Saturday January 26, 1980

_. A fine, sunny day. Out of bed at 10:30. Got a bus to Manningham Lane where Ally was supposed to meet me at 12:15. She arrived at one and I playfully attempted to strangle her in the car.

On to Club Street for a short while and then at Ally's suggestion we drove to Haworth. It was a pleasant drive and by 2pm we were in a little pub [Black Bull?]. The town was swarming with tourists, and all seemed to be very disturbed by our quaint licensing laws. We concluded our lunchtime drink in the King's Arms and then came back to Bradford, bought a bottle of plonk, and dined at Club Street on chicken casserole.

I think it was the wine that finished Ally off, but she slipped into a coma. From the sitting room I carried her upstairs where she slept until 10pm.

-=-

Friday January 25, 1980

_. Feel well considering. Last night I consumed vast quantities of brandy and did a lot of listening. Took coffee with Ally and Sue and went into Leeds with Jim and Jennie.

Dull at the YP.  at 1pm I met Jacq at the Ostlers for a few lagers to break the monotony. Jacq's 'silver jubilee' birthday party falls on February 2, so that is somewhere to take Glynnie by way of a change. She and Paul are still going strong. It was a leisurely lunch and I did not make it back to my desk until 2:30. I arrived back at the office just before Kathleen. To have bumped into her on the stairs would have resulted in instant death.

Marshal Tito is recovering. Isn't it amazing? He's 87, with one leg, yet fighting on. Meanwhile in other news, our own Maurice Macmillan, MP for Farnham, and son of the former prime minister, is critically ill after collapsing with bronchitis. Farnham is a safe Tory seat and so the PM won't lose any sleep.

Ally at the Belfry. I stayed in and festered until after midnight. Saw a weird film 'Dr Jekyll and SISTER Hyde', wherein the dabbling quack turns into a female.

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Thursday January 24, 1980

_. Tiresome day. I want to do something else but know not what. How many times have I expressed disaffection with my employment, and yet after six years I am no nearer moving on. The beginning of a new decade should also see the start of my quest of the world and all it holds.

Took a half day. Left at 12 in pouring rain. Got home for 1:30 to find the house deserted. Had a phone call from Lynn saying she and Mama are taking the waters in the White Cross. Dad arrived home for lunch just as I was about to join them, and I left him, clad in police regalia, inspecting the contents of the refrigerator and whistling a nostalgic tune from yesteryear. I hot footed it down Thorpe Lane and joined Lynn and Mum in the pub for an hour. On to Burley to take Lynn home.

Out at 8pm to Rawdon to see Dave and Elaine Allinson. ______.

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Wednesday January 23, 1980

_. Phoned Ally at 7:50 to get her out of bed.

At lunchtime I phoned Lynn to say yes to Thursday at the Allinson residence. She told me she had bumped into Carole Phillips and Mick Lynch at lunchtime. She was given the full and sordid details of Peter Phillips's broken engagement.

Glynnie phoned at 7:30 to escape 'Coronation Street'. He told me that Billy was impressed with his letter, but that Billy had refused to let Dave or Garry see the contents. I gave Dave the okay for the February 1 weekend. Ally is to have a party.

I am taking a half day tomorrow to begin my long awaited purchase of vital family certificates. It's fortunate that Pudsey births, marriages and deaths are stored at Guiseley Register Office.

All I do is watch the goggle box night after night. I was entertained by the Michael Parkinson Show at eleven. Robert Runcie, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, appeared on the chat show and he made a tremendous impression on me. He was light, amusing, charismatic, quite the opposite of the cardboard cut-out Donald Cobweb. In fact, Coggan's reign was a total flop. In such a position he could have done so much more. Runcie will definitely inject new drive and personality.

To bed 11:55.

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Tuesday January 22, 1980

_. Dave L phoned to say he's been stricken with chicken pox and is lying low at Tennyson Street. I wanted to go go collect my blue pullover, but he says I would be running a great risk. Anyway, the street has been cordoned off, and a large red cross painted on the front door.

Lynn phoned asking whether Ally and I would like to go with them to Dave and Elaine Allinson's at Rawdon, possibly on Thursday. Should be interesting.

