Saturday October 14, 1978

Sun rises 07:22 Sun sets 18:10

Up at 7 o'clock and to work. Yes my first Saturday at the YP for about 4 years. Jacq and I had black coffee and toast. Got a bus at 8. In Leeds before 9. Not too busy at the YP but I had about ten phone calls on the subject of the steam train the 'Sir Nigel Gresley', which is taking hundreds of boring people on a jaunt round Yorkshire today. Why can't these bloody people just stay at home and watch 'Grandstand' or perhaps go down to their local and get thoroughly pissed instead of pestering poor, under~paid library workers?

The Times says Cardinal (Basil) Hume stands a very good chance of being elected Pope at tomorrow's conclave. It would be so great to have an Englishman at the helm in the Vatican, but I can't see them electing anyone but an Italian until at least the next century.

At 1:30 I met Jacq and we walked around town and had a few drinks in the Ostlers. Shouldn't take booze on an afternoon really.

At tea time John, Maria and JPH arrived. Scotland is clearly doing them some good.

Tonight Jacq, Sue, Pete, Mum, Dad, John, Maria, Lynn & Dave, and I went to the White Horse at Burley~in~Wharfedale to see Mum's cousin Dorothy, the landlady, who tells us she's leaving in June next year, if not before. Mum and Dad went off to meet Jim & Margaret at the Riversdale, and we had a crawl, going to the Queen's Arms and Malt Shovel. Afterwards we all had fish and chips at Lynn & Dave's. Our first all night session at Lawn Road. Jacq and I slept on the lounge floor.

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Sunday August 21, 1977

11th after Trinity. Woke at 11 feeling quite dead. Mr Brotherwood Senior, grinning broadly, deposited a cup of tea by my bed and made a quick exit from the room. Tony was outside beating his sheepskin car rugs with a large wire brush. He laughed on seeing me and joked about the pinkness of my eyes and deathly hue of my palid cheeks. We then attacked slices of hot buttered toast with Mrs B's constant chatter as a back drop.

Groucho.

See in the Sunday Times that the genius Groucho Marx is dead. Let us hope that, as in the case of the late, lamented Mr Presley, the BBC will now show all the Marx Brothers films because 'Duck Soup', 'A Day at the Races' and 'A Night at the Opera' are masterpieces of comedy. The Elvis films are starting on the BBC next Wednesday.

We went back to the White Horse taking Mrs Brotherwood with us. Tony and I drank tomato juice. Mrs B was on the sherry.

Sunday lunch was at 2 followed by a slight kip and then we hit the road for the north at 4pm. Home via Goodwood and picturesque Sussex and various other bits of that area of which I know nothing. We ate our packed picnic of cheese and spring onion sandwiches in the car, and I had mine as we passed Kew Gardens at about 6.30.  We were at Bradford and in the Bod at 9.30. At times Tony  had been doing over 100mph on the M1. Wendy and Anne were in the Bod and we planned to go to Annabella's with them on Wednesday and to the WH Smith party, I think. I'm surprised we weren't thrown out for all the attention we were drawing to ourselves. Three pints of Guinness, no money an one hour later I returned home to find everyone at Edith and Ernest's and in a state of intoxication. Even Lynn and David back from Italy - not as brown as they should be.

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Saturday August 20, 1977

Mr Brotherwood Senior brought me a cup of coffee at 10am. Tony and I had breakfast together and then he took me on a sight seeing walk around the town. Quite a nice little place. A typical seaside resort. Tony thinks it's all very quiet for the time of year. Is it because people now go to Ibiza instead?

Went on a deodorant purchasing expedition, looked at the beach, before succumbing to Tony's adopted aunt's pub, I think the White Horse. Back to lunch at 2 with the Brotherwoods. Later we went with Mrs B to collect Stephen from his mother's house. He's a marvellous child and is thrilled to see his 'Daddy'. To the park and then back to tea of salad. Very pleasant afternoon.

