful. I've been robbed of an hour.

Nothing much happens today - only the horrid political situation. Mr Heath and Uncle Jeremy all planning to destroy old Wilson tomorrow, and the tv people are getting excited about the possibilities of a constitutional 'nasty'. All the news bulletins are saying the same thing. What will the Queen do with Mr Wilson? Will she send for all the party leaders and let them fight it out at the palace? Quite tiresome really. Anyway, Her Majesty is far away from Buckingham Palace at this moment in time. Indonesia actually. No doubt she'll have to fly back from the clammy temperatures of wherever she is to pat little Harold on the head and say: 'Now then, what's all this then?'


Billy Don't be a Hero by Paper Lace.

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