Tuesday August 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally, Marnie & Samuel.

Extremely hot. Very busy lunch. We packed up at 2 and rushed to Tadcaster to the so-called Sam Smith's 'Family Day' at the Bowling Club. I took a football kit but had no intention of playing. We almost ran over Mr. Oliver (Smith) at the brewery. That would have caused a stink. The awful Pirie family were in front of us with Tracey Egan. We found the bar and hid in a corner with Roy, Marie and Marnie. Leslie Gledhill came looking for me to play football but I hid and avoided the tortuous, sweaty and ridiculous exercise. Roy wasn't himself, but Marie bright and bubbly. They are having William trouble again. We ate roast pig and kept ourselves to ourselves. The arse lickers are nauseating. Fran O'Brien was prancing around in shorts. Silly little prat. Home for 8 quite pissed. We stood at the bar. Margaret and Karen worked.

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Monday August 13, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Maureen returned from her holiday. Ann Wilkinson, 70, can be painful, and so it was good to see dear, lumbering Maureen. I phoned the brewery and spoke to Ken Gilbertson about our holiday days for this year and he said we cannot take any days until October 29. Sigh, gasp, pant. We shall have to take our three remaining weeks then. When Ally and I were discussing this at lunch Samuel began to choke on a crust of bread. The poor boy turned blue and we plucked him from his high chair and dangled him upside down. This did the trick. Quite a panic we had, but the boy didn't seem to bother.

Olive came in pissed tonight and was too vocal in the sedate lounge. Big Brian likens our panelled lounge to the House of Lords.

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Sunday August 12, 1984

Orpheus & the leopard, Harewood.

 8th Sunday after Trinity

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Hot and indecisive. Just where can we go on our day orf? In a flash I exclaimed: 'Let's go to Harewood'. After all it was here at the seat of the reprobate Lascelles family that Ally and I spent hours of courtship on illicit days off from the YP. Our journey to Harewood was a smooth one. Sammy beaming in his car seat, the wind blowing through his top knot. We fell upon the Harewood Arms and that did it, we sat there in the garden with a tray of sandwiches. Bliss. Howard Rose, the wiry landlord, said hello but didn't come to chat. We didn't care. Sammy wearing a cap like Jackie Coogan. 

Later, back here, I sat with my feet up watching a Joan Crawford film. Didn't go downstairs. The girls managed. A hot, roasting day, and sweaty night. Children in car park made the place sound Belle Vue Zoo. Roll on wintertime and inclement weather.

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Saturday August 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

A full Moon, but I fear no ill effects. The sudden and indiscriminate growth of facial hair and teeth did not occur. We went in to Leeds with Samuel and took Ally's locket to a jeweller (Samuel having recently dislodged it from mum's chain). It was a sticky afternoon really. We did the usual rounds of Mothercare and Boots, &c. We went on to Cheap 'n Cheerful to see Mrs Whitehead, who dotes on Samuel. We wandered around debating buying £300 bedroom furniture, but came away with a Compton Mackenzie novel and the Universal Home Doctor (Illustrated), and a book, 'The Corpse in the Constable's Garden'.

We lunched with Jim Ellis at the Nags Head and sat outside. Our barman has resigned 'for taxation reasons'. Who does he think he is? Earl Jermyn? I am very dubious about the worth of his YOP scheme. It might be worth a memo to Mrs Thatcher. Phoned Mummy. John and Peter Mather on the Three Peaks Walk and lodging at Waltergarth.

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Friday August 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Sandy (left) and chum.

My first guinea pig, Sandy, was born 20 years ago today. Blimey, what a brain I have. What a memory.

Our christening photographs are, to say the least, uninspiring. Dull, dismal and foggy. I took them down and showed them to Bernie who thinks they are worthy of Lord Snowdon and she sat gasping in amazement. One must always be prepared for sycophants in this game. 

Christening: uninspiring, dull & foggy.

Coffee and sandwiches upstairs at 12. Bedtime reading is Burke's Peerage. How I long for the 1985 edition. If the Duke of Westminster kicked the bucket tomorrow what would happen? The dukedom would expire and the marquisate of Westminster would go first to the Earl of Wilton and at his decease to Lord Ebury. 

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Thursday August 9, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Dad & Mum: June 1984.

What can they be doing at Horton-in-Ribblesdale? I feel miffed that no contact has been made since July 22. Did I say something out of place? Come to think of it Mama wasn't too jovial at the party and stayed indoors which was uncharacteristic  when all the party goers were without clutching glasses of gin, &c. I must telephone. Ally is puzzled. Mama, she says, hasn't once phoned us since we moved here. Not long ago she was always on the blower. 

Ally took Sammy to be weighed . He is 15lb 5oz. Splendid. He has never had any fat about him and where some babies look podgy and docile he is slender, ahtletic and alert. A budding Daley Thompson. A white one though. 

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Wednesday August 8, 1984

Moorhouse Inn

Rumanian weightlifter.

We had eggs for breakfast with the backdrop of the Olympics on the TV. Fat Rumanian weightlifters and toast and marmalade don't mix. Later we went out with Sammy in his landau to the shops on Dewsbury Rd and bought steak and kidney and slices of plastic ham. You can now count on one hand the days in a week when I go out into the fresh air. 

