Sunday May 27, 1984

 Rogation Sunday

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Pissed down all day. Quiet. What is Rogation Sunday? Do we all rogate? Lasagne for lunch. Alice in Wonderland on the TV. Hate it. Played with Samuel and we bathed him at 5 o'clock. Why does he always wake up in such a panic? Read about Jean Shrimpton in one of the Sunday magazines. She has a hotel in Cornwall now.

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Saturday May 26, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Feel awful. Headache, &c. A quiet afternoon. At 12:30 I went back to bed and slept until 4. Ally went to town and the delights of Leeds Market and at 5 we had eggs and bacon.

A dead night downstairs, but fun. Ally worked with Margaret and I sat with Audrey, Terry, and Bernie &c. Had a few halves. We laughed at Brian and counted the number of times he said: "when Wilf was at the Eagle". We counted at least 48 times. Brian is a lonely old fart. We had an extension until 11:30 (for the Bank Holiday) but the place was like a tomb. Terry went home pissed at 12 and I convened a staff meeting and Ally, Audrey, Margaret and her husband Dougie partook of a quiet drink in the corner of the lounge. Audrey says that (Michael) Pirie has been sacking his bar staff. The Egans are going to France on Tuesday taking Tracey.

Still no word from Susie. Will it be Samantha, James, Jennifer or Clint? The excitement is mounting. 

Sammy Bear is a pig - true.

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Friday May 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Heavy rain today. Susan went in to hospital yesterday and we have heard nothing and so presume that all is well. Samuel has wailed at half hourly intervals throughout the night, and so today we are nothing but cabbages.Living dead. Can the boy be sprouting teeth or is it his digestion? Whatever it is it's bloody awful.

Miss Hodge & Andrew.

That whore __ Hodge is publishing the story that she slept with Prince Andrew when he went on holiday after coming back from the Falklands. I do hope it doesn't put Carolyn Herbert off. Jim's Daily Star has a headline 'The anguish of Lady Helen' - apparently an ex-army captian called Oakes is spilling the beans on his relationship with Lady Helen Windsor. He says she was once enraptured with him. The swine is set to reveal all. Some people will do anything for money.

My cellar is covered in a coating of oil and the boiler men are still down there at it. Deadly quiet tonight. Many people have died in an explosion at a Lancashire water works. A sub-aqua Abervan. 

Samuel was back to normal today and slept well. Last night he sounded like Maria Callas.

Shit of the Week: Arthur Scargill.

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Thursday May 24, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

A brighter day. Queen Victoria is celebrating quietly somewhere. My Uncle Albert always referred to her as a 'bad old bitch', and he should know because he was five when she died. I told old Jim in the tap room that today is Empire Day, and surprisingly he had never heard of it. Blimey, he's 83. Wasn't the empire still going strong in the 1920s?

Men came to convert us from oil to gas. It was one long tea break. The British workman has never worked under pressure. Other than myself that is. Oily footsteps everywhere. An old man in the tap room complained that his beer is flat. He should drink it quicker then, shouldn't he?

At 4 we went to Linfood and carried Samuel around. Looking at 42 gallon jars of tartare sauce, &c. I could easily become obsessed with bulk buying. 

Took the evening off. Ally took down all the curtains and washed them. I sat and watched Sir Robin Day's 'Question Time' followed by a Scottish murder drama set in 1889. Sir George Young, Bt, MP was one of Robin's guests. His father-in-law is the sculptor Oscar Nemon. 

Ate steak sandwiches and went off to bed.

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Wednesday May 23, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Jim's Daily Star continues to build up my hopes about Carolyn Penelope Herbert. I do hope something will come of it. The prince really needs to settle down. His public image isn't all that good. A wife will give the lad a boost, I'm sure.

An odd day because it's usually our day off. Ally took Samuel to the clinic. He weighs 13lb 4oz - perfectly average. He's fatter. All this tinned Heinz stuff. 

A good crowd appeared in the tap room after yesterdays lunatic session in the afternoon. A group of very well spoken lads came in to play darts. I assume they are trainee dentists or budding army colonels. Very polite and inspiring. The rif raf have given way to a more genteel clientel. 

Ally has had a card from the Watts family. David is moving to Goole - poor sod. We shall never see them again. Also news from Catherine Alderson who is expecting a child in November.  ________. Quiet night. Just Audrey and I.

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Tuesday May 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Carolyn Herbert.

Still tired after our adventure yesterday. Ally thoroughly enjoyed her birthday. 

