John's party. The social turn-out of the season, equalled only by Royal Ascot and Princess Margaret's monthly orgies at Kensington Palace. Everyone that meant anything came, and herein is the list:-
Lynn Rhodes
Susan Rhodes
Alison Dixon
Jackie Myers
Christine Dibb
dear Laura
Christine Whitethighs (Phyllis)
Carol Smith
Linda Smith
Denise Akroyd
Christopher Ratcliffe
Andy Graham
Ray?
Peter Mather
Martyn Cole
David Baker
Keith Brown
Peter Nason, &c.
Jackie came at about 6.30 and we went to the Hare at 8. Chris was being his usual over-jovial self, and Denny looked stunning in a rather plain, yet attractive Hartnell creation. Ray (Bond?) and Dave Baker came too, and we move on to the Commercial which is packed to the hilt like the Social Security office on pay day. See Keith, &c and remind him about the party. Home at 11 after Papa had purchased several pints of ale for me. Everyone arrives by 11.30 though Dave Lawson never actually turned up. Didn't drink much in excess, though Auntie Hilda's home brewed parsnip wine knocked the top off my sober self. Harry Monkman did his usual party piece. Alison and I went round at about 1am and poured water through his letter-box, which in the colder soberness of Sunday morning still seems very funny. My sense of humour is one of the mosr regal aspects of my character. After all, King Edward VII and King George VI both had this boy-like humour which remained with them until they end of their days, and so do I. Danced until 4.30 on Sunday morning. Curtains have fallen on the romance between Lynn and Ronnie, and I did keep getting a glimpse of her at the side of good old Dave Baker, who's always had an affectionate bond with her. I expected getting a bed but found Andy and Linda in mine when I drifted up at 4.30am. Ended up in the lounge sprawled between two chairs. Chris was on the floor in a sleeping bag, and Lynn and Jackie shared the settee. Most people went home, even Denny. Throughout the whole evening Mum and Dad were the ultimate in fun and kindness & it completely destroys the theory about generation gaps, &c. Hate parties coming to end, it's abominable.
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20091115
Friday September 27, 1974
Carol and I are alone all day at the YP. She discloses to me that one of the new journalists, who seems to be a bit of a drip, is the eldest son and heir of Viscount Monckton of Brenchley. If I'd have known this last week I'd have doffed my cap or something when he approached me in the search for some things that had gone missing from his desk.
On the subject of the peerage, I see in the YP that the Duke of Roxburghe died yesterday after collapsing on his grouse moor. The new duke is a 19 year-old soldier who is in Cyprus at the moment. He is the youngest duke living at the moment. (I bet that piece of information gave everyone a tremendous thrill & rivetted you all to the diary, tongues hanging out in anticipation for more tales of an equally seductive character).
To the Hare and Hounds tonight. Carol and John are still deep in the depths of new romance, though I must say most of the passion seems to come from Carol, __________, as I discovered at one of our parties last November. Denny baby sits tonight and is not with us.
All go to Wikis where I accidentally stand on the toes of an attractive young lady while dancing, which results in my spending the remainder of the night with her. She's called Sarah Jane and lives in Otley and is a personal friend of Dave Baker's. Quite a pleasant diversion anyway. Come home quite alone in the rain at 2.30. Clad only in my trousers and shirt sleeves I was rather soggy on my arrival at the Rhodes ancestral pile.
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On the subject of the peerage, I see in the YP that the Duke of Roxburghe died yesterday after collapsing on his grouse moor. The new duke is a 19 year-old soldier who is in Cyprus at the moment. He is the youngest duke living at the moment. (I bet that piece of information gave everyone a tremendous thrill & rivetted you all to the diary, tongues hanging out in anticipation for more tales of an equally seductive character).
To the Hare and Hounds tonight. Carol and John are still deep in the depths of new romance, though I must say most of the passion seems to come from Carol, __________, as I discovered at one of our parties last November. Denny baby sits tonight and is not with us.
All go to Wikis where I accidentally stand on the toes of an attractive young lady while dancing, which results in my spending the remainder of the night with her. She's called Sarah Jane and lives in Otley and is a personal friend of Dave Baker's. Quite a pleasant diversion anyway. Come home quite alone in the rain at 2.30. Clad only in my trousers and shirt sleeves I was rather soggy on my arrival at the Rhodes ancestral pile.
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Thursday September 26, 1974
Nothing (of interest) at the YP. Go to Denny's with John and Chris at about 8.30 and go down to the local for a few drinks, coming back to 'The Grange' an hout later to see the programme 'Shoulder to Shoulder' dealing with the suffragettes and all the problems they had facing them before World War One. The prog. this week deals with Emily Davison who killed herself under the King's horse at the 1913 Derby. Leave dear Denny's residence at about midnight. Dog tired. Sleep immediately.
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20091113
Wednesday September 25, 1974
John's 18th birthday. Don't see him before leaving for the YP but at 12 (it's my half day) we all meet in the Generation Bar beneath the Jubilee. Christine Phyllis Whitethighs, Denny, Chris, and one of Phyllis's friends. Spend about an hour drinking here, before Denny, Chris, the birthday boy and myself move on to the Emmotts, which is in the midst of being decorated at the moment and looks better without that awful purple, flock wallpaper. After pie and peas and cinzanos in the E. we go back to Denny's where John feels rather faint and finds it necessary to go lay down upstairs. The remaining three of us watch a repeat of Galsworthy's 'Forsyte Saga' part one, first shown in 1967. It was good but seemed very dated. Home for tea and see all the hilarious birthday cards lined up. One from Andy was intended for an 8-year-old girl, and Dave L sent a card 'Birthday Wishes Today You are 2'. I stayed in tonight, whilst John went to the Hare with Carol, Chris and a few others - even Laura turned up.
