Saturday April 28, 1979

The Daily Mail says the Queen was 'badly shaken' and the YP says she was 'unshaken' in last night's car accident so I suppose the truth lies somewhere in between. Let's say, shaken not stirred, eh?

Jim Nason came up at the crack of dawn and he and Dad spent the whole day flat on their backs underneath the car. Welding I believe. And all for the sake of some crumbly MOT. I simply couldn't stand the strain of owning a vehicle. One day I will have to go mobile but for the time being I am staying on my own two feet.

This afternoon I took to a hot, soapy bath with Paul Gambaccini, and wallowed in the steaming firmament.  Lynn and Dave came here at 7:30 and Peter joined us before we left for Jill and Tim's engagement party at Farsley Celtic Football Club.

Uncle Tony looked exhausted and I think the coming election is preying on his mind. Guests included Uncle Peter and Auntie Jean. Peter says he's "voting for Maggie" next Thursday which surprised me.

The girls and most of the menfolk danced in formation until after 12. Susan and Diane are just like sisters. The resemblance was noted by many there. Why does my sister [Lynn] always wear trousers? I haven't seen Lynn in a dress for years, and her legs are so slender too.

Back at Auntie Hilda's afterwards Lynn was passing round the sandwiches and nibbles and one of Tony's Asian friends declined a pork pie. "Oh come on, or I'll put you on my black list!" she exclaimed. Black List!

Jill was rolling me cigarettes. Poor Tim fell through a glass door, and then slept on a rug in the lounge frying on the gas fire. Home at about 3:30am. Headache.

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Friday April 27, 1979

Felt acutely rough all day. Kathleen laughed at my condition. I determine to stay by my own fireside tonight. I was horrified looking into my wallet this morning. I spent £10 last night at the Elma and at Oakwood (Hall). 

Speaking to Dave W I told him that last Thursday was my very last 'Thursday night with the lads'. ___________.

So, tonight I stuck to my resolve and sat like a chunk of vegetation before the TV set. The Queen was involved in a road accident en route from Heathrow to Windsor this evening. She wasn't injured but her chauffeur-driven Rover was badly pranged. A spokesman said Her Majesty was unshaken by the incident, but I suspect she must live in fear of kidnap by the IRA.

Bed at 1am.

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Thursday April 26, 1979

Back to the YP. Pay day. It has been like a dream missing one full week of the general election campaign. Let us hope and pray that Mr Callagas is not re-elected next week. Labour until 1984 would just about finish us all off. We are already on a par with Mozambique, and I do suppose that the populace of the Spanish Sahara are living in opulence in comparison with the starving masses of Bradford and the industrial north. Margaret Hilda (Thatcher) will be our salvation.

I fully intended staying at home tonight but Chippy phoned at 7:30 and I gave in. I do give in very easily when pleasure is dangled like a carrot before my beady, donkey-like eyes.

Out to the Shoulder at 8:15. Micky H_____ is out too but he leaves at 9:30 to go commit adultery. This is terrible. His poor wife is expecting a baby in May. On to the White Cross and the Commercial. I wasn't in the mood for the Elma, and we all realised this was a mistake, so we moved on  to Oakwood Hall. Bought Dave W his entry in and his booze all night. Got drunk. Met Steve Hudson and my 'Oakwood girl' Sarah. Home for cheese on toast and coffee at about 2am.

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Wednesday April 25, 1979

Ate the usual breakfast washed down with oceans of splashing tea, and left at 10am without saying goodbye to Arthur or to Lady Spencer-Churchill, his wife. I have stolen a very large sun parasol from the hotel which will make a splendid present for Lynn and David. I could not possibly hand over this piece of 'hot' stolen property to dear Daddy, who is a fine, upstanding member of our local law enforcement establishment. Questions would be asked in the House and 'Panorama' would dedicate a whole thirty minute programme to the incident should it ever reached the courts. We Rhodeses are VIPs in this area, you know.

I was in charge of navigating the route homeward. Back up to Devizes and then we by-passed Oxford and joined the M1  at Northampton. Before hitting the motorway we indulged in a few drinks, but were put off somewhat by the very noisy, endless political discussions going on in the bar. Politics and alcohol should never meet and be avoided at all costs.