In the back bar I was very excited picking up old Jim's Daily Star which announces that Carolyn Herbert is now the constant companion of Prince Andrew. The lady is blessed with a splendid pedigree. Both she and Andrew stem from Henry VII (as do Charles and Diana), and both descend from the 2nd Duke of Portland. The mother of the Queen Mother was of course a Cavendish-Bentinck. The Hon Miss Herbert seems to be very much cast in the Princess of Wales mould, and would making a cracking Duchess of York. Koo Stark, Kim Deas and Katie Rabett - never. However, by now I really should have learned not to be taken in by the 'Daily Star'. 

Jill and Tim came last night and left cards. Maureen mistook Jill for a pub landlady. Graham and Gill phoned tonight with their baby news. Siobhan will be with us on or around Samuel's first birthday. Graham says it's probably best to get all the babies over and done with speedily one after the other. Gill will be thirty in September.

Wet. The tap room was like a mad house. A mad man spewed up all over old Jim, who stood in the doorway dripping in steaming vegetables, quite speechless. I clotched three on this quiet afternoon. 'Mad Michael', the Irish lunatic had to go after I found him sleeping in the ladies toilets.

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Monday May 21, 1984

 Bank Holiday in Canada

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Lord Willoughby de Broke is 88; Lord Clydesmuir 67; Lord Maxwell 65, Mr J. Malcolm Fraser 54, and Alison Mary Rhodes is 26.

We were awake early and I gave Ally her presents in bed. Samuel loves wrapping paper. She had a call from Bessie, who says Gill is expecting further issue in January, also a call from Susie. We scurried around doing our usual jobs but excited at the prospect of escaping this afternoon. It was a dull overcast sort of day. 

At 2:30 we left for Horton. I felt dog tired. At Waltergarth for 4pm. Found Mum and Dad in a jovial mood. We were joined by two peculiar hikers. One, an Irishman, padded around the house in bare feet. The other chap sat in a corner wearing headphones listening to a long tape recording of bird calls. He was a Mr Pierrepoint, but no relation of the late hangman.  We dined on sirloin and Yorkshire puddings. They are waiting for Janette to announce she is pregnant. They say it's only a matter of time. We left at midnight, and home after one. Utterly shagged out. I slept. Horton is too far away.

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Sunday May 20, 1984

 4th Sunday after Easter

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Warm start, warm later, but rain. I enjoy Sundays, but got up feeling awful after last night. My throat like the bottom of a parrot's cage. I went down at let Ann in. She's 73 and still cleaning. Standing in the dark in my cool cellar did wonders for my headache. Poor Ally. She looks, and feels, like a dead fish. Breakfast on eggs and bacon. Samuel held a rusk and snacked on it. Despite her frail, wet fish-like condition Ally is jovial and beaming. It must be love.

Sunday lunchtime. Just Margaret and I. 'Big Mick's' friends and widow came in to play pool. The widow told me that she has to come out as usual or 'go mad' at home. The poor girl looked ghastly. The funeral is on Friday. I do hope she doesn't think I am going. Like the Queen I restrict my attendance at funerals to only close family members. Upstairs at 2:30. Saw crap on the TV. Look at the (Sunday) Telegraph. Sir John Betjeman, poet laureate, died yesterday aged 78. Was he having an affair with Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, Princess Margaret's lady-in-waiting? We shall see. I have never taken much of a shine to poetry. 'If I should die' by Rupert Brooke I find very touching, but Betjeman's stuff about railway stations leaves me cold. 'If I should die' is actually called 'The Soldier'. Sorry. Wrapped Ally's gifts and bathed Samuel. He shits everywhere most horribly. Ally and I both downstairs tonight. Lynn phoned to say happy birthday to Ally. She was in one of her odd, distant moods.

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Saturday May 19, 1984

A warm, gentle day. Ally and I took off to town with Samuel at 1pm. We didn't take the pram and I carried baby for two hours, by the end of which he was like a lead weight. To Laura Ashley where Ally bought a frock for £26 and a pair of shoes (£9.99). I went to Greenhead's and bought 'Adele & Co' by Dornford Yates and then to Thornton's for a box of chocolates. Very sensibly I have decided that clothes form the bulk of Ally's birthday presents. No jewels, furs or trinkets this year. Back at 5. Lasagne and orange juice. Ally worked tonight and was bubbling with fun. I sat drinking with Bernie. After (at 12) Ally and I drank £7.03 worth of booze (Malibu, shakers (?), port, &c. and went to romp upstairs until 3am. _______.