President Carter beat Senator Kennedy in the Iowa caucuses last night. Definitely the death knell for old Ted, who never really stood a chance anyway with his sexual activities and drownings. George Bush won for the Republican party, walking over Ronald Reagan, the actor, who rose to fame in 1918, as 'The Lone Ranger'.

Sue and Pete went off at 6:30pm on an important mission to see Mr Booker, who has found them a mortgage. They returned beaming and Sue immediately phoned Angela [the current occupier of the home of their dreams] at Greenlea Mount, or Greenlea Place.

Uncle John phoned to say that Sheila's father died on Monday and so the Halifax dinner was scrapped. Poor Sheila. He died before she could get to his hospital bedside.

Watched an excellent Clint Eastwood film 'Play Misty for Me', a proper thriller. Bed at 12:30.

Monday January 21, 1980

_. Snow. Susan woke me at 7:30 with the chilling news that she had opened the door to take in the milk but couldn't close it because of the snowdrift. I leapt from the sanctuary of my sheets to offer snow-shifting services. Out on the lane at 8 with Jim R, minus Jennie, for the snail-like pace on the road to Leeds. By 10am we were still in Rawdon, and I didn't get the office until lunchtime.

Jim, who is chief executive of Leeds City Council of course, told me that Leeds has a secret nuclear fall-out shelter beneath Lawnswood Crematorium, and that he is the key holder. Who lives and who dies in the metropolis is down to Jim Rawnsley. Muriel has a duplicate key and he assured me that I will be invited to join his family deep beneath the scorched, desolate earth that was Leeds. I am resassured by this and no longer quite so afraid of Mr Brezhnev and his cronies.

Sarah had a revelation to make. She met John Holmes, the Leeds and England rugby league player at the Nouveau night club on Saturday evening and they are meeting again tomorrow. Is this the end of Mr Richard Burke? Is this the first step on the ladder to fame and fortune for Miss Collis?

Home at 6 on the train with all the cream of Ilkley society. I buried myself behind 'The Times'.

Sue and Peter are visiting Mr Booker, a solicitor neighbour of Peter's. So things are looking up.

-=-

Sunday January 20, 1980

_.2nd Sunday after Epiphany

Ally was up and off to Bradford at 9:30. I got up to a grilled breakfast and the Sunday Observer.

John Rhodes

John, Dad's brother, phoned to say he's home from Lanzarote for a few weeks. I spoke to him and he told me of his stomach ulcer and the hideous Christmas in the Canaries. He issued a royal command calling Mum & Dad to Halifax on Tuesday for dinner with Arnold and Janet.

Mum, Dad and I decided to go out for the afternoon. This proved far more complex and serious than you could possibly imagine. Dad never makes a decision, particularly on Sundays, and the one sided discussion went on far into the afternoon. We went first to Lidget Green and gathered up Ally and then on to St James's Crescent to see Hilda and Tony. We laughed at Tony's long, trailing pullover. Tony got out the old Wilson family Bible and I found a childhood picture of myself sandwiched in the middle of the ancient pages, placed there by my grandmother who died in 1957.

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Saturday January 19, 1980

Tito: last legs.

_. It seems that President Tito of Yugoslavia is on his last legs. Are the Russians waiting to walk in just like they did in Abyssinia last month? Or was it Afghanistan? Putting all this Ruritarian speculation behind us let us get on with the day to day deliberations: I didn't climb out of bed until 12.

Spent the afternoon writing a lengthy epistle to Ally. This correspondence course is becoming quite serious. I am sure that the old yellowed letters will be of valuable historic importance in later years. Mum, Dad, Sue and Pete went to the White Cross while I sat scribing in the rapidly failing light.

Phoned Ally. She came over at 7. We went straight to Giovanni's, the new Italian restaurant in Guiseley. Excellent dinner with wine and the bill came to £8. On to the Woolpack, the Fox and finally the Drop.

Home at 11.

-=-

Friday January 18, 1980

_. A night at home whilst Ally flogs herself away at the Belfry. I was not alone in vigil by the TV for Sue and Pete were also in confinement. They are a sad and frustrated pair this week because of mortgage problems. They've been looking at a property up near Westfield Fisheries, which doesn't sound particularly enchanting, a town house [£16,500 including carpets]. The building societies with whom they have been dealing laugh them out of the office.

