Thursday October 17, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

No staff. Just Ally and me.

James Callaghan.

Old James Callaghan is to retire as an MP at the next general election. He will be 85. I do hope that he will be recommended for an earldom and that HM (the Queen)  will confer the Garter upon him. Earl Callaghan of Cardiff, KG. What an old buffer he is. He isn't a patch on the current PM and his voice carries as much clobber as a three week old lettuce, but all the same he is a former 1st Lord of the Treasury and deserves something better than a life peerage. Looking back to those days of his premiership 1976-79 one remembers little. Indeed, many of the people today under the age of 30 will have difficulty remembering the man at all. Those earnest Labour grandees of the 60s tend to merge into one blob - the Roy Jenkins-John Stonehouse-George Brown clones. Poor E.R.G. Heath (who?) is now the only former PM not to have been bestowed with a title. Will he be Earl of Bexley one day? Oh, shut up you old fool.

Note: Callaghan ended his days as Baron Callaghan of Cardiff, KG. A life peer.

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Wednesday October 16, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Overcast and quiet. Samuel slept with us all night because Graham banging around disturbed him and he wouldn't go back. Graham left early because he is having a working breakfast at the Windmill Hotel. He is about to seal a contract with Marks & Spencer, which will be sensational. We went over to dear Club Street at 2:30 via Duckworth Lane. We deposited a pile of old clothes onto the counter at the Oxfam shop. Visited several building societies before going on to the cottage. The garden was muddy but we let Samuel dig around. Ally went for a trim (hair). I had my haircut in Hunslet yesterday. I'm like Al Pacino again. Our dusky "barperson'" Miss Janet Samuels has resigned and defected to the Broadway (pub), that large barn of a place up Dewsbury Road. We are so gleeful. _______. A usual evening of repose and solitude. Samuel slept in our bed and we watched TV and ate bars of chocolate. Watched a good documentary on Queen's College, Cambridge. We returned here to Ye Olde Moorhouse Inn at 11:30pm. Ton bed with books. Just who is this John Updike? His book (The Witches of Eastwick) is a deep, heavy experience, and he is either stoned out of his mind or a genius. He's a Melvyn Bragg sort if you ask me.

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Tuesday October 15, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Rose at 7am. Pitchy black outside. Pottered in the cellar and returned for eggs at 8:15 after sitting on the loo with the Daily Telegraph. The gnome-like David Stevens, of United Newspapers, has bought the Daily Star. In other news, the Queen is to visit China next year. Lord Diplock has pegged out and died. He was a silly old judge. Over breakfast the phone rang. It was the brewery saying our delivery will be late - tomorrow even. Fuck it. We are almost dry now. Soldier on regardless. By 11:30 the mild was gone and we only have 28 gallons of Old Brewery Bitter. ________. Graham appeared at 10 and he stayed the night. We had fish and chips. _______.

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Monday October 14, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Columbus Day, USA - Thanksgiving Day Canada

Old Red Lion.

A very silly day. I climbed out of bed very early leaving my loved ones slumbering and I sat pondering the desperate situation I am in re the shortage of casks of mild and Sovereign (beer). I phoned around Leeds in search of supplies and wasn't very successful. Only the Old Red Lion can oblige with Sovereign. "I can let you have an eighteen, Luvvie". Oh dear. Subsequently, two poofs, heavily bejewelled, appeared in a van at 3:30. The decorator outside, brush in hand almost fainted when one of the gays exclaimed: "I bet this is the first time a couple of poofs have delivered your beer." Quite a giggle. I gave them a drink for their trouble and off they went. I am told that Monday is 'Denim and Leather' night at the Old Red Lion. What can that mean? We went to Leeds market with Sam looking cheeky with a recently cut fringe. The poor boy was done in because he had refused to take a lunchtime nap. M.C. Cole came in with a colleague and I took Samuel down to get him from under Ally's feet. Dad phoned at 7 o'clock. He is going to Harrogate tomorrow to lunch with the Grunwells and he will visit John at his site (the Royal Baths renovation) and is staying the night with him at Menston. He may come here Thurs/Fri. Quiet night. Just Ally and I. Pleasant though. Janet phoned to say she is leaving us. I was forewarned yesterday when Vince told me she plans to transfer to the Broadway. Good riddance.

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Sunday October 13, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

19th Sunday after Trinity

Charlotte Nora.

The much maligned lady the prime minister is 60 years old today celebrating quietly at Chequers. Sam and I sang 'happy birthday' over our boiled eggs. I do hope she follows the example set by the US president and goes on to lead the nation to well into her eighth decade. That would be so comforting. I cannot see her going up to the Lords just yet. There are still lots of 'wets' to be flushed out. Peter Walker really is an old woman. I do not have time to read the Sunday Telegraph, that's 35p down the drain. A pleasant afternoon in the pub. We debated Mrs Thatcher's appearance - her being sixty and all that. Several customers suggested birthday presents. None of them suitable for a mention here. Upstairs. Burgers and chips. (Ooh, the saturated fat). Eastenders omnibus. Janette phoned and invited herself here. They appeared at 4 with JPH, Catherine and little Charlotte Nora. Baby is very like Janette. We all went over to the park and played on the slide and swings. ____________. JPH is a lovely child. He came over and plonked himself on my knee for a cuddle. He is so endearing. Catherine has been given a very short hair cut. Good, well behaved children though.