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Friday May 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

'Big Mick' the pot bellied darts player with Hells Angel tendencies went to bed last night and died. His wife regularly babysits for Maureen. The tap room was a sad place this afternoon and all the darts team appeared wearing black as a mark of respect. It must have been Big Mick's ticker. Marie Barnes and Mags called in. It was a joy to see them. We are going to the Linthorpe to see them in a few weeks. Jane and Margaret worked tonight. Edna, perched at the bar, has a face like a wet weekend. 

Daily Trivia: a son has been born to Lord and Lady Ralph Percy, a male heir for the dukedom of Northumberland. The eldest son (of the current duke) is unmarried and weird looking. Sadly, two dukedoms are on the cards to expire by about 1990. Portland and Newcastle. Such a pity. Perhaps Mrs T will end her days as Duchess of Grantham. She will soon have won four general elections on the trot. Not even Disraeli managed that. 

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Thursday May 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Bert.

Cold. The over enthusiastic woman from Kenmar (fruit machines) bustled in and talked none stop for half an hour about gas boilers. Yawn. Mum phoned with news of the Uncle Bert saga. They waited for him to arrive at Horton, but he didn't appear. Eventually they phoned Nottingham and he was there. It seems he came by train to Leeds, but was late, and so made his way to Guiseley and the Station Hotel where he phoned every Baker in the phone book, to speak to Lynn, without success. After an hour he hobbled back to Leeds and took the train back home to Nottingham. She says he was very angry and 'more or less put the phone down on me'. He spent £17 on rail fares. What a cock up. 

At 3:30 we went to Linfood Cash & Carry and spent £40 on gigantic jars of tartare sauce, &c. Bulk buying is fun. To Club Street for half an hour where we ate bars of chocolate and sipped lemonade. Samuel, sitting on my knee, smells like an old sheep. He had eaten braised lamb splodge for lunch. Such a cute boy he is. Back to the Moorhouse for 6:30. Dog tired. I could sleep for a week. One needs the stamina of an ox in this game.

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Wednesday May 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Overcast day. Phoned Susan. Mum is on her way to us, she says, with a surprise visitor they are collecting at the station. It's Uncle Bert. They arrived at 2:30 having agreed to collect Bert at Leeds Railway Station but as usual paths were crossed and Bert is still at large, wandering the streets on his artificial limb. We had a traditional Mandarine Napoleon. Dad bounced Samuel on his knee and flew him through the air like a bird. They went at 5 to find Bert and take him to Horton. Somehow I cannot see this visit having a satisfactory conclusion. 

Marita.

We dressed hurriedly, packed baby into the car and went to Horsforth and MM and Marita's for dinner. Immediately, Samuel decided he didn't like the plush refinements of 12, Rawdon Road, and began to bawl. He cried like he was in pain, and yelled through the stuffed peppers, watercress soup, turkey in brandy sauce and trifle. He had lucid intervals but hysterics for four hours. It was a pleasant night despite Samuel's Maria Callas impersonation. They are going to Yugoslavia again this summer. They regularly buy cut glass in Dubrovnik. We left at 12, or so.

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Tuesday May 15, 1984

 Full Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Dr Hampson says he will not resign his seat but his PPS job has gone. The PM is reported to be livid that he kept his arrest secret for 10 days and she first heard of it when she opened her Sunday Telegraph at Chequers. Very lapse of the Home Office. 

Samuel giggles properly now. He has rushes of high wind too. We put the blame on his chicken dinner and chocolate pudding. His nappies look hideous these days. Really grown up, if you get my meaning.

The Moorhouse.

Cleaned the beer lines and brasses. The place looking like a new pin. LG came in. Affable and complementary he was too. He went to inspect the cellar and came back praising my cleanliness. He went off after 10 minutes, no probably half an hour, and is heading to Majorca next week, and so said goodbye until June. A very relaxed meeting. He left and then in walked David Tyne on a 'routine' visit. He bought Ally and I a drink and chatted for ten minutes. He asked if we have any regrets and of course we said 'no'. He thinks I've put on some weight. He isn't wrong. LG & Tyne caught us at an opportune moment. 

To Leeds with the pram at 3:30. A pleasant walk. Dead tonight. Jane looked bored stiff. A good manager would keep her working flat out, but instead I went upstairs and watched 'Dallas'.

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Monday May 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

A hot day. 

Bessie phoned to say that Andrew is agreeable about the 'godfather proposal' and Ally reassured her that the boy doesn't have a large solo performance at the christening. At 3:30 I went up Dewsbury Road for a breath of fresh air and afterwards we had bars of chocolate and cups of tea. Ally opened up at 5:30. Mum phoned to say they will call on us on Wednesday after visiting Susan and Lynn. Why? We are seeing them next Monday, and Leeds is a bit of a detour after visiting Guiseley.

Dr Hampson.