Watched a film starring Connie Francis. Bed after 1am.

-=-

Thursday January 17, 1980

_. To Lidget Green at 5pm to dine with Ally on beef curry. At 7:30 we went off in her ailing car into Bradford where we queued in a massive mob to see Monty Python's vastly over-rated epic, 'The Life of Brian'. Ally loved it, expecting to be disappointed. What annoys me is the fact that the film is banned in many places throughout the country. People like Mervyn Stockwood, Bishop of Southwark, in giving the film so much publicity, have encouraged millions of people to flock to the movie, where under normal circumstances they would have been unaware of the film's existence. How much has John Cleese paid the Church of England to groan and grumble and write letters of complaint to the press?

Home to Guiseley by bus at 11 leaving Ally in Bradford.

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Wednesday January 16, 1980

_. Janet Simon's 21st birthday at Jolly's in Shipley. Lynn, Dave, Ally and I had a few drinks at Esholt first - the pub now lacking in atmosphere since Annie and Ron left. At 9:30 we went on to the large and gloomy disco, which was acutely cold. Susie was blue. I drank whisky, Ally had Campari. David clad in his best three-piece suit. He's a smart lad with far to go.

Home at 1:30am. Ally and I sat discussing in subdued whispers until after 2. Mum was prowling around. Her bad back keeps her awake.

-=-

Tuesday January 15, 1980

_. To Leeds with Jim, Jennie and Donald Best, JP. A brilliant quartet of wit and intellect motoring across West Yorkshire. Like a mobile university.

I spoke only briefly to Ally today. Her boss Derek Jenkins was hovering nearby. She sounded glum about something but couldn't say.

Princess Michael of Kent

Today is the thirty fifth birthday of that paragon of beauty Princess Michael of Kent. The very mention of her name throws me into paroxysms of passion. This exquisite creature is undoubtedly a rising star of the 80s. Popular already, she will go from strength to strength and certainly eclipse the plain, fading Princess Anne, and the meek Duchess of Gloucester. The Queen must be so pleased with her new cousin.

I have just been watching Robin Day debating on the BBC. The general opinion was that it would probably be best to pretend the Russians haven't actually invaded Afghanistan. General Sir John Hackett, is of the opinion that the Ruskies have bitten off more than they can chew. Tony Wedgwood Benn also put his spoke in attempting to justify the Labour party's slide into red chaos.

-=-

Monday January 14, 1980

_. A wet, grizzly day. Phoned Ally at 8am primarily to ensure she was out of bed but I suspect I just wanted to hear her voice. I didn't say much because I could see Jim R making moves two doors away and I wanted a lift to Leeds. Graham and Charlotte took Ally to the opera, and yes, Elizabeth Harwood's voice is knackered. I did warn her.  She, with the Smiths, lunched at Lynn's yesterday but didn't stay late, having little petrol in the car.

Jimmy Carter

At the office Sarah was very quiet about my 'illness' on Friday. Spent an hour on a query for Chris Oakley, on the US presidential elections which are upon us again this year. My opinion has changed over the past few weeks. Kennedy is doomed. Yes, a definite non runner. Carter I think now stands a very good chance. I know this is a reversal of what I've said in the past but all this bother with Iran and now the Afghanistan situation has been a boost to Carter. The man has done nothing to secure the release of the hostages, but you know how people always rally in a crisis.

Home at 6. Soup and salad. Quarrel with Mother. Watched TV. 'Blake's 7', and a Tuesday Weld film about a child killer.

The house plants are all dying because of the intolerable heat in the house. It's like an inferno.

-=-

Sunday January 13, 1980

_. 1st Sunday after Epiphany

Up at almost noon to find myself in a sleeping bag with my head up Dave G's chimney piece. Dave was laughing. Evidently I was talking about cheese in my sleep. Blimey, I've heard about cheese making one dream, but dreaming about cheese is another more disturbing matter. Let's hope the subject of my ramblings was a sexy bit of Red Leicester.

