Wednesday October 3, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally stayed in bed until after 10am. In a thunderstorm we ventured into Leeds  to collect our 'tramp convention' photos. We were like drowned rats. Dripping around Marks & Spencer. Why did everyone else look snuff dry? Are we perhaps a trifle slow? To Mothercare and bought Samuel a plastic pushchair cover, somewhat belatedly. £11. Back for tea and crumpets. Samuel ate with rellish. Watched Felicity Kendal in The Good Life, from the early 70s. The news was dominated by A. Scargill and the Kinnocks in Blackpool. Ally is concerned that Labour might win in '87. We contemplate emigrating somewhere with a suitably right-wing flavour. How about Bolivia?

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Tuesday October 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

I sat this afternoon, late on, bouncing Sammy up and down and watching the Labour party conference on TV. That Kinnock fellow needs pyschiatric treatment. He cannot see that the vast bulwark of the Maoist left will soon gobble him up. Silly little pillock. All this 'comrade' banter is nauseating.

Just Ally and I tonight (at work). Quiet. Old Tom says Andy is having morphine injections and has only 48 hours left. Poor bugger. Upstairs at 11 I woke Sammy. I was banging around in the kitchen. A furore followed.

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Monday October 1, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

The Angel & White Horse.

Good old October is here. Last year we were at the Why Not and I think we had just experienced our first riot. What an experience. I went down and phoned Rob (Piper) to get a lift to the brewery. It's to attend a briefing of the managers after last Wednesday's liaison committee meeting. He came here at 5 and I said my fond farewells to my two precious slugs. We went to the Duncan pub to collect the poor little manager of that den of iniquity. The pub, in Duncan St, Leeds, takes £4,500 a week and the manager has 150 staff hours. At Taddy we sat in the green room, appropriately as we were all like cabbages. We listened to Colin Black, Donna (Lea) and David Tyne. It was just a formality of them reading minutes and asking us for any comments. Later, we fell into the Angel and White Horse. _____ was crawling around Mrs Lea like a sex starved Doberman Pinscher. Rob & Kath dropped the Duncan manager and I and went for dinner and so we were left with CW, who really resents his new baby for taking away his independence, &c. Such a selfish shit. I had too much Old Brewery Bitter and felt canned. Ally phoned to say the lights in the bar at home had fused, but that an electrician was on the way. Wills dropped me at home at 9 and I found the place looking like a fairy grotto, lit by emergency lights. I didn't go behind the bar but stood 'entertaining' the customers. For some reason old Harold thinks I am a first cousin of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Bed late after recounting the evenings events to Ally.

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Sunday September 30, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

15th Sunday after Trinity

J.P.H. is eight today. He is a pleasant little lad. Last night we came back from Pudsey and after several glasses of wine Ally fell into bed complaining of numb legs. How odd. Then, at 11:30 after Mavis had gone, I set to and cleaned the place from top to bottom. Swabbing out the toilets was a ghastly experience, but by 3am I had finished. Ally was still clothed and flat out on the bed. She beamed when I informed her that the magic fairy had cleaned the pub. 

Pete, Sue & Christopher.

So, at 8am Ally was up bright and gay (yes, I refuse to steer clear of this word simply because it's been hijacked by the likes of the Greenham Common lesbians and Quentin Crisp). Ally phoned Sue and asked her to join us on a trip to Horton, then she she phoned Mama. We left at 11 collecting the Nasons en route. Sue and I were bundled together with the three babies in the back. Christopher was violently sick near Settle and we arrived at Horton covered with a carrot pebble-dash. Parents are well. We had a large lunch.  Relaxed afterwards. Children dominate so. I slept - collapsed in a chair like an old grandad. Home at 8. We crept in and went to bed with the pub heaving below. Exceptionally tired.

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Saturday September 29, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Very wet. We were late up and off we dashed to Boots to have Samuel photographed. Samuel doesn't take to strangers and he sat scowling on a fur rug and no attempts to make him laugh succeeded. We were bleating, rattling toys, jumping around and eventually he reciprocated. The photographer had to work very quickly. 

Onwards to Guiseley for 10am where we inspected Thomas, no bigger than a doormouse, asleep in his pram in the kitchen. Lynn was busily moving furniture. David stayed outside working on his erection. We went on to Susan's. She gave us tuna fish sandwiches and buns. Then on to John's. He was busily varnishing something. Janette gave us coffee. The children had sent John a birthday card _______. Home via Pudsey where we sat outside the Butcher's Arms. Rob has a heavy cold. Then to Auntie Hilda's where she has Hayley. Tony was in the garden building a wall. Hayley can walk. She is a sweet thing. Hilda was like a bean pole. Lost so much weight.

