Sunday October 21, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

18th Sunday after Trinity

Horatio Nelson died this day in 1805. Bacon sandwiches for breakfast. A sunny, blustery morn but we didn't venture out because of Samuel's cold. The poor boy has a runny green nose. I made a roast chicken lunch, but we didn't attempt to eat it until after we closed at 2, in case we might have marauding, hungry visitors. I sometimes think that certain family members (the Bakers) must believe that Guiseley is behind the iron curtain or somewhere where the borders cannot be crossed unless one does it through the sewers or by hot-air balloon. We ate at 4. Samuel demolished four small Yorkshire puddings. He has a vast appetite for one so lean and tiny. We love him to distraction. An evening in front of the TV. Robert Lacey's 'Aristocrats' is just awful._____. Margaret Lockwood in a 1940s spy film drove us to bed.

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Saturday October 20, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Susie phoned to say that she and the Nason progency will visit us this afternoon in Jim's automobile. Ally struggled out to the shops and I played with Samuel. He is fascinated by vinyl records. We went downstairs together to 'bottle-up' and he watched from his baby-walker. He smiles for Maureen. A honour indeed. The Nasons rolled up at 2:30 for a couple of hours. Christopher is especially naughty. Obviously, he takes after Peter. Ben is big, fat and blonde, not unlike the late Jayne Mansfield. They are no nearer moving to Thorpe Lane. They left at 5. We ate pizza. Both in the bar tonight. Quiet and stuffy. We are tired.

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Friday October 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Re centenarian peers. The late 5th Lord Penrhyn lived to be 101. 

So, it's Friday, again. The schools have broken for half-term and so we were not bombarded with hungry teachers at lunchtime as we usually are. Ally's cold worsened and she took to her bed after Samuel. I repaired to the tap room to sup ale. The locals tend to go a bit mad on a Friday. __ Andrea has had the banns read and is to marry toothless Scottish Dave on November 16. It should be the wedding of the year, and I am told that Andrea does indeed go through matrimony every year.

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Thursday October 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Damp, wet and autumnal. The trees on Hunslet Moor are going bald. That cantankerous old sod Lord Shinwell is 100 years old today. Earlier in the week I read in one of the papers that no peer has ever struggled on to see a centenary. This is inaccurate. The old Countess of Kintore, a Scottish peeress in her own right, lived to be 100, and died in September, 1974. Wouldn't it be nice to see Mrs Thatcher survive until 2025?

Looking at yesterday's paper over a cup of tea I splattered a mouthful over the breakfast table on reading a letter from Sir Charles Mott-Radclyffe. Good to know that in this year of NACODS we still have wonderful 18th century-minded folk. How reassuring. Ally wasn't amused but it certainly tickled me.

Ally is much better today, but still with a glowing nose and oozing glands. We thought Sammy might be catching cold too but today he seems unaffected.

Audrey informs me that another regular customer has died and I told her to prepare a list, every morning, of those customers who are still alive, for my inspection. Perhaps it will be easier that way.

The news is all NACODS and Manny Shinwell. Nigel Lawson was on the news talking about the pound which is at its lowest ebb today since 1976. The chancellor (of the Exchequer) looks more like the Prince Regent than the Prince Regent. 

It was a quiet night but not without incident. A drunk in the back bar accused those nice boys who work at Systime (Computers) of stealing his ale, and later on, after I'd closed, gone upstairs, and removed all my clothes, he came back, banging on the pub door saying he'd lost his overcoat and house keys. The saint that I am went down to retrieve his tatty Gannex only to have him disappear into thin air leaving me in the rain clutching at my Kung Fu-style dressing gown. I am far too soft and caring. This guy will obviously have to be clotched upon his return. Bed at midnight. Ally was reading her 1982 (and only) journal. How simply we lived then.

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Wednesday October 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally is in a terrible state with this bloody cold. Red nose, &c.

Sarah and Eileen appeared at 12. It was as though time has stood still. I don't think that either of them actually believe that I am making a 'go' of being a pub landlord. They have heard nothing of Carol Oldroyd (aka Mrs Slocombe) since she rose to fame by marrying that craggy TV salesman with a strong resemblance to the late President Eisenhower, or perhaps Woodrow Wilson. I took the girls upstairs and Samuel clung to his mother as though a pair of ghouls had walked in. Eileen exclaimed: "Oh, doesn't he have an old face?" After lunch off they went into the drizzle.

Ally took to her bed at 2. I spent the afternoon with Samuel, gave him tea, and put him to bed. I worked with Audrey from 8.

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Tuesday October 16, 1984

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

NACODS? Who do they think they are? Where have they come from, and where are they going?

Shit of the Week: NACODS

Ally has a glowing nose and she sneezed and coughed into the night. We were both downstairs this evening because we continue unstaffed. The whole company in the pub fretted over Ally's cold, many suggesting remedies. Old Harold has a soft spot for her. 