God only knows how Alison gets from Winchester to Leeds in only three and a half hours. We didn't reach Guiseley until just after 7pm. Bill and Garry were unimpressed by Harry Ramsden's and I was moaned at for quite some time. We went off to Lynn and Dave's at 7:30 and we watched TV and sat with them for a couple of hours. They were very impressed by the large, gaily coloured umbrella. David promises to make a stand for it to adorn the garden this summer. Lynn is always so amiable and wonderful with visitors. Both Lynn and Dave are smoking cigars on an increasing scale. Back home at 9:30 where Mum and Dad sit laughing at Billy. They left after 10:30. It is good to go away, but equally nice to be home. Everything looks so incredibly tidy.

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Tuesday April 24, 1979

At breakfast Billy remarked how incredibly thirsty he was (alluding to the locked bar) to which Arthur replied: "That's why I have given you an extra large tea pot." It was wonderful just to watch Billy's face. Arthur deserved an Oscar too.

As usual Neil and the silent twosome cleared off while I was still attacking the toast, but we didn't mind in the least. Miserable sods.

At 9:30 we went by car on another jaunt across the southern countryside. Lymington Spa, or is it just plain Lymington? Anyway, we found ourselves at Beaulieu and after a few drinks (12-2pm) we went to the National Motor Museum and then visited Palace House where Lord Montagu hangs out. The old cars were fascinating but I didn't rate the house. Not a patch on Castle Howard.

Lord Montagu of Beaulieu was charged with indecency back in the 1950s. But I believe he is now a reformed peer, and has put groping around in public lavatories behind him.

Back to Bournemouth for fish and chips and then out for more drinks. Tonight our bedroom drinks party became quite riotous. Garry demolished Billy's bed and destroyed a couple of towel rails. We had to swap the furniture from room 17 upstairs, and at one point Garry thought he was Terry Wogan, the Irish lunatic.

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Monday April 23, 1979

St George's Day

To Poole in Dorset this morning to explore the town. Fell into a few bars. Things just were not the same without Alison's company and we talked about her all the time. I really should begin a Miss Dixon fan club. Ate salmon sandwiches and drank a few pints of Stella Artois. This Philippe Junot-like lifestyle cannot go on forever. How long will the cash last out?

Back in Bournemouth this evening we went for a curry, which was like fire. I only had a prawn madras but I felt like I was being cremated from the inside. We took booze with us back to the Gainsborough because the so-called licensed bar remains under lock and key. Billy says he is going to see Arthur about this tomorrow.

Garry is a lonely lad, and I can see where he is going wrong. He wants the companionship of a lady (who doesn't?) but he never goes to the right places to find one. _______________.

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Sunday April 22, 1979

_. Low Sunday.

The pizzas last night were diabolical. Just thought I'd say that. Had a usual breakfast at the usual time and at about 11 we headed off for Alison's at Martyr Worthy. I had been feeling guilty about dragging the lads away to Winchester but following yesterday's session I don't think I could keep them away, especially Garry who is very smitten.

With Alison at Winchester Cathedral

Alison was bashing the top of her boiled egg, looking so voluptuous in her dressing gown. Mrs Dixon, as usual, was staggering around her mansion with a vague expression on her face. In fact she looked pale and ill.

At 12 we ventured to the Plough in Itchen Abbas for drinks and sandwiches. Graham was working in the bar with Midge, the landlady, who is the image of comedian Ronnie Barker when in drag. Had a quite a heavy drinking session and went on afterwards to Winchester to look at the cathedral. A hot, sunny afternoon too.

Back to Alison's for apple wine and a session on the piano. Poor Bill slipped into a coma. At about 7 we went to the Ship Inn for grub and more poisonous liquid and then back to the Plough to conclude the day's activities. Bill was really on top form, and was incredible all evening and at times I almost wet myself laughing. A more sensitive and genteel mob would have been more than slightly embarrassed.

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Saturday April 21, 1979

._. Bournemouth. Her Majesty's fifty third birthday. Breakfast was served at 8:30. Sausage, bacon, eggs, and lashings of hot, flowing tomato, the tinned variety. Afterwards we congregated in the [dry] lounge to discuss tactics. Neil and his two stooges announced that they wanted to go watch an amateur football team by the name of Stockport County, who are playing at Portsmouth this afternoon. Obviously, I was horrified and dumfounded. I said: "leave me out" and immediately Dave and Garry followed. Billy, who enjoys a game of football said he would go along with the Portsmouth trippers, and that was that.

