Wednesday June 29, 1977

Work was ghastly and I made my exit at 3.30pm.  Tony rang later and said he was cheesed off with Barry and I told him to venture to Pine Tops. He arrived looking pale with a revolting tooth ache and within minutes we are on the open road heading in the direction of a tavern.

Tony.

Alcohol is supposedly good for tooth ache. It's also a marvellous cure for back ache, heart ache, and cancer. If nothing else it helps you to die laughing.

The first port of call was the Queen's on Apperley Lane. I am reminded of the late Judith Beevers (see May-Jul 1974) but otherwise it's dead, flat and miserable. The brandy here didn't do much for Tony's throbbing tooth and so we went to the dreaded Drop in Guiseley, where the brandy was equally ineffective.

Tony agrees to take Martyn and I to Stockport on July 9 and says he'll probably bring Linda along too. Will she fit in at the Hollywood? __________. Last call was the Fox & Hounds, Menston.

Home to find Mama and Papa entertaining Edith & Ernest, who have brought a supply of wine with them. I did a spot of tasting myself. A good time was had by all. Night Night.

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Tuesday June 28, 1977

Decent weather for a change. Going down the lane on my journey to the metropolis I was stunned by the sight of vast quantities of nettles in the hedgerows. I decided to set about making nettle wine. "Oh Goody!" I thought to myself: "I can hardly wait to get started!" Subsequently, after tea on this bright, sunny evening I marched out armed with protective rubber gloves and a red plastic bucket on my quest for the most succulent nettles. After half an hour I was more than laden and my wine-making began. In fact I was boiling nettles until long after sun-set and by midnight my part of the creation was complete and the rest was in the capable hands of Mother Nature.

Ruth Ellis.

I did manage to see a bit of television. A documentary on Rubens, the 16th century painter and decorator, and a documentary on Ruth Ellis, the last young lady to die by the rope in these weak-kneed Isles. If I had my way a good many more women would receive the distinction of swinging by the neck from the gallows. Those pretty IRA lady bombers would go for a start. No doubt about it, they knew how to treat criminals in the 1950s.

Retired to bed at about midnight with Burke's Peerage. Did you know that the Duchess of Kent is descended from Oliver Cromwell? (If not then you haven't studied these diaries carefully enough because I've told you before). Felt exhausted and fell to sleep with the bedroom light blazing, only to be discovered by Mama at 3.30am. What was she doing prowling around the house at that God forsaken time?

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Monday June 27, 1977

Stayed in bed until 10.30 which was bliss indeed. It's the sort of thing Rachmaninov would have composed a concerto about. Rhaphsody on a Snoozing theme, &c. (Oh no, I've spelt rhapsody incorrectly).

Pine Tops wine-making ...

After bacon, eggs and mushrooms Peter took Sue and me to Morrison's for more wine-making provisions for Mama. We are going to resemble a brewery before very long - I hope.

All this wine-making takes our mind off the weather at least. Never have I seen such a damp, dismal June. 1976 may well have been the driest period since Henry VIII was a lad but this must surely be the wettest since Noah was up to his tricks.

Lunch with Sue, Pete, Mama and Papa. Watched a film this afternoon on the topical subject of the British working man and strikes (bearing the Grunwick Dispute in mind). Peter Sellers played a shop steward and in one scene, where he is departing from home one morning for picket duty, his wife (Irene Handl) says: "It appears to me, Fred Kite, that you only do any bloody work when you're on strike." Quite an apt statement from little Irene, I fear. Half the bloody pickets in the Grunwick dispute have worked more hours recently than they ever did before. You mark my words.

Evening: Assisted Mama in her wine-making activities which I found enthralling. We made mead as well as a gallon of orange wine. The dining room resembles a distillery, or brewery, or whatever they call a wine-making complex.

I almost phoned Carole today but then thought I'd let her stew, brew, or ferment in her own juice for a few days before doing so. However, I do not feel all that mad about Saturday night - but it was most devilish of her I suppose.

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Sunday June 26, 1977

3rd after Trinity.  After watching the sun rise above Ilkley Moor I decided to go out and investigate. A cuckoo summoned me from the heather (or was it in a tree?) and I pursued the calling for several miles up hill. I went up past the College of Education and past a white-washed cottage near a babbling stream where I lay down and snoozed. After some time I staggered back to the flat with a police patrol car keeping vigilance over me. It was about 6am when I got back and Tony was up and about. He was in fact opening all the letters he'd received this week from his bank manager. It was too much for me and I went to bed.

Ilkley Moor.

We ate eggs and bacon and fried bread at about 10 and then sat around saying what fools we are and how we should know better, &c.

