Saturday October 6, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Long lost Uncle Harry is 62 today - somewhere in the wilds of Cumbria in the company of his disgustingly youthful yoga instructor. He is such fun.

We went to town after breakfast to collect Sammy's photographs from Boots. They are surprisingly excellent. He looks angelic. The portfolio of photos cost £25. Worth every penny. We long debated which images to share with our mamas.

On to Club St. Mrs Beale's house has been sold. I asked 'Nutty Norman' for the details. He said: "Oh, she's dead. They found her one morning. She made a will leaving me everything, and I've sold the lot." With that, wearing his dressing gown, he headed to the fish and chip shop. Poor Phyllis Beale. I remember going to tell her that Samuel had been born, and she was sat drying her hair with an old Morphy Richards hair dryer. Did old Norman inherit that too? We returned to Leeds at 2. A football crowd came in from Sheffield and for a moment I thought we might have some 'bovver'. Quiet evening. Dead really. I was shagged out. Ally helped out with Mavis and I sat yawning. Brian Pickup was in with Big Wilf  from the Eagle.We cleaned afterwards but finished by 1am.

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Friday October 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

I am going blue in the face watching the Labour party conference. What buffoons. Lord Wilson of Rievaulx, KG, FRS, PC, would turn in his grave - if he was dead. Jim Callaghan spoke. Like Lloyd George was the last ever Liberal prime minister - Callaghan is the last ever Labour PM. Mrs Thatcher will be prime minister into the 1990s and that toad Dr Owen will lead the opposition. You mark my words.

A Scottish evening tonight when Margaret and Maureen worked together. Ally stayed upstairs 'bottoming' the bathroom and I slurped below with Bernie & Co. I gave the girls and Frank & Bernie a drink after time, with Bernie footing the bill. Upstairs for midnight. Read Jack Higgins in bed.

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Thursday October 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sir Horace Seymour.

Sunshine, but chilly. I am writing this in what we grandly call 'the office' but in fact it's a dingy, mustard-painted corridor with a prison cell window at one end. Like the Chateau d'If in fact. However, the 'office' does have a desk and a safe, and two family trees on the wall - one royal and one humble. I think Samuel likes to look at the large, blue royal pedigree pinned there. I roll off the names of distant Spencer forebears, the likes of Sir Horace Beauchamp Seymour (1791-1851). It would please me if in years to come the boy could show interest in genealogy but I do suppose we have bred a budding communist agitator with leanings towards squash, windsurfing and micro-electronics. Ally played darts and pool. I worked with Margaret.

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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 say 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 Acor 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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