Garry, Dave and I wandered around the town and then went in the car to Boscombe Pier where we listened to Sooty and Sweep singing 'Teddy Bear's Picnic'. At 12 we met Alison near the Royal Bath Hotel. Her car was making a terrible noise and the exhaust was blowing out filth and choking fumes. Experts afterwards said it was probably the silencer, or lack of it. She leapt from her motor and we all took off in Garry's car to a pub on the outskirts of the town.  _________. It was as though Alison and I had never been apart. Garry announced that he could have grabbed hold of her and cuddled her tightly. It was great how the four of us got on so well. Garry, I am sure, fancies her. Things become very blurred. Pints of lager and Pernod make a lethal mixture. We took Alison back to our hotel and something must have been said because the bar door was unlocked and unbolted and Arthur, the toothless proprietor, was soon pulling pints like something possessed.

We drank until about 6:30 and then Alison drove us, in Garry's car, to the beach where, wearing only my underpants, I took a dip in the sea, and poor Dave vomited over the sand. Garry and Alison spent ages lobbing pebbles into the sea. Truly delightful.

Back at the Gainsborough we sobered up, went out for a pizza and then more drink. Alison went at 1:00am.

-=-

Friday April 20, 1979

-. We left at 7:30am for Bournemouth, with maps, compasses, carrier pigeons, &c.

Bill was navigating and I snoozed in the back of Garry's car. My red suitcase was behind at the Hollywood because it wouldn't fit in the car, and Neil had orders to bring it along in his car when they followed on.

Down past the Midlands I was in new, unexplored territory and the delights of Wiltshire unfolded before my eyes. At lunchtime we stopped off at a village pub where all the regulars resembled characters from 'The Archers'. They all addressed each other as "Mr A" and "Mrs B", just using initials. Then, when Neil and the other lads had caught up with us, we left them and moved on into further unchartered stretches of the vast unknown. Near Devizes we had further refreshment and then motored onward to Bournemouth, arriving at 5pm.

My first action was to phone Ally in Winchester and she promised to join us tomorrow lunchtime for a few drinks. The hotel proprietor, whom we called Arthur for some reason, was typical of those of his profession. He tried to tell me that the hotel - the Gainsborough - had been built for Prince Rupert, the gay Cavalier, who was a nephew of King Charles I. Given that the hotel dated from the Edwardian period I sneered at this tale. Prince Rupert died in the 1680s! Silly, old, lying Arthur.

The bar on the premises was barred and shuttered in a very ominous fashion. The seven of us visited several hostelries in the town and returned to the Gainsborough at 11:30 ~ pissed up.

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Thursday April 19, 1979

_. To Leeds with Jim R bearing my red suitcase packed with nearly all my possessions. At lunchtime I bought a ticket and passed the afternoon hanging around in readiness. It was unfortunate really because the coach to Manchester didn't leave until 6pm.

I had a pleasant chat with Ursula before marching out of the office at 5:30. Slept all the way to Manchester on the boring M62 and then got a bus to Stockport arriving there at about 8pm. I managed to get lost. The statue to Queen Victoria was facing one way, and I walked in the opposite direction. Billy told me to follow the old Queen. Dave was out searching for me and so I sat at the bar in the Hollywood with a heap of tongue sandwiches and a pint of lager, chatting with Mrs Glynn. An old boy leaning on the bar was reminiscing about the British pulling out of Malta in WW2, which was really interesting. We then discussed the pros and cons of marrying for money, and we decided it was quite acceptable. I did say that the fortune would have to be considerable before I could contemplate such a move.

Dave G came in at 8:30 followed by Bill [Wright] & Garry [Barratt]. The lads seemed quiet and subdued. Neil arrived with two other Bournemouth trippers and we sat drinking ale until 11. _________.

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Wednesday April 18, 1979

_. Packed up my troubles in my old kit bag, and smiled, smiled, smiled.  Well, not quite. In fact I loathe preparing to go away and despise traveling and all the inconvenience attached to it, and do not enjoy a holiday one bit until I'm sitting in the hotel bar with a full glass. Suit cases are hideous objects. In fact, I'm looking at one right now. Red it is.

Spoke to Dave G in Stockport and we joked about the recent violence in Bournemouth. I said I'm going to push a few old girls off the pier and into the sea ~ bath chairs and crutches too. But Bournemouth so conjures up a vision of red geraniums set out in regimented gardens, cluttered with elderly ladies with blue rinses, staggering around the sea front clutching onto one another. I see elderly, long retired colonels, with yellow moustaches, and wilting spats. In fact, I picture nothing young or youthful at all. The arrival of ten lads from the north of England will send a gust of cold air up the crinolines of many a dowager duchess, as they cough and wheeze themselves from the latest Des O'Connor show to the garden of remembrance. Goodnight. Lights out at 1:23am.

Spike Milligan was good tonight.

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