Sarah phoned out of the blue to say that she and Eileen are coming here for lunch tomorrow. Bloody hell. Pigs might fly.

Old Lord Denning says that the Brighton bombing was High Treason, and I am in agreement with his lordship on this one. The Daily Star says that the Duke of Edinburgh has yet to meet Prince Harry and that the Prince of Wales is wasting away with worry because of it.

To bed late. Poor Ally sweating, and snuggled down in a great heap.

Shit of the Week: The National Association of Colliery Overmen, Deputies and Shotfirers.

Monday October 15, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Phoned Horton and spoke to my prodigal parents. Ally has to go to the brewery next week on a food hygiene course and I asked them to come here and babysit. They have no news really. The girls have been up the dales. Lynn had stayed for a night last week when Dave was in Scotland. It's a bit of a mystery to me why the telephone has gone out of fashion in Horton-in-Ribblesdale. They don't ring to enquire whether Samuel has teeth, or 'O' Levels or the Military Cross. Very sad. 

As I've said we have bought Samuel a baby-walker which he tootles around in at great speed. He now goes from house plant to plant tearing off leaves and cramming them into his mouth like a panda with bamboo shoots.

Pool match night. Vicky Pearson came in looking like Sue Ellen  from 'Dallas' with back-combed hair and a micro-skirt. It will all end in tears. Maureen, virtually crippled, was driven home by Ally at 11. To bed with books. Jack Higgins again.

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Sunday October 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

17th Sunday after Trinity

An early start because today we are visiting the dear Glynn's of Stockport. It took hours of preparation t get the Rhodes bandwagon on the road and we didn't depart until 11:45. It was a fine morning however and our journey was comfortable. Samuel was resless though and I had to clown around and entertain him in the car.

The Hollywood, Edgeley.

To Stockport for 1pm. It is as if time stands still. Dave G just the same. Samuel sat in the vast lounge bar for two hours whilst we drank. Joined by Billy, Garry and Steve later. Dave sees the lads twice a week or so, not every night as in days of yore. At 3 we all dined together and then went upstairs, a traditional routine. Lily went off to bed. We left at 6, and were in bed by 8:30.

Prince Henry, one month old today, is pictured in the Sunday papers. I found myself looking more at the lad's mother. The princess has changed. Gone is that girl-like hair-do and a more sophisticated woman looks out. The caption says 'Diana's Dynasty'. Quite apt. 

Arrivals: a son to Lord and Lady Brocket.

Departures: Alan Lake, the bereaved hubby of the late Diana Dors has blown his brains out with a shotgun. Lord St Just, who is heirless, is dead.

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Saturday October 13, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

It is revealed that Sir Anthony Berry MP, a brother of Viscount Kemsley, and first husband of the Hon Mary Roche (Diana's aunt) was killed yesterday along with some Tory delegates and Roberta Wakeham, wife of the Chief Whip. Mrs Tebbit might be paralysed from the neck down. HM The Q has telephoned the PM from Kentucky where she is holidaying with the Porchesters. The dear PM is 59 today.

We lingered around today because I wanted to interview toothless Dave about a fracas yesterday with Fat Andrea, and also see Vicky Pearson. However, they all stayed away and at 3:30 we went to Morrison's. I was like a zombie. Home for tea and crumpets and Heinz Sandwich Spread sandwiches, a weakness of mine, but they prove too tart for Samuel. The Bear was nine months old yesterday.

We watched 'The Tripods', a TV adaptation of John Christopher's series of novels, featuring a pretty actress Charlotte Long, who was a daughter of Viscount Long. I say 'was' because she died in a road accident at Newbury last week, aged 20. 

An awful night. I battled on behind the bar quite courageously. We did no cleaning - thank God - because Ann returns tomorrow with fresh eyes. (She's had an eye op). Ally gave some lads a game of darts, and I gave Vicky Pearson the 'Scarborough warning' (sic).

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Friday October 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

We got up at 6:30 in the dark with every intention of busying ourselves but over our pots of tea I switched on the TV to look at Selina Scott to see with complete astonishment and horror that some swine has blown up the Brighton hotel where most of HM Government are lodged for the Tory party conference. A sickening sight. We watched poor Norman Tebbit being dug out of the rubble in paroxysms of agony, and Mrs Tebbit and the government chief whip John Wakeham. Some are dead, but as yet they're unnamed. The PM is safe, thank God, and was working on today's speech at 2:50am at the time of the explosion and her bathroom was demolished. Had she been on the loo then it would have been almost certain death. It is the work of the IRA.  This afternoon I watched the prime minister's speech which was masterful and inspiring. For the survivor of a bomb, assassination attempt she was incredible.