News: Earl Jermyn says, in the DT, that he will return to Ickworth Park in September from tax exile when he marries and chastises the PM for not scrapping capital transfer tax. Quite right. Mark Thatcher has brought Texan bombshell Karen Forston and her mother to Chequers no doubt to arrange wedding plans. St Margaret's Westminster in August, eh? Dr Keith Hampson, Tory MP for Leeds NW was arrested last week in a gay strip joint  in Soho after molesting a plain clothes copper. Hampson is Heseltine's PPS but wasn't carrying top secret documents at the time of his arrest. Twice married Dr Hampson says he was thoroughly pissed and depressed one night and that he staggered into this den of iniquity unaware of what was in store.Yet the proprietor of the gay establishment says Hampson is a regular client. I object to the police acting as agent provocateurs. Leave the poor little poof alone and let him get on with it. It's another promising career in ruins. Silly sod.

-=- 

Sunday May 13, 1984

 3rd Sunday after Easter

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Uncle Peter.

Ally opened up with Margaret and I stayed with Samuel. Upstairs inspecting the geraniums I looked out and saw a Rover car approaching carrying Auntie Mabel, but who was she with? It's Uncle Peter and cousin Beverley. He is so very likeable. The double of Grandad Wilson. Beverley is 16 and training to be a nurse 'like our Jackie'. Mabel and Beverley sat outside with Samuel and I stood in the darkened lounge with uncle Peter having a run down on various aspects of the family history since 1980. Stephen Myers is in a unhappy marriage. Cousin Derek is still fishing _____, Julie is happy and working in a health food shop in Leeds. He says he is still waiting for a phone call from mum. He says he phoned her four years ago but she was in the bath. 'She's having a long bath', he snorted. They do have these periods of separation. At 1:30 he took Mabel off for Sunday luncheon and I took Samuel across the park but he didn't enjoy it, and wailed. Fish for lunch. A failure. Burnt cheese sauce.  Ally and Jane worked later. I stood with big Brian talking about the pubs of the Yorkshire dales. He remembered old George Deacon and didn't know he is deceased. Tap room quiet - like the Royal Mausoleum at Frogmore.

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Saturday May 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sunshine. I didn't go downstairs but sent Ally down to do half an hour in the bar with Audrey.We have decided to escape for the afternoon and the chosen victims on whom we have decided to descend are the Gadsbys of Wilsby. The whole bunch of them usually gather there after shopping at Asda and we can do them all in one swoop. Sure enough we found them assembled and arrived just in time for lunch. Little Hayley was trundling around in a trolley-type thing. She is very much like Karen. Steve is no longer driving for Burtons and has purchased an insurance round in Bramley. He didn't sound too enthusiastic about it. Samuel was entranced by Hayley. It must be a weight off his mind knowing that he isn't the only tiny person around. 

At 3:30 we went on to Guiseley. Susan sprawled in the garden like a beached whale. Christopher, full of hell, was ransacking the kitchen. Pete calmly watching a film midst the debris. Next time we see her Sue will be cuddling a new pink bundle. On to Lynn's. Sat in the garden admiring the new erection. Sandwiches on the lawn. Frances came and sat upon my knee. Lynn very brown from the constant worshipping of the sun. Back in Leeds for 7. We were packed out.

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Friday May 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Ally's back ache is much the same. This is a worry because Mum has suffered with her back down the years. Childbearing is the cause of this. At least we have a good hard bed on which to rest our weary bones. Soft modern comforts must have contributed to ther numerous dodgy backs up and down this nation.

A day of no particular excitment. Ally took to bed at a reasonable hour to ease her pain. Is the pub combined with a new baby too much? She says not, but we do lead an exhausting way of life. Just look at the easy time had by Lynn and Sue. Ally says the life of a typical 'housewife' would bore her to death.

When will we see LG?  It's been a month now with no sign of him. However, it must mean he is happy with us.

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Thursday May 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

Bitterly cold in and out. More in than out in fact. Have I told you our boiler has croaked? Well it has and subsequently we have a layer of frost in the flat. Snow on the top of the wardrobe, &c. Are you getting the picture? We breakfasted around the fire, the gas fire. Downstairs is no better. Old men wrapped in overcoats sipping ice-cold ale. I shudder to watch. Karen is off attending her sister's 'hen party'. I am with Margaret (Milne). Ally upstairs ironing. She hasn't been downstairs for ages. Samuel is so time consuming. He sleeps less and less. Food too, he's something of a pig. Financially tonight is the most dead since our arrival. Unperturbed to bed. Ally has back-ache. She must get to a doctor.