Tony attempted to analyse Carole once more but I feel at times like this that he's got the whole thing wrong or else I'm a lunatic. He always comes to the conclusion that I am to blame for her unstable behaviour.

Home for 11. Lunch with the family. Watched the film 'The L-Shaped Room'. Passed into a coma in the chair and don't feel remotely ready to go in to the YP.

Down the lane at 4 and in the office for 5. Wendy worked tonight too.

Home with the taxi driver who once lectured me on snakes bite remedies. Tonight we discussed the latest Leeds (Ripper) murder and capital punishment. We agreed entirely and I am seriously thinking about nominating him for a parliamentary seat at the coming autumn general election (just a guess). The Taxi Party. Ah, yes, I can see it now. For a start I'd grow a small black moustache and then I'd exterminate all the Scots.

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Saturday June 25, 1977

With Tony and Martyn to Bradford this morning. Martyn got a new pair of jeans and a T-shirt for Ibiza. I'm envious because not two pennies do I possess. Tony is in a very similar situation too.

We then took Martyn to Cleckheaton Golf Course and then went on to Otley to browse around - generally looking for old friends and acquaintances on whom to impose ourselves. Saw Jane (of Peter Mather fame, see Diary Sept 3-4, 1976) on Otley market and she's quite chatty. I'm not all that impressed with her though.

Back to the flat for tea. Read the Daily Express, watched Wimbledon and the Muppet Show and then played some ancient records in Tony's collection. I taped a batch of them so that we can have a sing-along in the car.

Harrogate Arms.

Martyn came at 8.30 and we went out a 9. First to Pool-in-Wharfedale and then to the Harrogate Arms. At the latter Carole is in the lounge with Fogarty and did her best to hide when we walked in. I didn't even spot her but Tony's eye fell on her straight away. I could laugh really. When I was at the bar she went over to chat with the boys and when I approached them laden with glasses she ducked away back to Peter. The childish, stupid bitch. Tony told her to go away and asked her to ring him tomorrow.

Back to the flat where I got horribly drunk and vomited. A concoction of brandy and whisky. Val came to see Tony and they took Martyn home at 1.30. I sat in a chair by candlelight until dawn.

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Friday June 24, 1977

Met Dave B at 1 o'clock and went to Parker's (wine bar) where we see Delia, Sarah, Marilyn and Barbara Wheeler. We had a couple of drinks. Dave chats with Stephanie Ferguson who is in with Linda Shaw and Jo, the editor's 'fallen secretary', who leaves this afternoon.

Duchess: pregnant at 44.

Sarah and I went back to the office at 2 to relieve Carol J who also went over to Parker's to annoy Jo, and no doubt get pissed up. I intended having a quiet afternoon but the phone rang and Sarah spoke to the York Office who want everything we've got on the Duchess of Kent. They say she's pregnant. I just do not believe it. The woman is 44 years-old. Speak to the news desk and yes it is confirmed. Three royal babies before next February. Quite startling really but great news to the ears of one who relishes the spread of the Royal House of Windsor.

Tony returned from the wilds of Hampshire today. He and Martyn came up tonight and the three of us went off to the Bod. Sue (WH Smith of Bradford Sue), Michelle and Co. are in the pub but I'm not too communicative. Michelle tells me she is going to Morocco tomorrow. I just smile and say "nice" but really think going to such a place can only be a mistake. She could end up in the harem of King Hassan. Poor child, she is so naive too.

Tony is fit and cheerful. Pete M, Chris and Steve Hudson came in at 10.30. We left at 11.

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Thursday June 23, 1977

The diaries of John Evelyn have been sold for a tremendous (I keep using that word) sum at Christie's or Sotheby's yesterday. Are you considering put these volumes under the hammer? You might as well.

The 'flying pickets': Grunwick Dispute

A hot day but the Yorkshire Post prevents my becoming involved in it or participating in any of its pleasures. Kathleen was infuriating.

Home at 5 for sandwiches on the lawn with Mama and Papa. Tony rang at 7.30 from deepest Hertfordshire - or wherever Bishop Thingy is. He is back among us tomorrow. It was good to hear him.

Martyn is playing golf somewhere and nothing was heard from him all night.

On the news saw the 'flying pickets' in the Grunwick Dispute. (Please refer to your history books, particularly the Dictionary of National Biography and the illustrious paragraph on Sir Arthur Scargill, KG, NUM, , &c). Someone at home asked what Mr Rees, our beloved Home Secretary, is doing about all the bother and Lynn quipped: "Oh Mrs Rees doesn't like Merlyn watching all this violence on the television and so she hasn't told him about it." Brilliant. No doubt silly Meryln goes to bed when Childrens' Hour finishes. Roll on Margaret Thatcher.

To bed at 11.30 after another squabble with Mama about my financial situation.

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