Jackie Myers is 28 tomorrow. _______. We haven't seen her since she squabbled with Elaine Allinson on the subject of the Falklands crisis at Ally's birthday party in May '82. 

Arrivals: A son to the Earl and Countess of Dalkeith - a 21st century Duke of Buccleuch in fact.

Departures: Lord Monkswell, who renounced his peerage in 1964 when it was a fashionable thing to do. He is, I can safely say, the first peer to die who has renounced his title under the 1963 Peerages Act. His fellow disclaimers are Home, Sandwich, Stansgate, Hailsham, Altrincham, Merthyr, Fraser of Allander, Beaverbrook, and who else? - Durham.

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Tuesday August 7, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

My poor great-uncle John Edward Rhodes was killed in action upon this day in 1918. He was a private in the Royal Fusiliers, but as to where he met his glorious end I do not know. My knowledge of the Great War is nil other than that I know it kicked off in 1914 and ran through until 1918 and that we won. Mrs Lane would be proud of me.

We had eggs and bacon with Sue and Peter and the children and hung around for the morning. Christopher slobbered over the two others in a most overpowering fashion. Kissing and cuddling like members of the England cricket team. They went at 11 leaving us surrounded by debris and devastation. Quite appropriate for the anniversary of Hiroshima. 

The sombre Karen worked solo tonight. Ally and I stood at the bar whispering together. Sweet nothings, &c. Rob Piper and his Scottish friend came in. The Scottish friend is married to a Longbottom from St James's Cresent (Pudsey). We spent an hour with them and they left at 10:20 to get back to the Butcher's Arms for last orders. Pushing it a bit. Rob has a new Italian car which Ally went out and inspected.  Old Harold told me of an encounter he had with the former Lord Lieutenant (of West Yorkshire) Brigadier Hargreaves, who he says owned all the coal mines in Leeds before nationalisation. The chap (Harold) is a crashing snob.

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Monday August 6, 1984

Bank Holiday in Scotland & Republic of Ireland 

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Burton: Welsh tippler.

That old soak Richard Burton popped his clogs in Switzerland yesterday and I scowled at the Daily Telegraph, who splashed this earth shattering tragedy as its page one lead. Silly season is upon us I know but surely something somewhere in the world is of greater importance? Am I perhaps underestimating the genius and the loss of this craggy, Welsh thespian tippler? Blimey, Dame Flora Robson's recent passing barely got a mention and I doubt whether she ever touched a drop, was married eight times, or made third rate films for vast fees. 

Susan and Peter appeared with the boys at 4 o'clock. She phoned earlier and so we hurriedly booked Audrey to open up and Mavis to do 8-11. I wasn't 'on form' at all and wanted nothing but to collapse into a chair and snore, which I couldn't do. Samuel loves the company of his cousins and was glued to Christopher's every move. We went down to the bar at 8. Mavis had buggered the till. A quiet night and Ally kept going behind to assist. I discussed the pitfalls of vasectomies with Sue. Doesn't it speed the ageing process? She giggled. Peter isn't seriously considering having 'the snip'. They went to buy a Chinese take-away from near the Blooming Rose which we ate at 11. Saw a horrid, dull film 'The Amityville Horror'. Bed 1am.

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Sunday August 5, 1984

 7th Sunday after Trinity

Moorhouse Inn

We slept until 9am. Ally got up to look Samuel who was playing with his elephant, looking bored, but not distressed. I turned over and slept until 10. Ally called me for a full-English repast. She dislikes cooking breakfast and I cannot remember the last time I had one handed to me, on a plate, as it were. _______.

This afternoon to Guiseley to see Lynn. Dave, predictably, was playing with his erection (the ongoing extension) and we were ushered into the dismal dining room which is like the chateau d'If. Lynn was chatty and bubbly. Audrey and Henry Baker appeared from holidaying in the Lake District. She was fat and cheerful despite the crutches. Afterwards, over cups of tea, Lynn spoke of her loathing of motherhood - splutter - and that David and Peter are to have vasectomies soon. My God they've all gone mad. Called at Sue's but they are spending the day in Scarborough. Home for 5. Downstairs tonight mixing in the lounge again.

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Saturday August 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Ally feels dreadful today but for some strange reason I am free of the usual hangover. We sat upstairs in a collapsed state this afternoon watching old films. The 1939 version of 'Goodbye Mister Chips' with Robert Donat and then 'The Titfield Thunderbolt'. A miserable wet day. Ally sprawled on the settee complaining about Robert Donat's performance. A dead evening. We sat with Albert and Kitty Taylor listening to their potted biographies. From Jamaica to Hunslet and back. Andy and Mavis worked. Stone dead. We cleared up afterwards. Totally bushed.

Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother is 84 today. We hear that she spent two days in hospital this week undergoing tests. I see in the columns of the DT that Olivia Mulholland, her woman of the bedchamber for 34 years, died on Thursday aged 82. This must be a blow to HM. We see her on the news in the drizzle at Clarence House. The crowd there gets bigger every year. We still have to idea where HM was born. Naughty Lord Strathmore told the registrar that she was born at St Paul's Walden, Herts, but this has recently been denied. 

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