Sunday December 9, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

2nd Sunday in Advent

We festooned the pub in Yuletide finery with the Harwoods and Auntie Mabel this afternoon. They arrived at about 1pm. Mabel brought Samuel a present for Christmas, whispering that he is the only member of the extended family to be so honoured. Flagrant favouritism is a dominant factor in auntie's character. Mum phoned at 4 to say she has to go to Airedale Hospital tomorrow to see a consultant regarding her gall-bladder bother. This came as something of a shock to Mabel, who had no idea she was even ill. Mum doesn't want a fuss making and is obsessive about hiding her 'yellowness'. Upstairs tied out at 6. Sam was black bright. See the TV. 'Tenko' &c.

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Saturday December 8, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Full Moon

Ally cleaned furiously because Lynn has promised to come here today and she cannot be expected to be subjected to the sight of our porridge-spattered lounge. Samuel is very much into modern art. His favourite medium is breakfast cereal which he arranges beautifully on carpets and soft furnishings. I began the day with a bad head, but don't know why. Decorators came to size up the place. Honeysuckle ceilings and rose-red walls, &c. Anything will be better than the present miserable grime. Ally took Samuel to the shops and he came back with hair all wild like Ken Dodd. Lynn and Dave arrived at 3:10 as the pub closed. The bustled in after spending the afternoon in a furniture warehouse. Lynn hasn't been here since July 22. David played with our malfunctioning Christmas lights and he took me to Morrison's to buy cables to extend our illuminations. _____________. They stayed to tea and left at 6, vaguely saying they will come for a night in January. Lynn told Ally that she doesn't ask Mum anything about her illness because it is too upsetting. Lynn buries her head in the sand. Dead evening. Bernie (McCarron) was pissed.

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Friday December 7, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

More bad news today. Michael Pirie's mother, Edith, dropped dead last night after returning from Aberdeen. Once again the pub is plunged into morbid reflection. This does nothing for our pie and pea sales. The Piries are returning to lodge with Audrey. Needless to say, the Egans were in sipping brandy and discussing the futility of life, &c. Ally took a call from a wailing female in Chapel Allerton Hospital announcing that 'Old Gentleman David', a regular and a pain, is also on his last legs. It is too much. I will have to quickly erect the Christmas tree to cheer everyone up.

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Thursday December 6, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sunshine. We have a new nephew, folks. Graham phoned at lunchtime to say Gill had a baby boy weighing 5lb 13oz at 5:21am today. He is to be Simon Something Something Dixon. We went to celebrate in our lifeless lounge and sat with Sammy having a drink for an hour. Archie came in and introduced our sons to the evils of gaming machines. To Club Street at 3 to collect last year's Christmas tree from the garden. We told Samuel that it's a flower and he sat pointing at it making an 'f' sound. Phoned Mum from Bradford . The doctor says her gall bladder is no longer functioning and it will have to be removed. She is such a coward and is quaking at the thought of hospital. She is to see a surgeon at Keighley on Monday. Sue says they've received a (Christmas) card from John & Sheila with a note saying they'll be in the UK from Jan 3 to Jan 24. This means they'll miss seeing us for our first week on the island, and with some feelings of trepidation I took up the phone and spoke to Sheila. She says it's a hot, balmy day in Lanzarote. She said we'll be well looked after and they see us on the 24th. John was his usual buoyant self. Later, John and Janette called in. She looked tired and ill and they left to go shopping at 9:30pm. They saw Sam Snr.

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Wednesday December 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Cold. Jim Littlewood came in at 11 and said that Carol and Taffy's daughter, Samantha, died at 6:30am.The infant's first birthday was on November 29 and she has gone through a year of pain and seemed to be getting so much better recently. The pub took on the atmosphere of the Roya Mausoleum, Frogmore. The whole of Carol's family were in and heavily drinking. Young Frank Millar was violently sick and sat sobbing, and later Madge stood banging her head against the flashing fruit machine questioning the sanity of God for allowing little Samantha to be taken. 

Audrey tonight. Dave G phoned at 11:20pm when we were cleaning the lines. He's excited about Lanzarote. Six weeks tomorrow. The Hollywood now bangs away to discos and heavy metal gigs. Old Jim (Glynn) would be proud.

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Tuesday December 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally took Samuel to the Probation Office and asked them to bring a tin of ham or something  for our Yuletide hamper. Old John saw her coming out of the office and now the rumour is that she's an ex-con and reporting to the beak on a regular basis. 

The dray didn't come until 3:30. Bloody Hell. A soft toy salesman came in with a giant panda and we were persuaded to fork out £7.50 for 'Chi Chi'. It will be raffled for the South Leeds Comforts Trust. 

Ally has bought Samuel some swimming trunks for Lanzarote. Very cute. 

No news from Gloucester, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, Windsor or Barnsley.