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Saturday October 12, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sunshine and warmth. I feel groggy. Tired and headache. Ally went off with Samuel and walked into town with the pushchair. Leeds was heaving with shoppers and a plethora of buskers. A bloody noisy nuisance they are. I stayed here and sat upstairs looking at the ceiling. __________. Ally came back and I was wallowing in a state of misery. Not good really. She wrongly assumes that at times like this I am unhappy with her. Of course I am not. We played at making the lounge look like Ypres, the battle. That is Samuel and I. He is into demolition in a big way. So good. He is out of nappies for most of the time and is dry, but occasionally, at times of great excitement, puddles appear. A quiet pub. Just Gary and I tonight. 

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Friday October 11, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sunny. Busy afternoon here. Did lots of lunches and took almost £22. I rushed about with sweated brow as in days of yore. Samuel and I went up the road and bought frozen sausages and bin liners and came back to find a plumber farting around with our skivvy glass wash. Hopeless. The British workman is quite washed up. To the bank. Later, watched the prime minister's speech to the Tory conference. It was rapturously received but all the commentators say it was insipid, tepid, lukewarm, &c. What do they expect a PM to say six and a half years into office and with no credible opposition? More sun. Sam and I went out at 4 to buy cream buns and play on the swings. What a case he is. _______. Stone dead below (in the pub). Ally came down at 8 but was gone by 9:30 and was totally 'done in'. Phoned Dad. He has five guests in tonight. This is excellent. He has also taken bookings for November and December.  Up at 11:45. Did the tills, ate a sandwich and watched a film. To bed at 1:15am.

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Thursday October 10, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Our day off, but it's stupid to call it so because we were here until 2:30 doing the few meagre lunches. Later to Bradford and Club Street which always has such a relaxing effect on us. Ally and Sam went to dig in the garden and I racked some demijohns of wine, untouched since June, 1983, before we departed for Middlesbrough. Ally phoned Bessie who is still battling with a cold. They are coming up to Windermere at the end of the month, but not coming here. This must upset Ally, but she always takes it quite well. Phoned Dad, but the line was engaged. Watched bits of the Tory conference. News: Yul Welles and Orson Brynner have both keeled over and died in the US of A. Not a murmur of Aids in either case. An Italian cruiser has been hijacked off Egypt with Brit and US passengers. This has caused the usual rumpus. Poor old Ronald Reagan staggers about contradicting himself and he has inadvertently recognised the PLO on NBC news which he later corrected. Oh dear. Sam was bathed and put to bed until 11 o'clock. We drank shandy and had fish and chips and chocolate. Such stodginess. We just lazed upon the settee until darkness fell. Ally looked washed out. She doesn't like too much attention. _________.

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Wednesday October 9, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Slept until 8:30 when the Schweppes delivery man woke us. Much chaos. To market after a frugal breakfast. Ally explained we have no money and that our pantry is positively Ethiopian. Ally is currently grumpy, morose and cruel, &c. Pub life is getting her down. We have had a two year slog now, with the addition of Samuel, and it must be too much. God only knows what we will do back in the outside world. I am unemployable. I might become a hermit. 

The Tory conference is so civilised after the last month of infighting and back-stabbing with the SDP turncoats and Labour. Surely, the PM will win again in Oct '87? It is always so interesting to speculate as to who will succeed and who will fail. Douglas Hurd has moved rapidly up the tree. He's a bit Heath-like though. Peter Walker is so wet he leaves a slimy patch wherever he's been. No, the future lies with Norman Tebbit or Nigel Lawson.

No staff tonight. A good night. Ally relaxed.

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Tuesday October 8, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Cold. One of the tabloids says Prince Andrew has a new love in the shape of theatrical assistant Mandy Gough, 24.

Tebbit: skeletal.

Rose at 7. The decorators who arrived yesterday are battling on outside. It has been in an unfinished state since they first came in June. The British workman is no more. Lunch. Watched Norman Tebbit's speech at the Tory conference. V. good. Standing ovation, &c. The PM seemed to grimace somewhat at his endless attacks on the opposition. Margaret never seems to resort to personal attacks as other leaders seem to do. Norman seems very skeletal and has lost some vigour. Viscount Whitelaw is like an eighteenth century squire. Like Lord North. Rob Piper came here. Pale. Full of cold. Moaning about the Butcher's (pub). He fancies a move. Things there are stale. He has been at Pudsey for two years yesterday. Ally weak at the knees and near to collapse. We played with Samuel this afternoon. I went down (to work) at 5:30 and came back at 11 to find my wife abed and out cold. Did the tills and watched the Tory conference on 'News Night'. The PLO have hijacked an Italian cruiser and are sailing for Port Said. It's too complicated to even think about.

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Monday October 7, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ducal jailbird.

Horribly quiet. A furore about Sara Keays sniping. More importantly a PC was stabbed to death in Tottenham last night during one of those ludicrous riots. The locals are inflamed by Trots and Marxists, &c. Shoot the swines, say I. Sir K. Newman was on the news, looking pale, saying he may have to use plastic bullets. My God. Any European police force would have used CS gas and water cannon long ago. What a mess we are in. Enoch Powell wasn't entirely misplaced in his outburst in 1968. The Duke of Manchester is probably going to become the first ducal jailbird since the days of the Wars of the Roses when his court case comes to an end. 'Ermine at the Scrubs' ~ a good title for his future memoirs. We went with Dad to Lynn's at 4. No mention of Davis's 'snip'. I think she thinks I have strong views on the subject. Absolutely not. David Baker's testicles are his own affair. We left at 4:45. Dad to Sue's for the night. Ally worked the bar 5:30 to 8pm. I bathed Sam and did the Barbara Barnes routine.

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