Monday January 27, 1975

To Leeds with Jim Rawnsley and on my arrival at the office I immediately lay hands on yesterday's Sunday Times to look at the first installment of Richard Crossman's diaries. He describes the Queen as 'a small woman with a beautiful waist'. He says that the stools set out for Privy Council meetings are so arranged that the gentlemen backing out of the audience chamber fall backwards over them when leaving the room! Far too gossipy and not what I expected. It just goes to show that a 'Harold Nicolson' lurks somewhere in all Labour MPs.
Kathleen announced today that we staff need no longer work on Saturday mornings. Quite a good idea really because I sometimes miss having a full weekend off.

Home in time to see th Right Honourable William Hamilton answering irrate viewers on 'Nationwide'. The filthy little swine really doesn't deserve to live, and he didn't have a leg to stand on when one Tory MP read the Parliamentary Oath to him. How can Mr Hamilton be so hypocritical as to swear before God to protect Queen Elizabeth? Uncle Harold really ought to get rid of him. They might as well expel him from Parliament whilst they're doing John Stonehouse and kill two birds with one stone.

Ring Chris to see if any developments have arisen about the holiday. None so far. Also ring Marita to let her know I haven't forgotten her. She'll be 20 on Friday. Poor Devil.

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Sunday January 26, 1975

Septuagesima. Feel really rotten all day. The top of my head feels like it's about to explode, spraying my brains from here to Mars. I really wish I hadn't devoured all that drink in such speedy circumstances. Dave Slater is to blame - he must have money to burn.

John and I walk into Guiseley to look at a clapped out, old VW which he thought he'd buy. The look of it makes him decide not to bother. Quite a little wreck it was. Home for lunch feeling a bit better, but my head is still fuzzy.

See in the Sunday Express that Mark Phillips won't accept a title. How do they know? I'm sure that Buckingham Palace haven't informed Mr Burnett that Capt Phillips will not receive a title, and realise that the article is purely the brain-child of a clapped out old dear with fond memories of Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon. Times have changed since 1961.

Chris comes at 3.30 to look through some holiday brochures, but to my horror Lynn informs me that Dave took them with him when he went home last night. Chris isn't bothered and we sit watching an episode of 'The World At War' which seems to have been going on since Douglas-Home was in no.10. The programme that is, not the war. That ended in 1918.

John, Chris, Christine, Carol Smith, Lynn and Dave and self go to the cinema this evening. A clapped out old horror film - so boring. Back home to go through more brochures and Chris leaves with a list with which to do battle with tomorrow. Determined to go abroad no matter what the cost this year.

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Saturday January 25, 1975

A filthy day. Hail, rain, blizzards, and nasty snow storms. Lynn and I walk down the lane under the same little umberella - perishing.

Kathleen on morning off. Just Sarah, Eileen and myself in. Me all day unfortunately. Compile a letter to Christine in the afternoon, that is in between doing the EP and YP filing. Mum rings to say that Dad & John are coming to Leeds, and so I get a lift home with them at 4 o'clock.

Have nice lamb for tea. Sit upstairs with 'Edward VII' fascinating it is too. Feel quite lost and frustrated when I finish it. Have to wait until the Spring for book 2, which deals with Edward's life as King-Emperor.

To Wikis with John, Christine B and Chris, Miss Dibb and Andy, not forgetting Carol. I danced with Miss Dibb for most of the night, who moves quite nicely on the dance floor. Bump into Dave Slater in the gents and he buys me a rum and orange, a Bacardi and coke and a Southern Comfort. Naturally, I feel very drunk by 2am. Arriving home I smash a bottle of milk whilst passing through the kitchen. Sat in the toilet reading - attempting to sober myself up and eventually get into bed at some unearthly hour.

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Friday January 24, 1975

All day at the YP. Not really eventful.

Minus Christine Mary Braithwaite and Christopher Holland Ratcliffe, who are either going to a party or something at Wakefield Theatre Club, or something equally nauseating. Spend most of the night with Christine Dibb, who is on her usual witty form. Misses White and Smith are also with us - the younger Miss Smith seems to be minus her lover and no doubt it's on the rocks - or at least we hope so.

John buggers off with Andy at 10.15 and leaves me alone with Laura, the two Christines and Carol. Leave the Hare with Laura at about 11 and she kicks Dibb and me out of the car at the bottom of the lane. I don't have a coat and nearly perish with the cold. Christine came in for coffee and we joined Lynn and Dave in front of the television. A bloody awful film dominates the screen so I retreat into my book 'Edward VII'.

Mummy and Daddy are home from a party at the Saxtons with tales of drunkenness and debauchery. The host, Geoff Saxton, diid his usual 'dead man lying on the floor' routine, and threw up later all over the kitchen, which can't have been a particularly pleasant sight.

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Thursday January 23, 1975

Nothing much to report today. See 'Top of the Pops' on TV this evening, and it's quite amazing how sober it's all becoming. Pop is on the decline.

Still deep into 'Edward VII'. I realise now that poor King Edward was only lecherous because Queen Victoria refused him any position or decent job. Sixty years is a long time to wait for a responsible position in 'the family business.'