I feel awful again. Cold, shaking and dull. Had a few slurps of whisky later. In the bar Vicky Pearson and Helen had a punch up, and then the Sovereign and lager pumps failed. Brian Pickup saved the day, locating the trip switch which had tripped off. A busy, toilsome evening. To bed shagged out.

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Thursday October 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

We held our 'hot shot' pool final tonight which was a success, if only for the sandwiches.  Karma (Singh) won, brilliantly. Earlier, Ally had been to town shopping.  I have been entertaining Samuel. One has to be a Charlie Cairoli. MM & Marita dropped in at 6 with a Beach Villas brochure. (Uncle) John is mentioned therein and they asked for advice on holidaying in Lanzarote. They would like to go there for Marita's 30th birthday, Jan 31, 1985. The brochure has a picture of our villa - Vistamar - with a path through the rocks to the sea. I cannot wait. Samuel wouldn't go to bed because he was enamoured of MM, eyeing him curiously.For some reason MM thinks that all children hate him. He has dark hair. That is sometimes a problem for babies.

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Wednesday October 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

I feel greatly recovered. Dear Margaret Nason is 60 today. We sent a card.

Out we went at 10am with Samuel bolt upright in his pram, just for a walk up Dewsbury Road. We saw a second hand baby-walker and bought it for £8. In it, Samuel set off like the clappers but in a backwards direction. Snapped some photos of our son and heir in the park. 

A quiet afternoon. Audrey is hungover after yesterday's funeral observance. At 3:30 we went to town and collected the Fraser Studio photos of Sam. Framed at £18 for three. Exquisite. We saw Diane on the Headrow. Looking at Samuel she exclaimed; "Oh, isn't he like a little boy!?" She invited us to her and Paul's wedding, Aug 31, 1985, and says she wants to honeymoon on a Greek island. Home for crumpets at 5:30. Poor Maureen was hobbling like a pensioner. Busy evening.

The Queen is holidaying with Lord Porchester and Michael Oswald in the US of A, in Kentucky and Wyoming, looking for baby race horses. Private excursions of our sovereign to foreign parts are extremely rare. She has previously visited France, incognito. 

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Tuesday October 9, 1984

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Full Moon

A happy birthday to the Duke of Kent and Lord Hailsham. The latter is 77 and the oldest member of HMG. The Tories are rallying at Blackpool for the party conference this week, and perhaps I won't be spattering blood and cornflakes over my breakfast TV as I have done recently looking in on excerpts from the other party gatherings. Will Norman Beresford Tebbit be PM after Mrs T is elevated to be Countess of Grantham?

Pam's dad's funeral party boosted our takings today. The place was seething with ladies of a voluptuous appearance. My throat continues bad. At 3:30 we went to bed until Sammy's tea time. I struggled out of my damp pit at 5:30, sweating, but greatly improved. Sammy didn't sleep until 7:15 when Ally came to join me. John came in with his work associate, Joe. Whisky and beer. I sat with them for a while and they left at 10. We had no staff this evening, of course. A lad called Andy (Bowden) asked for a job. He looked promising. In bed I finished 'Solo' by Higgins.

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Monday October 8, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Columbus Day, USA / Thanksgiving Day Canada

Stand well back, I have a cold. Not a cold exactly, but my throat is dry, burning in fact, and I feel a sweat on my back. Sadly, I cannot give in to it and have to make sure that HMS Moorhouse sails on into the night. 

Wet, yet muggy. I am letting my condition depress me. Andy (aka Kenneth Anderson) of Tom, Tom and Andy fame gave in to his tortuous cancer at 4:30pm casting a morbid cloud over our proceedings for the duration of the evening. We took on the aura of a chapel of rest. Andy was 54. Pool night. Sandwiches, &c. To bed shattered and sweating at 11. Ally had a plate of sandwiches, but I couldn't.

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Sunday October 7, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

16th Sunday after Trinity

A pleasant sort of day really. We lounged about a good deal. Breakfast was followed by a brisk walk with Samuel. Footballers were playing in the park but we didn't tarry. We harnessed Samuel into a swing and he kicked with glee as we pushed him to and fro. Later we ploughed into a roast leg of lamb, Yorkshire puddings and eighteen assorted veg, &c. Samuel ate two puddings. TV was horrendous. I wallowed in old yellow cooking fat cleaning the fryers. Later saw Donald Pleasance in 'Barchester' and sweaty 'Tenko' which goes on and on. To bed at 10:30 - not exactly in bed, we lolled on the top - I read Jack Higgins. Solo is gripping. The girls in the bar left at 11 and I went down to make sure that people were not still there making merry.

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Saturday October 6, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Long lost Uncle Harry is 62 today - somewhere in the wilds of Cumbria in the company of his disgustingly youthful yoga instructor. He is such fun.

We went to town after breakfast to collect Sammy's photographs from Boots. They are surprisingly excellent. He looks angelic. The portfolio of photos cost £25. Worth every penny. We long debated which images to share with our mamas.