The Hollywood

Financially embarrassed. In fact I'm down to my last quid. Out for a walk in the sunshine digesting Grandad Glynn's fried breakfast. On to the Armoury where we met Bill and Garry. Bill always laughs at my shirts [I do wear tiny collars these days] and he promised to dig out some of his old 'boot-lace' ties. Bill was a 'Teddy Boy' 20 years ago. I suppose it amuses him to see the old fashions creeping back in. Can you believe he is 40 next week?

Back to the Hollywood for the last few until closing at 2pm. Slept in an armchair upstairs. Dave watching football on the telly. I have a great warmth for Jim and Lily Glynn, who always welcome me like one of the family.

To Manchester with Dave and Garry at 7:30 and I got the 8:45 coach back over the Pennines. Guiseley for 10:30. Frost.

-=-

Saturday January 12, 1980

_. Up at 9:30. Poor Tony Blackburn is on the radio. He's in decline at the moment.

Out at 10 to Leeds where I got the 11:30 coach to Manchester. A boring journey with only two fellow passengers. I sat on the back seat buried beneath my copy of 'The Times'. Fred Emery, in the paper, explained that Mrs Thatcher's TV image is fading. His excuse for coming out with this silly remark is because none of us can recall what she told us in a ministerial broadcast last Tuesday. I've forgotten the opening lines of 'A Tale of Two Cities' but certainly don't think the image of Charles Dickens is fading. When has the contents of a party political broadcast ever embedded itself into the hearts and minds of a listener? I have always taken it for granted that people switch off mentally at the sight of a crocodile-like party worker holding up a tin of Heinz beans whilst expounding the virtues of the governments prices and incomes policy.

To the Hollywood Hotel for 1:30. Spend the afternoon in the pool room. Not playing pool - good heavens no - just drinking in the pool room. Oblivion between 3 and 5. Tonight to the Georgian restaurant - that is Garry, Steve, Dave and I. Sadly, my steak was burnt to a crisp, but the others enjoyed it. Afterwards just Dave and I went to Rumours, the discotheque. Drank so much whisky throughout the evening that I had to have an alcohol free interval. People in clubs are looking so much younger these days. I could become quite worried if I thought about it.

-=-

Friday January 11, 1980

_. I wasn't feeling well yesterday, but today I felt much worse. It was enough to give me the incentive to phone in sick to the office at 8:30. In good old YP library tradition they didn't believe my story. The girls in that office would have, in a previous life, made good henchmen for Thomas Cromwell.

Delia....

I spoke to Sarah who laughed about the Lit lunch. Delia, she says, told Harold Wilson that he is 'miserable', and asked him: 'Don't you ever smile?'

I cleared up some of the mess from last night and then took to my bed. Within ten minutes Delia was on the phone. It was obviously a put up job by Sarah to check that I was at home. I think Cromwell's henchmen decided collectively that I was in fact lodging at Ally's. I had Delia's version of her put down of the former prime minister. I climbed back into bed chortling to myself about the cunning of my work colleagues.

Slept until 2pm after which I felt restored to full health. Ally phoned.

Sue and Pete went to Lynn & Dave's. I watched the telly with Mum and Dad.

Here's something amazing. Nicholas Knatchbull, the grandson of Earl Mountbatten of Burma, who died with him, has left an estate of £770,000. He was fourteen and the youngest of six children. The enormity of this sum is a clue to the vast fortune of Lord Louis. His will, like all royal wills, is private. The money of course comes from the late Edwina Mountbatten, who inherited millions from her grandfather, Sir Ernest Cassel, and obviously it will have grown down the years.

-=-

Thursday January 10, 1980

_. Busy day because Sarah and la Johnson were at the Literary Luncheon where the guests of honour are the weird combination of Sir Harold Wilson and Terry Wogan.

This afternoon I felt 'off it' and developed a throbbing headache. I haven't had a headache in years and decide I must be going down with influenza. Oh, and on the topic of disease and health I am sure you will be thrilled and delighted to hear that 'pnuemocallaghanicosis' has almost been wiped off the face of the earth, possibly with the exception of Cardiff West, where a mild form of this paralytic, debilitating disease still dwells. All thanks to 'Dr Thatcher', whose Tory vaccine has eradicated the ailment.