This referendum nonsense is getting completely out of hand. The Labour government is making a serious mistake if it thinks that the British people want to make a choice for themselves. Why bother having a Houses of Parliament if the MPs are going to give all decisions over to us. The ordinary man in the street knows sod all about the Common Market, but one thing is certain, it takes no Sir Christopher Soames to realise the ridiculousness in withdrawing our membership when it took all those years and all that money to get us in. I for one do not intend exercising my so-called right to vote when the time comes.

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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 January 21, 1975

Make a file this morning for Miss Davina Mary Sheffield, daughter of Captain and the late Hon Mrs Sheffield. None other than Prince Charles's little lady friend. Whether she'll one day be Princess of Wales is another matter altogether, but she isn't worth ignoring. Whilst researching Miss Sheffield I'm amused to see that she is descended from the Duke of Buckingham, who built Buckingham House, now Buckingham Palace. Is it her intention to get the place back in the family?

At lunchtime I go with Sarah into town. See a novel entitled 'Edward VII'. An irresistible urge comes over me to purchase it, along with a couple of Agatha Christie gems. Back to the YP for an entertaining afternoon. One of Eileen's men friends is now incarcerated in Armley Prison after hitting his wife over the head with a bottle. She seems to mix with a genteel, pleasant mob.

Sit reading 'Edward VII'. It is better than I imagined it would be. Written by an actor from one of the trashy TV hospital series in the 1960s.

See 'Pygmalion' the ancient film. Really good, and liked Wendy Hiller. Leslie Howard was perfect.Bed at 11.30 where I carry on fascinated with King Edward until the early hours.

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Monday January 20, 1975

Back to work.

Sarah, my former heartthrob, is in a miserable state. Her latest boyfriend has been done by the Lancashire Police for driving without due care and attention. The poor chap was breathylised.

That repulsive man William Hamilton, MP was on the BBC this evening saying all sorts of obnoxious things about the Royal Family. He hates Princess Margaret so much to the extent that he sounds unstable.He made several comments about the Queen Mother being a scheming, shrewd business woman, and not the friendly, charming creature she appears to be. The Queen, according to the learned gentleman, is out of touch, and he had the cheek to stand before TV cameras and say that monarchy and pageantry and completely detached from one another. Insane, horribly insane.

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Sunday January 19, 1975

Sleep till 1pm. Marita woke me at the Lord knows what time with the radio. She's the only person I know who listens to 'The Archers'. Somebody must listen in somewhere otherwise the series would have been given the push decades ago.

Christine and I read eighty pages of 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' by C.S. Lewis. I persuaded Denny to read it in September and I managed to get Christine to buy a copy whilst shopping yesterday. I must ring Denny and get my copy back - she took it to glance at and that was the last I saw of it.

Steak for lunch. Cooked by me of course. Lazy afternoon reading through a book on astrology - it's quite canny how people take after their star signs. Mine was especially flattering. Leave at 7. Hysterical journey into Sheffield, but I feel sick on the coach coming back to Leeds. MM and Marita were discussing going to Worcester in a couple of weeks, but I am dubious. David cannot manage to house four of us surely? But still, MM will do the arranging I expect.

Christine and I go straight to the Hare & Hounds, leaving Marita in Rawdon. She refuses to inhabit places of fun and enjoyment when MM is away. Astounded in the Hare to hear that Chris is going to work in Windsor - at Barclays Bank therein. Not a permanent move however, only from June to Christmas. We'll all be at a loose end without him.

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Saturday January 18, 1975

Wake up just after 10am. Christine says that Marita and I were talking in our sleep. People always say I yell and carry on like a madman in my sleep. Some Psycological reason I suppose.

Spend five and a half ruddy hours in a Sheffield Shopping Centre! Nearly went round the bend watching MM and Marita trying on shoes and buying the nicest lettuces in the market, and spending hour after hour in dark, body odour-smelling, music filled boutiques trying on velvet jackets you'll know they'll never buy. Oh, and Marita wants only lightweight shoes because she's going to Yugoslavia in September and it's always hot there isn't it? Christine and I nearly passed out.

We arrived home after 6. Christine and I are knackered to the core, but MM & Marita look quite normal. Salad for tea. Wear MM's duffle coat when we go to the pub - don't drink much and get back for about 11. Christine and I die laughing over a Monty Python book - a bottle of Martini helped too. The night was probably a bit more romantic as far as Christine and I are concerned. MM got up at 2am wearing Marita's nightie! God! How we laughed.

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Friday January 17, 1975

Meet Marita in Park Row at 5.15. We go to Smiths in the Railway Station where we route around in the glossy magazines and rude paperbacks until Christine arrives. I buy 'Confessions of a Private Soldier', a nasty, dirty little thing by Timothy Lea. Quite cheeky though. Leave Leeds by train and we laugh all the way to Sheffield. MM meets us on the platform, and when he and Marita are together they certainly are very close. Wedding bells will be ringing in a few years time, that's for certain.

The flat is just one room with all the necessities therein. Smells very musty and the atmosphere is positively damp. The four of us are far too shagged out to consider going to the boozer for a few pints - so we sit gathered around the electric fire eating cheese and biscuits and listening to Elton John's Greatest Hits on the record player. Bed time is a farce. MM and Marita have the single bed - all this sex before marriage 'I don't know what the world's coming to' &c. Christine and I share a camp bed...Comfortable it all is too. Not actually having bodily contact you understand - but reaping the benefits from the closeness which warmed us both in the cold flat.

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