Wednesday July 31, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn/ Full Moon

Waltergarth.

The last day of this foul, wet July. Surely the nastiest summer in this millennium? Sunny start, but wet later. We went at 9 o'clock to Horton. I drove. I collected my photos from DH first. I stuck a snotty note to his vehicle. Poor Waltergarth. It is hard to describe the complete and utter feeling of loss. I can say nothing to Dad. Sue made a large stew to ward off the cold and we washed it down with cans of strong pale ale. The Nason boys are such a handful. I took my usual afternoon nap and then we walked to find the Troll under the rickety rackety bridge. Jim and Margaret N came. Jim spent the afternoon fixing Dad's lawn mower. I set to and set about the jungle with an appliance belonging to a neighbour. Hard work. I haven't cut grass since Pine Tops. This evening we went to the boring Crown and I drank everything except the awful bitter. Three tattooed skinheads sat farting. Dad baby sat for an hour and then Jim and M took over and allowed him to join us. Sue sat nursing the flea-infested pub moggy. We left at 11. Sammy wide eyed in the back wrapped in a car rug.

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Tuesday July 30, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Ally took Samuel to Lynn's but they were not in. I stuck some of Dad's photos into an album but couldn't do much. The nostalgia choked me. 

It was our evening off, supposedly. I went to the Junction pub at 8 to buy some £1 coins, and to have a pint. Back home I had a few Diet Pils and hung around waiting for David H to return my photos. That little squirt Norman in the tap room tried my patience just a little too much and I dowsed him in a pint of his own lager. An eerie silence fell over the room. People dripping in tense suspension. Naughty of me, I know. I just flipped. Ally infuriated at my behaviour. 'Conduct unbecoming a public house manager' &c. Dave H didn't appear and so I went upstairs. Henry VIII in bed.

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Monday July 29, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Me: July 28.

We collected our fancy dress snaps from the photo processing place. They proved a lively talking point tonight. David Howard asked to borrow them and took them away at 11. Why? he isn't on any of the photos. I smell a rat. He'll be blowing them up and posting them to the Sunday People.

Four years ago today the P. of Wales married Lady Di amidst a burst of national hysteria & pride at St Paul's. What a transformation she (the princess) has undergone. Poor Mum gave a lovely party at Pine Tops. Looking back on those days now is painful. ___________.

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Sunday July 28, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

8th Sunday after Trinity

Gary and I came upstairs for breakfast of bacon and eggs and a Rolling Stones session at 6am only to find Samuel awake and Ally wilting. I gave Sam his breakfast and soon Gary was passed out on the settee. I played with Sam for a few hours and then fell asleep in a chair leaving him rummaging through our vast record collection. Lynn and Dave emerged from their bedroom at 8:30 only to say goodbye and seemed scandalised at my inactivity, and Sam's apparent freedom to roam. Gary staggered out at 12 as Margaret and Marjorie came in. Ally stayed in bed for the remainder of the day with the exception for an hour or so when she emerged for fish and chips. Gary and I worked tonight. We were both washed out and awful. The pub buzzed with chatter about last night. So worthwhile. Audrey, Edna & Co collected £27.80 in the club and the Junction, &c. To bed with Henry VIII by Jasper Ridley. Exhausted.

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Saturday July 27, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

with the Nun & Raquel Welch.

Our fancy dress party. It was atrociously successful. Everyone came and it proved to be an enormous drunken bash. Lynn, Dave, Sue, Pete, John & Janette, Jacqui Sate (and her fiancé, Ian), Karen, Steve, Jill, Tim, &c. &c. It kicked off at 8pm and by 9 all were pissed. Whisky was 31p a tot. Phyllis, a French tart, soon had me on the floor. Maureen came dressed as a naughty nun, her arse hanging out at the back. Jacq and Ian dressed as Edwardian boating types. Geoff, a tramp. Audrey came as a female vagrant, and Edna claimed to be Raquel Welch in the film One Million Years BC. Pam, a schoolgirl hockey player. Tina, a buccaneer with an attached parrot. Lynn a 20s flapper. Sue a bridesmaid. One could go on. The place was buzzing with fun until 12 and then a few invited drunks joined us in the tap room. We danced on the tables. Ally looking delectable in a silver 1950s gown. I was wearing a Ronald Reagan 1940s dinner suit. You must look at the photos to feel the intoxicating atmosphere. Gary stayed the night here. Recall very little of the late session. I do enjoy the company of Jacq.

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Friday July 26, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Tim came from the Station (pub) and we sat complaining about Sam Smiths. He has visited the Red Lion at Girlington and has taken a fancy to the place. His recent bonus was nil. He shares my views about the bearded stocktaker. His stocks are down £200 one week, and up £200 the next. This is lunacy in a pub with such small stocks. 

Sue phoned. It's their fifth wedding anniversary today. They are coming tomorrow to our fancy dress extravaganza, but they aren't staying the night because Lynn & Dave & Co have decided to do so. 