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Friday September 28, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sammy has made his very first attempt to crawl. He toppled over on to his tummy and and proceeded to heave and push away with all his might only to find himself going in a backwards direction. What a cheerful, pleasant disposition he has. 

The Jack Higgins book 'Solo' is excellent. Quite gripping in fact. Even more gripping than Coronation Street which has been enthralling in recent days. Poor Mavis Riley jilted Derek on the wedding morning. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, &c. Not a dry eye in the house on Wednesday.

We went down and stood with Bernie (McCarron). Margaret and Mavis were working. _________.

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Thursday September 27, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Back to town this afternoon to browse in Austicks again. Sammy was in a better mood and allowed us to drift around. How many shopping days to Christmas, I wonder? 

The Prince of Wales was reading his story (Lochnagar) on Jackanory yesterday. He is such a good all rounder.

Love autumn and the golden foliage. Warm crumpets by the fire, &c. I do love autumnal activities and we will be able to indulge them to the full for three weeks from Oct 29. Just four weeks to go.

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Wednesday September 26, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Walter Pidgeon

Damp and autumnal. We went to town at 3:30 with Sammy to look at books in the new Austicks. We saw a nice book 'Alphabears', and I gloated over George V by Kenneth Rose. I'd love it in hard back. There was a book sale at the old Austicks and we bought two Jack Higgins novels, and 'Mr American' by the guy who wrote the Flashman novels. 

'Famous Actor Dead' say the billboards throughout town. Who can it be? Not Roger Moore, surely? John Gielgud is an octogenarian, isn't he? No, it's a Walter Pidgeon, 86, who apparently made a film in 1943 which was very well received. 

Uneventful evening. We both worked with Audrey. A pissed-up tramp in the lounge received his marching orders. We of course haven't heard from Mum. I think Ally will suggest going up to Horton Sunday, but it's only a guess. We do not want frosty relations.

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Tuesday September 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

John shares his birthday with F.M. Gill (65), Sir Robert Muldoon (63), Sir Colin Davis (57), Mr Ronnie Barker (55), and Mr Leon Brittan, QC, MP, PC (45). Is the Home Secretary jewish? He certainly looks the part. 

Shit of the Week: The Bishop of Durham. (This is going to be a regular Tuesday feature).

Those who have left us:-

(after a gripping look at the obits)

Sir Denis Blundell (77), Lord Granville-West (80), Marie La Guardia (89), 'Dusty' Rhodes (74), Mrs Mark Herbert (89) widow of a Bishop of Norwich who, incidentally, baptised Diana Spencer in 1961.

World News:-

Her Majesty has flown to Canada with the D of E. The gutter press says that Prince Philip has yet to meet his new grandson. He doesn't look like a baby-lover, if you know what I mean. They say it's because he's Teutonic. 

Read a feature in the Daily Telegraph on a Frederick Nason, who has a big store in Canterbury. I must tell Peter of this.

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Monday September 24, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

I am disgusted. We had to post Samuel's birth certificate to the passport office at Liverpool and it has been returned torn, and stuck together with cellotape, and wrinkled. I treasure my family documents and regard this as a disgrace. Samuel is only eight months old and already his personal documents resemble the Dead Sea Scrolls. I am going to compose a snotty letter. 

I am not going to bore you with the details of life here at the Moorhouse Inn on this September morn. All I will say is that it is busier. Tonight we had a good response from the pool playing people and think we'll have some success. John is 28 tomorrow. Will he make a honest woman of Miss Drysdale? He certainly could do a lot worse. His card is in the post. I will soon require £246 from him for Lanzarote.

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Sunday September 23, 1984

 14th Sunday after Trinity

Moorhouse Inn

A wet start. Sammy brought me to my senses at 7:30 and we went to play with toys in front of the gas fire in the sitting room. Then, like Fanny Cradock, I concocted a splendid cooked breakfast and went to wake Ally who was far from appreciative. She complained about the smell from the frying, and then said I had made too much! Women! Downstairs I took Sam with me to fill the Tampax machine in the ladies loo. 

It is Frank Harwood's fortieth birthday. The man himself phoned at 11 to say they may come over. Ally went to work with Mavis and I played with Samuel upstairs. The Harwoods came minus Debbie at 1 o'clock. They left after 4. Mark is working at Lidget Green. We both worked tonight with Mavis. Ally was expecting a visit from Lynn but nothing came of it. 

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