On to Club St. Mrs Beale's house has been sold. I asked 'Nutty Norman' for the details. He said: "Oh, she's dead. They found her one morning. She made a will leaving me everything, and I've sold the lot." With that, wearing his dressing gown, he headed to the fish and chip shop. Poor Phyllis Beale. I remember going to tell her that Samuel had been born, and she was sat drying her hair with an old Morphy Richards hair dryer. Did old Norman inherit that too? We returned to Leeds at 2. A football crowd came in from Sheffield and for a moment I thought we might have some 'bovver'. Quiet evening. Dead really. I was shagged out. Ally helped out with Mavis and I sat yawning. Brian Pickup was in with Big Wilf  from the Eagle.We cleaned afterwards but finished by 1am.

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Friday October 5, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

I am going blue in the face watching the Labour party conference. What buffoons. Lord Wilson of Rievaulx, KG, FRS, PC, would turn in his grave - if he was dead. Jim Callaghan spoke. Like Lloyd George was the last ever Liberal prime minister - Callaghan is the last ever Labour PM. Mrs Thatcher will be prime minister into the 1990s and that toad Dr Owen will lead the opposition. You mark my words.

A Scottish evening tonight when Margaret and Maureen worked together. Ally stayed upstairs 'bottoming' the bathroom and I slurped below with Bernie & Co. I gave the girls and Frank & Bernie a drink after time, with Bernie footing the bill. Upstairs for midnight. Read Jack Higgins in bed.

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Thursday October 4, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Sir Horace Seymour.

Sunshine, but chilly. I am writing this in what we grandly call 'the office' but in fact it's a dingy, mustard-painted corridor with a prison cell window at one end. Like the Chateau d'If in fact. However, the 'office' does have a desk and a safe, and two family trees on the wall - one royal and one humble. I think Samuel likes to look at the large, blue royal pedigree pinned there. I roll off the names of distant Spencer forebears, the likes of Sir Horace Beauchamp Seymour (1791-1851). It would please me if in years to come the boy could show interest in genealogy but I do suppose we have bred a budding communist agitator with leanings towards squash, windsurfing and micro-electronics. Ally played darts and pool. I worked with Margaret.

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Wednesday October 3, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Ally stayed in bed until after 10am. In a thunderstorm we ventured into Leeds  to collect our 'tramp convention' photos. We were like drowned rats. Dripping around Marks & Spencer. Why did everyone else look snuff dry? Are we perhaps a trifle slow? To Mothercare and bought Samuel a plastic pushchair cover, somewhat belatedly. £11. Back for tea and crumpets. Samuel ate with rellish. Watched Felicity Kendal in The Good Life, from the early 70s. The news was dominated by A. Scargill and the Kinnocks in Blackpool. Ally is concerned that Labour might win in '87. We contemplate emigrating somewhere with a suitably right-wing flavour. How about Bolivia?

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Tuesday October 2, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

I sat this afternoon, late on, bouncing Sammy up and down and watching the Labour party conference on TV. That Kinnock fellow needs pyschiatric treatment. He cannot see that the vast bulwark of the Maoist left will soon gobble him up. Silly little pillock. All this 'comrade' banter is nauseating.

Just Ally and I tonight (at work). Quiet. Old Tom says Andy is having morphine injections and has only 48 hours left. Poor bugger. Upstairs at 11 I woke Sammy. I was banging around in the kitchen. A furore followed.

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Monday October 1, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

The Angel & White Horse.

Good old October is here. Last year we were at the Why Not and I think we had just experienced our first riot. What an experience. I went down and phoned Rob (Piper) to get a lift to the brewery. It's to attend a briefing of the managers after last Wednesday's liaison committee meeting. He came here at 5 and I said my fond farewells to my two precious slugs. We went to the Duncan pub to collect the poor little manager of that den of iniquity. The pub, in Duncan St, Leeds, takes £4,500 a week and the manager has 150 staff hours. At Taddy we sat in the green room, appropriately as we were all like cabbages. We listened to Colin Black, Donna (Lea) and David Tyne. It was just a formality of them reading minutes and asking us for any comments. Later, we fell into the Angel and White Horse. _____ was crawling around Mrs Lea like a sex starved Doberman Pinscher. Rob & Kath dropped the Duncan manager and I and went for dinner and so we were left with CW, who really resents his new baby for taking away his independence, &c. Such a selfish shit. I had too much Old Brewery Bitter and felt canned. Ally phoned to say the lights in the bar at home had fused, but that an electrician was on the way. Wills dropped me at home at 9 and I found the place looking like a fairy grotto, lit by emergency lights. I didn't go behind the bar but stood 'entertaining' the customers. For some reason old Harold thinks I am a first cousin of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Bed late after recounting the evenings events to Ally.

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