Andy in. Dead. The lad says he wants double time for Christmas and New Year. Bloody typical. Of course, he won't get it.

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Monday December 3, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally is storming around like Arthur Scargill making life here in 20th century Hunslet quite hellish. She needs vitamin B6 if you ask me. That's all it is. Pre-menstrual tension. She is like an Ethiopian lioness taking chunks out of me. She went off with Samuel to market and I splashed in the bath. Bessie phoned to say Gill went into Gloucester hospital yesterday. Her waters have burst and so it's only a matter of time until we have little Siobhan on the scene. Ally phoned them later, but they had no further news.

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Sunday December 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Advent Sunday

Samuel woke me at 6:30. I gave him breakfast and read him chunks of news from the Sunday Telegraph as he ate his Weetabix, boiled egg and Gurkhas. Did the till, with Samuel of course. Ally emerged at 10:30 we went to Linfood and to Club Street and got back here at 12:30. Spent the rest of the day cooking chickens, lasagne and curry for next weeks sumptuous menu. I stood over a hot stove until almost 10pm. The pub was pounding down below because it is Brian Millar's 19th birthday extravaganza. Watched a film on Channel 4 'Jassy', with Margaret Lockwood doing her old 'wicked lady' routine. To bed after 12. I am reading 'Mr American' by Macdonald Fraser, author of 'The Flashman Papers' &c.

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Saturday December 1, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Mum's advent calendar: we put it up every year

Mum has bought nine advent calendars for the grandchildren. She is sweet. Samuel is too young to understand Santa Claus. He is also too young to understand Arthur Scargill, such a blessing. Poor Mum looks jolly yellow today. The backs of her hands especially. We went in convoy fashion to Guiseley to Sue's. She was ratty and out of sorts and not desirous of visitors. Christopher behaved like an unchained beast and upset everyone. I sat sniffling  and gasping with a Daily Mail over my head. Little Benjamin very much like Samuel, only fatter. Peter was upstairs killing woodworm  and didn't come down to reveal himself. We left to avoid being ejected by a vicious Susie. She loathes children now, apparently. On to Lynn's. They were out and so we peered in at their new dining room through the back window. Mum and Dad said goodbye and went back to Horton and we ate fish and chips in Harry Ramsden's car park. It was Samuel's first visit to that ancient shrine. Back to the pub in the dark for 5pm. Samuel had 'high tea'  and then retired leaving us to out tiny, yet significant ale house. I sniffled all night and propped up the bar in the deserted tap room. Brian P___ gave me snuff which immediately cured my runny nose. Afterwards I felt like a new man. Incidentally, the new and vomit-prone manageress of The Eagle tavern, sorry no, I mean the General Elliot, says we have to keep an eye on Brian, who is  homosexual
and can turn very nasty. He is invariably in the company of intoxicated and recently pubic males.

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Friday November 30, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Pie and Pea Night.

Mum and Dad haven't gone back to Horton and remain here with us. I do enjoy having them here. Samuel loves to see them and they can amuse him while we are at work. Tonight we had a 'Pie and Pea' evening in aid of the South Leeds (illegible) Trust and we raffled a teddy bear which raised £17 for them. Our clientele are not 'pie and pea' people as we soon discovered, but about 20 of them indulged. Ally looked stunning in her Laura Ashley black frock and accessories. Mum, God Bless her, was chief cook and she stood over a bubbling cauldron of foaming green peas. The awful Michael Pirie made a subdued visit at 6:30 to say goodbye to Audrey. He leaves for Aberdeen and obscurity tomorrow. He came and spoke to me and I must say he was quite pleasant and I put this don to the absence of the ghastly Bev, still incarcerated at Ossett. I am thankful that they are gone. Ossett was far too convenient for them to be constantly nipping back at every opportunity. Bed after watching the snooker on TV. Mum is a big fan of it.

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Thursday November 29, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Not too bad a hangover considering. Lots of staff were in and so I did no work, other than the lunches. Mum and Dad were enjoying it, and decided to stay on again tonight but Mummy has a shortage of clothes and so tonight she wore one of Ally's maternity dresses. Mum has such good hair for her age. No grey. We sat downstairs and joined by cousin Samuel. The boy is something of a religious maniac and sat quoting chunks from the Old Testament to a fidgety Papa. They spoke long about the old days and I think Mum has a particular affection for him. Samuel asked for a pen and in the hustle and bustle of our dark, little lounge he penned a poem which I had to read out straight faced. I have an aversion to poetry. I have never been able to stomach the stuff. Yes, Rupert Brooke's 'The Soldier' is pleasant to the ear, but nothing much inspires me. Sam's poem is 'Journey of a Tear' and I'll slip it between the pages here for your quizzical 21st century gaze. He left at 10:30 and we sat with Mum and Dad until after 12. Lynn and David the topic of conversation again. Mum says they will 'come a cropper' one of these days and I tend to agree.

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