Good night. We had whisky after whisky and by the time we arrived at Dante's Discotheque I for one was pissed. The women were somewhat tight and non-committal and I managed to pinch somebody else's girlfriend, again. Tony told me afterwards that I was close to getting clobbered again. Home after 2 after doing a detour around a housing estate first. I vomited in a garden on Chestnut Avenue, which is now chestnut, mauve, light green and puce. Or is it puke? Oh what a bloody night!

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Monday January 31, 1977

Marita 22. Don't alight from 'neath the sheets until a late hour this morning. A wet, miserable day. Mummy is still indisposed with influenza and is confined to her chambers. Papa doesn't look much better.

Dorothy's pub, the White Horse

Go see Lynne at the Red Lion at 1.30 and have a couple of drinks. She's in two minds about Stephanie's proposition and somehow I don't think the Divine Vera approves. Dispose of the sweet thing by 2.30 and then go to Cousin Dorothy's pub, the White Horse. She entertains me until 5 o'clock discussing the Wilson family. She says my great-grandmother, Rella Wilson, had red hair, couldn't read or write, was a very good cook. Her Piccalilli was second to none. She (Rella) was delighted that Dorothy went to grammar school (which she did circa 1923). Dorothy is very straight-forward and seems severe in a daft sort of way. She frightened the living daylights out of me at first. Had an interesting time and promise to keep her informed.

Go to John and Maria's and stay until 9pm. Baby is better but Maria is feeling off it now. Watch 'Panorama'. It looks at the Queen's reign - very good.  John was interested but Maria kept hurling abuse at the TV.

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Saturday May 17, 1975

Hilarious day. Mum got me out of bed at 12 to accomapny her to Morrison's for the weekly pile of nosh and general necessities. In unbearable heat we chase about the shop for the best part of an hour, picking Sue up at the hairdressers on the way home.

A 2pm Gillian comes round with 'Diamond Dogs' by Bowie, and after half an hour the two of us decide to pay a call on Chris, who is messing about with his guttering (roof guttering and all that) with the aid and assistance of John of course. After messing about on a couple of buses Gillian and I arrive at Horsforth at about 2.30 to discover Mrs Ratcliffe pottering around in the rubble of what was once 21, Victoria Drive. She was all covered in paint saying things like: 'Oh, Chris and John disappeared half an hour ago down Town Street'. We sat about waiting for the two workers to return and when they do we follow them outside and clown about on the lawn, eating ice lollipops and making foolery and merriment. John dangling about at the top of a ladder just didn't look safe, and Gillian felt quite sickly just watching him. Home at about 6 in a mild drizzle to have tea.

Mum and Dad are at Leeds General Infirmary visiting Auntie Mabel, and therefore I make the tea consisting of fish fingers and peas. Very nice too, although I say it myself.

Out to the Hare & Hounds at about 8 and Gillian more or less tags onto me for the night. After a disagreement in the Malt Shovel, Burley-in-Wharfedale, the happy family splits up and Laura takes her mob to Ilkley and John, Gillian, Christine Dibb and I go to the White Horse in Burley to see Cousin Dorothy. We leave at about 11.10 after exchanging reminiscences with Dorothy. Played dominos for the first time in years.

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Monday December 23, 1974

YP all day. Nearly Christmas once more. Doesn't seem ten minutes since the last one really.

Go with John, Mum and Dad to see cousin Dorothy at the White Horse in Burley-in-Wharfedale. She is not really like any of the Wilsons I know. My calculations show she's the daughter of my grandfather's elder brother, Edward Wilson. Mum says he was a typical local character whose vocabulary consisted of little other than swear words and uncouth language. 'The salt of the earth' as Dad would say. We have a few drinks at Burley before coming home for supper. On arriving home I call in on the Blackwells with a bottle of rum which Mum bought for them. They keep me for ages talking about the weather of yesteryear. Evidently, 1933 and 1947 were the worst Christmases they have known.

Pork sandwiches for supper with Lynn, Sue, Peter and Dave. See a cronic ghost story before coming to bed after 12.

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