Home at 5 to be taken straight out again by Mum and Dad, who have borrowed Peter's car [the Toyota being incapacitated]. To the White Cross, where due to the lack of food, and alcohol flow, I was soon rolling around the walls like Freddie Frinton. Home again after a couple of hours. Ally came and we gave then the calendar plate.

Lynn and Dave, Jim and Margaret came at 9.

-=-

Wednesday January 9, 1980

_. Well, here I am sitting in my sturdy little Anderson shelter waiting for the arrival of the Ruskies, clutching my mug of cocoa [made with rationed dried milk powder], my mind a seething mass of uncertainty.Will they, for instance, allow me to keep my job in the YP library. I think not. I suppose it will be fifteen hours a day in a munitions factory, or if, for some reason I decline to assist the occupying powers perhaps they'll make me spend the rest of my days at the offices of the Telegraph & Argus. A terrifying prospect. The one good thing that will undoubtedly emerge from our annexation with the USSR is an end to the national iron and steel strike that's currently bringing Port Talbot, Abervan and Rodley to their knees. The Ruskies don't tolerate strikes, I'll wager. President Carter says it will all be over by Easter. By that I mean the Third World War and not the steel strike.

Hon Mrs Lane Fox

I was kept busy this morning by the demise of the Hon Mrs Lane Fox, of Bramham Park. The old girl was the elder sister of the Hon Lady Parkinson [wife of our ayatollah, Sir Kenneth Parkinson], and of the Hon Mrs Hargreaves, wife of Brigadier Kenneth 'Arsegrease', former Lord Lieutenant of the West Riding. Won't it be a sombre Lit Lunch tomorrow?

Dave G phoned at 8:15. I promise to go visit on Saturday. My New Year 'good will' visit. Ally will of course be entertaining Graham and Charlotte.  She, the precious object of my affections, phoned aft
er 'Fawlty Towers'. Two pieces of news: the first is that she has taken an evening job at the Belfry restaurant at Bolton Junction from January 18, and is to do Friday evenings and Sunday lunches. This will help finance her increased commitments, which have brought pain. The other news is that she had laid hands on a 1980 Royal Albert Country Roses calendar plate, which we are giving Mum & Dad for their birthday. She is bringing it over tomorrow evening.

Bed at 12 o'clock.

-=-

Tuesday January 8, 1980

_. Queer old weather. A mild winter will certainly make it easier for the Russians when they decide to invade.

Worried about Ally. She slept until 5:30pm after having 'over slept' again. I advised her to go see a psychiatrist. She phoned to remind me that Graham and Charlotte Smith are coming on Friday for the weekend. Charlotte is an opera fanatic and that is where they are bound on Saturday, to Leeds Grand to see Opera North. A disappointment awaits them, according to Sarah, because Elizabeth Harwood, the lady warbler, is well past her prime. In fact, according to Sarah, her voice has disintegrated completely.

Lady Rose Baring, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, is a granddaughter of Louisa, Countess of Antrim, who was a Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Victoria. Lady Antrim kept a detailed journal of life at court that has now been transformed into a book by Frances Donaldson, or perhaps Elizabeth Longford.

To bed far too late. It was nearly 1am.

Monday January 7, 1980

_. One of the 'weedier' daily newspapers reports that the Prince of Wales is entertaining Lady Amanda Knatchbull at Sandringham. More like Lady Amanda Red-Herring-Knatchbull. She is not pretty enough to be wife of the heir to the throne. Her nose too long and her teeth too pronounced, nothing hideous, but just not good enough. Lady Amanda is a close relative of HRH and I will repeat my previous statement that the couple are nothing but friends, with a 'brother and sister' affection for each other. Should Lady Amanda, or any other Knatchbull, become Prince Charles's wife I'll eat my continental quilt.

A dismal day at the YP. I did not hear from Ally, but despatched a letter in her direction.

Can I say something about Mrs Indira Gandhi? This sweet little Indian lady has seized India by the throat again, but this time she will not release her grip so easily. The papers talk about the 'tyrannical' Mrs Gandhi but I have nothing but admiration for her. She has restricted the activities of the Press and has jailed all her political opponents as any self respecting eastern prime minister would do.

Glynnie phoned. He's off at the weekend and wants to know if I can join him. It would be financial suicide.

-=-