See in the Daily Telegraph that Countess Spencer's son, the Hon Rupert Legge is engaged to Victoria Ottley. Other trivia ~ Lady Gweneth Cavendish, 93, grandmother of the Pcss of Wales's lady-in-waiting Gweneth Baring, has snuffed it.

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Wednesday May 9, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c

Still dull outside. Who cares? Our alarm clock is on the blink and refuses to sound off. Samuel laid patiently peeping through his bars and his slumbering Mama refused to follow my example of climbing out in the chill of the bedroom. The brewery phoned to say the dray isn't coming until tomorrow. This is no trouble.

Samuel almost sat unaided. He wobbled for a few seconds and then keeled over. Just after 2 we escaped to Bradford where Ally left me at Club Street to go for her hair doing ~ a perm. She was back at 5 looking like she did two years ago. A crinkly fringe, &c. At Club St until 7-ish when we returned to the pub where we went unmolestered by the bar staff. We spent a few hours upstairs together. TV abysmal.

To bed with Noel Coward's journal. He was certainly well in with the Queen Mother. She has a leaning, they say, for homosexual company, a comment which certainly upset her private secretary Sir Martin Gilliat. I can see his point. Ally, all curls, on the pillow next to me.

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Tuesday May 8, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Overcast. We intended turning over a new leaf today by getting up at 7am and running an organised machine, only to sleep through the alarm clock and wake at 8:05. We had the usual dash around. Ally was grumpy and grumbling about everything and I stood at the kitchen window watching her muttering to herself and into the Hunslet horizon.

Samuel wants to crawl. Lay him on a rug and he'll kick furiously, but he has yet to build up enough energy to move. He has the right idea though. Ally has given him baby rice and mixed fruit slop which he eats splendidly. He is clad in woollies from Bessie and a chunky polo necked sweater resembling a lifeboat man or a whaler and not a 17 week old baby.

A good day for luncheons. We took the vast sum of £14 on food. 

Opening the flood barrier.

News: Ralph Bonner Pink MP, is no more. Another by-election. The Daily Telegraph reveals that the King of Tunisia has meningitis and now cannot marry his fiancée in Hampshire on Saturday. Prince Edouard-Xavier de Lobkowicz, 23, a scion of the royal house of Bourbon-Parma, has been found murdered in Paris. They say Gadaffi has shot some of the London siege murderers for 'bungling the job'. I do hope so. I cannot decide who I loathe the most ~ A. Scargill or Colonel Gadaffi. At least Gadaffi lives in Tripoli. Barnsley is a little closer. The Sovereign declared open the Thames Flood Barrier. Ken Livingstone was bowing and grovelling like the rest of them. Mondale and Hart are continuing to fight it out in the US of A. Ron and Nancy are visiting Ron's roots in Eire in June after the D-Day landing 40th anniversary shindig at Dunkirk. The Queen is going to Normandy on HMY Britannia. Olympic rumpus: Russia isn't goint to send a team to Los Angeles. It's a retaliatory step because Jimmy Carter stopped a US team from visiting Moscow in '80. The Olympic Games should be ended once and for all. More trouble than it's worth and invariably they end in blood and tears. It was the quietest night ever. Bed at 11:30.

Monday May 7, 1984

 Bank Holiday in UK

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Bitterly cold. A bank holiday instituted some years ago by a Labour government. May Day indeed. It all shreiks of Joseph Stalin to me. 

Samuel woke at 5:30 wailing in his cot. Ally and I squabbled about who loves him the most and who should pick him up. Needless to say, I do. At 7:30 I went downstairs and came up for breakfast an hour later. Frank and Bessie had slept heavily and B thinks a cold is about to erupt. They were at Susan Hellier's wedding on Saturday and endured a meagre reception at the Potters Heron. Sausage rolls, &c. The aristo neighbour on Chilland Lane is now identified as Robert (Robin) Napier, heir to a baronetcy. Frank says he's a drip.

See in the Daily Telegraph that Ronald Reagan is related to all the crown heads of Europe. They always seem to link US presidents to the old Irish kings ~ you know, Brian Boru, and the likes. Our Sovereign lady is is one of George Washington's nearest living relatives. Beat that.

A flat lunch. ______. A miserable crowd all wrapped up like sherpas. As you know our boiler is defunct. Poor Samuel will be blue. F & B left at 4:30 or so. Good old Frank did his usual chores, fixed the vacuum cleaner and hung pictures, &c. Bessie bought Samuel a pelican and enough knitting to clothe Samuel until he's 5. A quiet Bank Holiday extension until 11:30pm. So many of our customers are OAPs who go home to bed at 9:30.

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