Sunday October 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

17th Sunday after Trinity

An early start because today we are visiting the dear Glynn's of Stockport. It took hours of preparation t get the Rhodes bandwagon on the road and we didn't depart until 11:45. It was a fine morning however and our journey was comfortable. Samuel was resless though and I had to clown around and entertain him in the car.

The Hollywood, Edgeley.

To Stockport for 1pm. It is as if time stands still. Dave G just the same. Samuel sat in the vast lounge bar for two hours whilst we drank. Joined by Billy, Garry and Steve later. Dave sees the lads twice a week or so, not every night as in days of yore. At 3 we all dined together and then went upstairs, a traditional routine. Lily went off to bed. We left at 6, and were in bed by 8:30.

Prince Henry, one month old today, is pictured in the Sunday papers. I found myself looking more at the lad's mother. The princess has changed. Gone is that girl-like hair-do and a more sophisticated woman looks out. The caption says 'Diana's Dynasty'. Quite apt. 

Arrivals: a son to Lord and Lady Brocket.

Departures: Alan Lake, the bereaved hubby of the late Diana Dors has blown his brains out with a shotgun. Lord St Just, who is heirless, is dead.

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Saturday October 13, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

It is revealed that Sir Anthony Berry MP, a brother of Viscount Kemsley, and first husband of the Hon Mary Roche (Diana's aunt) was killed yesterday along with some Tory delegates and Roberta Wakeham, wife of the Chief Whip. Mrs Tebbit might be paralysed from the neck down. HM The Q has telephoned the PM from Kentucky where she is holidaying with the Porchesters. The dear PM is 59 today.

We lingered around today because I wanted to interview toothless Dave about a fracas yesterday with Fat Andrea, and also see Vicky Pearson. However, they all stayed away and at 3:30 we went to Morrison's. I was like a zombie. Home for tea and crumpets and Heinz Sandwich Spread sandwiches, a weakness of mine, but they prove too tart for Samuel. The Bear was nine months old yesterday.

We watched 'The Tripods', a TV adaptation of John Christopher's series of novels, featuring a pretty actress Charlotte Long, who was a daughter of Viscount Long. I say 'was' because she died in a road accident at Newbury last week, aged 20. 

An awful night. I battled on behind the bar quite courageously. We did no cleaning - thank God - because Ann returns tomorrow with fresh eyes. (She's had an eye op). Ally gave some lads a game of darts, and I gave Vicky Pearson the 'Scarborough warning' (sic).

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Friday October 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

We got up at 6:30 in the dark with every intention of busying ourselves but over our pots of tea I switched on the TV to look at Selina Scott to see with complete astonishment and horror that some swine has blown up the Brighton hotel where most of HM Government are lodged for the Tory party conference. A sickening sight. We watched poor Norman Tebbit being dug out of the rubble in paroxysms of agony, and Mrs Tebbit and the government chief whip John Wakeham. Some are dead, but as yet they're unnamed. The PM is safe, thank God, and was working on today's speech at 2:50am at the time of the explosion and her bathroom was demolished. Had she been on the loo then it would have been almost certain death. It is the work of the IRA.  This afternoon I watched the prime minister's speech which was masterful and inspiring. For the survivor of a bomb, assassination attempt she was incredible.

I feel awful again. Cold, shaking and dull. Had a few slurps of whisky later. In the bar Vicky Pearson and Helen had a punch up, and then the Sovereign and lager pumps failed. Brian Pickup saved the day, locating the trip switch which had tripped off. A busy, toilsome evening. To bed shagged out.

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Thursday October 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

We held our 'hot shot' pool final tonight which was a success, if only for the sandwiches.  Karma (Singh) won, brilliantly. Earlier, Ally had been to town shopping.  I have been entertaining Samuel. One has to be a Charlie Cairoli. MM & Marita dropped in at 6 with a Beach Villas brochure. (Uncle) John is mentioned therein and they asked for advice on holidaying in Lanzarote. They would like to go there for Marita's 30th birthday, Jan 31, 1985. The brochure has a picture of our villa - Vistamar - with a path through the rocks to the sea. I cannot wait. Samuel wouldn't go to bed because he was enamoured of MM, eyeing him curiously.For some reason MM thinks that all children hate him. He has dark hair. That is sometimes a problem for babies.