Janette has been reprieved for the weekend and allowed home under the condition that she returns to the Clarendon Wing on Monday at 7am. She says she and John will come here tomorrow. 

Joyous peerage news: Patrick Hope-Johnstone has become Earl and Annandale and Hartfell after petitioning the House of Lords. There's hope for me yet. Earl of Pudsey & Stanningley.

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Thursday July 25, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

We had a stocktake from the incompetent, bearded chappie. £16 surplus, but the missing Diet Pils doesn't show up. Donna (Lea) came too and they stood whispering. They had lunch here. We are told we are going to have a written warning for the Pils losses. Donna, all smiles, says it's just routine. Doesn't it make you sick? We are convinced that our recent deficit is due to a stocktaking cock-up and that the bearded chap is covering it up. Donna was here until 5:30. We nipped out at 3:30 to Homburg's to choose some gear for Saturday. Dad was here until lunchtime. Uncle Peter called in and went upstairs to see him.

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Wednesday July 24, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Oxton Hall: tatty.

Full-English breakfast. Sue phoned to say that Pamela (nee Nason), gave birth to a son, James, at midnight, a natural birth. Her last confinement was a Caesarean. They come in threes. Janette and Jill will be next. Dad is so withdrawn. He has had all the stuffing knocked out of his sails. (Sails have stuffing? --Ed). At 11:15 Ally and I went to Tadcaster to Humphrey and Julia Smith's wedding party, leaving Sam with Dad. We found Oxton Hall with ease. Spoke to Jim Ellis. The Ferris couple joined us on the lawn at the vast, yet tatty Georgian erection. A very grand garden though. I do not like Mrs Ferris. She's very affected. The couple from the Old Red Lion made a bee-line for us. He was wearing a very large velvet bow tie. Saw Roy and Marie. Big kisses. In to a very large tent for lunch. Smoked salmon, strawberries, &c. We sat between the Ellises and Sue and Thingy from the General Elliot. She is very pleasant in the early stages of a second pregnancy. Ally and must stop this idling and get one with it. Copulation does require time though, and we are always so very busy. Humphrey and Julia were at the top table of course. Julia very tall and dark and dressed in Laura Ashley. Like my ex sister-in-law, Maria. Humphrey's mother, old Mrs Geoffrey Smith,  was in lime green stockings and a green striped dress. It was a very sticky, hot afternoon. Lunch over we retreated to the bar. All freebies. Disgusting gluttony. We sat with Roy and Marie and a couple of peroxide tenants. Pissed up, we went in a small party to the Bay Horse in Tadcaster. Many gin and tonics. Card tricks. White rabbits, &c. I do love Marie Barnes. She says Mags is pregnant and planning a marital alliance. Came home via the Clarendon Wing to see Janette. I was over emotional in the car and blame the gin. George and Jayne Waite came. John too. All back to the Moorhouse where we sat in the lounge. We debated Arthur Scargill, Wales, and the Liberal party. Dad and I enjoy political discussion, but the youth of today tend to treat politics with contempt. Bed late. Oh, my head.

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Tuesday July 23, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Sunny. Quiet afternoon. Who should call in but Martyn Cole. He is a car salesman or computer programmer. He was very nice, and Ally came down to see him. He has three children to Fay - Anna, Jonathan and Judith, all similar in ages to Lynn's. A congenial few hours. He is the Martyn of old. Ally went to Laura Ashley at 3 to buy a dress for tomorrow, and came back with a pair of odd shoes which didn't match. One white and one cream. I took Sam to the park for an hour. Dad came to see us at 4 looking lost. We had a few drinks in the bar this evening but it was suffocating. Mother's presence is so missed. Dad didn't overdo the drinking. Lynn must have been giving him the hard word.

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Monday July 22, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

_____. The Sovereign keg bitter ran dry and so Ally and I took Sam to the Old Red Lion on Meadow Lane (backs to the wall) to borrow an 18 gallon keg from Michael Rainforth (?), the Max Wall-look-alike landlord. A Larry Grayson clone was in the bar breathing all over the glassware. We escaped as soon as was decently possible. I am cruel. The landlord was helpful but I couldn't help squirming.

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Sunday July 21, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

7th Sunday after Trinity

Sue is 26. We went to Guiseley for a barbecue luncheon. Blustery. Went with John to Menston to collect some home brewed barley wine which proved fatal. Dad seems to have aged and seemed quite lost. Sue was very reflective and talked of her last birthday with Mum. The children all played so well together. Back to the Moorhouse for 5pm. Sam was put to bed. Hilda came at 7, late. We sped to the Fox & Hounds and found Dad, Sue, Pete, Lynn and Dave ordering. A good dinner spoiled by Lynn who who told us she fell out with Dad this afternoon when he arrived at their placed from Susan's pissed and "blubbering." He has every right to 'blubber', surely? The hideous manageress at the Fox refused to take a cheque for £80. To the White Cross all over-intoxicated. Back at 12. Hilda and Tony speak such sense. Dad will manage, but it is early days.

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