At 9.30 MM came to see me. I was most surprised, though I expected to see him sometime this week before his departure to Sheffield on Monday. He gave me his address, &c. John and Chris came back for coffee and we all sat about until 11. Came to bed and looked at Dad's police magazines & see the article I had published in the issue of Sept 1972. Quite funny.
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At 9.30 MM came to see me. I was most surprised, though I expected to see him sometime this week before his departure to Sheffield on Monday. He gave me his address, &c. John and Chris came back for coffee and we all sat about until 11. Came to bed and looked at Dad's police magazines & see the article I had published in the issue of Sept 1972. Quite funny.
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Tuesday September 24, 1974
Typical Autumn day. Very bright, sunny, but cold and chilly.
Nothing in the newspapers worth mentioning, though the electioneering bumf is once more rolling off the Press. Anthony Crosland attacked dear old Margaret Thatcher, who, if I remember correctly, abolished school milk and performed a great, kind service to the millions of little milk-haters throughout the United Kingdom.
Mother says she's lost heart with creepy little Harold (Wilson), and intends placing her vote with Mr Thorpe on Oct 10th.
Marita rings me at the YP in the morning and says she'll be at the Generation Bar in order to celebrate John's birthday tomorrow, and Denny rings in the afternoon to say the same thing. Quite looking forward to Wednesday's birthday gathering in that small ale cellar beneath the Jubilee pub close to Leeds Town Hall. With some relief on my part, though not on John's, tomorrow will see the legalisation of his drinking habits, which have gradually increased over the past 2 years.
Sit watching TV all evening. Nothing other than election rubbish, which deals with speculation that another so-called Labour peer is planning to defect to the Liberals. Harold Wilson refuses even to accept that Lord Chalfont is a member of the Labour party. Cowards way out I say.
That aristocratic drunkard, Lady Jane Wellesley, is making a name for herself in electioneering circles. Her brother Lord Douro is a Tory candidate in the Islington constituency, and she's going round the streets singing slogans and handing out leaflets. The Prince of Wales can hardly marry a girl who has led an active political life, and I suppose this is the straw that'll break the camel's back. Her drinking was bad enough, but this?
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Nothing in the newspapers worth mentioning, though the electioneering bumf is once more rolling off the Press. Anthony Crosland attacked dear old Margaret Thatcher, who, if I remember correctly, abolished school milk and performed a great, kind service to the millions of little milk-haters throughout the United Kingdom.
Mother says she's lost heart with creepy little Harold (Wilson), and intends placing her vote with Mr Thorpe on Oct 10th.
Marita rings me at the YP in the morning and says she'll be at the Generation Bar in order to celebrate John's birthday tomorrow, and Denny rings in the afternoon to say the same thing. Quite looking forward to Wednesday's birthday gathering in that small ale cellar beneath the Jubilee pub close to Leeds Town Hall. With some relief on my part, though not on John's, tomorrow will see the legalisation of his drinking habits, which have gradually increased over the past 2 years.
Sit watching TV all evening. Nothing other than election rubbish, which deals with speculation that another so-called Labour peer is planning to defect to the Liberals. Harold Wilson refuses even to accept that Lord Chalfont is a member of the Labour party. Cowards way out I say.
That aristocratic drunkard, Lady Jane Wellesley, is making a name for herself in electioneering circles. Her brother Lord Douro is a Tory candidate in the Islington constituency, and she's going round the streets singing slogans and handing out leaflets. The Prince of Wales can hardly marry a girl who has led an active political life, and I suppose this is the straw that'll break the camel's back. Her drinking was bad enough, but this?
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Monday September 23, 1974
Nothing to report other than the fact that I've taken over Mrs Beaumont's desk, which commands a better view of the YP newsroom.
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Sunday September 22, 1974
15th after Trinity. Up at nearly 12. Have little bacon for breakfast and discuss changing my driving test date with that of Mamas. Come upstairs and unpack and have a bath.
Today is the 26th birthday of Capt Mark Phillips. Let the Bells toll their Joyous News throughout the Kingdom! Some sort of public celebration really ought to be lavished upon the young captain who, after all, rescued Britain's favourite princess from spinsterhood.
The Gadsbys come after tea, and John and I go to the Hare in the 1100 after collecting Carol from her Yeadon residence.
Dave comes with Chris, and never do I fail to have hysterics when Mr Lawson is on the scene. Move on to that soddin' little pub in Askwith that doesn't sell crisps, peanuts 'or anything of that nature, sir'. Snobs! I wouldn't mind but it's only bloody Askwith, not Ascot.
Back to Westfield Fisheries where I dissolved into fits of laughter at Dave, who looking at the large, sprawling woman said: "She must eat two fish for every one she serves." Absolutely sick to death of laughing.
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Today is the 26th birthday of Capt Mark Phillips. Let the Bells toll their Joyous News throughout the Kingdom! Some sort of public celebration really ought to be lavished upon the young captain who, after all, rescued Britain's favourite princess from spinsterhood.
The Gadsbys come after tea, and John and I go to the Hare in the 1100 after collecting Carol from her Yeadon residence.
Dave comes with Chris, and never do I fail to have hysterics when Mr Lawson is on the scene. Move on to that soddin' little pub in Askwith that doesn't sell crisps, peanuts 'or anything of that nature, sir'. Snobs! I wouldn't mind but it's only bloody Askwith, not Ascot.
Back to Westfield Fisheries where I dissolved into fits of laughter at Dave, who looking at the large, sprawling woman said: "She must eat two fish for every one she serves." Absolutely sick to death of laughing.
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