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Wednesday October 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

I feel greatly recovered. Dear Margaret Nason is 60 today. We sent a card.

Out we went at 10am with Samuel bolt upright in his pram, just for a walk up Dewsbury Road. We saw a second hand baby-walker and bought it for £8. In it, Samuel set off like the clappers but in a backwards direction. Snapped some photos of our son and heir in the park. 

A quiet afternoon. Audrey is hungover after yesterday's funeral observance. At 3:30 we went to town and collected the Fraser Studio photos of Sam. Framed at £18 for three. Exquisite. We saw Diane on the Headrow. Looking at Samuel she exclaimed; "Oh, isn't he like a little boy!?" She invited us to her and Paul's wedding, Aug 31, 1985, and says she wants to honeymoon on a Greek island. Home for crumpets at 5:30. Poor Maureen was hobbling like a pensioner. Busy evening.

The Queen is holidaying with Lord Porchester and Michael Oswald in the US of A, in Kentucky and Wyoming, looking for baby race horses. Private excursions of our sovereign to foreign parts are extremely rare. She has previously visited France, incognito. 

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Tuesday October 9, 1984

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Full Moon

A happy birthday to the Duke of Kent and Lord Hailsham. The latter is 77 and the oldest member of HMG. The Tories are rallying at Blackpool for the party conference this week, and perhaps I won't be spattering blood and cornflakes over my breakfast TV as I have done recently looking in on excerpts from the other party gatherings. Will Norman Beresford Tebbit be PM after Mrs T is elevated to be Countess of Grantham?

Pam's dad's funeral party boosted our takings today. The place was seething with ladies of a voluptuous appearance. My throat continues bad. At 3:30 we went to bed until Sammy's tea time. I struggled out of my damp pit at 5:30, sweating, but greatly improved. Sammy didn't sleep until 7:15 when Ally came to join me. John came in with his work associate, Joe. Whisky and beer. I sat with them for a while and they left at 10. We had no staff this evening, of course. A lad called Andy (Bowden) asked for a job. He looked promising. In bed I finished 'Solo' by Higgins.

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Monday October 8, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Columbus Day, USA / Thanksgiving Day Canada

Stand well back, I have a cold. Not a cold exactly, but my throat is dry, burning in fact, and I feel a sweat on my back. Sadly, I cannot give in to it and have to make sure that HMS Moorhouse sails on into the night. 

Wet, yet muggy. I am letting my condition depress me. Andy (aka Kenneth Anderson) of Tom, Tom and Andy fame gave in to his tortuous cancer at 4:30pm casting a morbid cloud over our proceedings for the duration of the evening. We took on the aura of a chapel of rest. Andy was 54. Pool night. Sandwiches, &c. To bed shattered and sweating at 11. Ally had a plate of sandwiches, but I couldn't.

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Sunday October 7, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

16th Sunday after Trinity

A pleasant sort of day really. We lounged about a good deal. Breakfast was followed by a brisk walk with Samuel. Footballers were playing in the park but we didn't tarry. We harnessed Samuel into a swing and he kicked with glee as we pushed him to and fro. Later we ploughed into a roast leg of lamb, Yorkshire puddings and eighteen assorted veg, &c. Samuel ate two puddings. TV was horrendous. I wallowed in old yellow cooking fat cleaning the fryers. Later saw Donald Pleasance in 'Barchester' and sweaty 'Tenko' which goes on and on. To bed at 10:30 - not exactly in bed, we lolled on the top - I read Jack Higgins. Solo is gripping. The girls in the bar left at 11 and I went down to make sure that people were not still there making merry.

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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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