Saturday December 17, 1977

Party goers at Muswell Hill.

_.To a disco at Hatfield in Hertfordshire. Only half a dozen of us in the place but we enjoyed the scene. Fun really.  Just Jacqui, Joy, Pete (Jacqui's brother) and I went. Home at 2:30am. Drank whisky. All really pissed. Jacqui says she may be moving to Leeds next year.







-=-

Friday December 16, 1977

Groucho.

_.To London with my nose running all over the coach. Jacqui met me at Victoria and we went straight to Muswell Hill, which took hours. Party there tonight. My Groucho was good. Jacqui was Shirley Temple, Joy was Liza Minelli, and Jan a gypsy.

Jacqui as Shirley Temple.

Thursday December 15, 1977

Full of cold. Water is pouring from my every molecule. It wouldn't be so bad but my visit to London on the morrow will be completely ruined.

Sarah and John MacMurray came tonight and we went to the Hermit (Burley Woodhead) for a drink. I hate it because of my state of health. ________.

Home at 11 and pack everything including plastic flowers, morning coat and false facial attire. Off to bed. Shit, I'm going to die, I think.

-=-

Wednesday December 14, 1977

_Went with Mum and Dad into the depths of Leeds to see Great Aunt Annie (Kirk), my grandmother Rhodes's sister. Uncle John, at the door, wouldn't let us in, and shouted through the letter box: 'Come back nearer Christmas!' They thought we were Carol singers. She was thrilled to see us and told us tales of hilarity about her father, Charlie Henty. Henty, a jockey, married Polly Upton, my great-grandmother, some years after the birth of my grandmother. My grandmother's father is an unknown quantity, if you get my meaning. It seems that Charlie broke both ankles in a pre-1914 Grand National. How intriguing.

-=-

Tuesday December 13, 1977

I am very interested in the Plantagenets now. Oh, don't get me wrong - I'm not deserting the House of Windsor, but  I am captivated by my ancestor King Edward III and his offspring, John of Gaunt especially. I will have to see if anything factual on this guy is in the store at Leeds Library. I have rarely delved beyond the Tudors and 'Good Queen Bess', but now my curiosity has been aroused there's no stopping me.

Fat, poxy, 48 year-old Queen.

The Stuarts were all very well but who wants to read about a fat, poxy 48 year-old Queen who's had thirteen children none of whom survived to tell the tale?

Quiet evening. Saw a play on the BBC called 'Charades' by Lady Antonia Fraser. Quite good. Took a bath at 11 and then retired after a hot drink with Mum and Dad at the foot of the troublesome Christmas tree. Who would have imagined that a yard of bloody tinsel could cause so much ill-will and general brutal violence? The house last night resembled a National Front Christmas party, the type we see on Labour party political broadcasts these days.

\

Monday December 12, 1977

Clementine Spencer-Churchill went off from this world to join Winston this afternoon. The old bird died of a heart attack at the age of 92. This item proved to be the dominant feature on the 6 o'clock news because the BBC is tiring of the firemens' strike and the procrastinations of Mr Wedgwood Benn. I must write to Judith. She loves to talk about Winnie and Clem.

Clementine: went to join Winston.

Work was carried out in the usual fashion. Sarah is back in action, and so is Eileen, who's been off since God knows when.

At home we had the traditional family bust up over the erection of the Christmas tree. I told Lynn where she could stick the tinsel, and dear Mother became quite heated. Susan even threatened to go out until we had all calmed down. Papa took leave of his senses. It was horrific and as is always the case, I lost on all counts. In any crisis the family always sticks together to attack me violently. Mum thinks the sun shines out of Lynn's arse, which I don't mind in the least, but I do object when the collective fury, wrath - call it what you will - is flung at me. However, as eldest child I suppose it's quite natural that I should be the scapegoat. Just like the relationship between the Hanoverian kings and successive Princes of Wales for instance? Clement Freud's grandad no doubt knew all about this psychological phenomena.

It is now several hours since the 'Great Christmas Tree Bust Up' and I wish to re-assess the situation. I was most certainly not defeated in the battle. Dad just attempted to give Lynn and I a piece of his mind about the outburst of childish bickering and I discovered a certain eloquence that has laid dormant since my school debating days. I retired to bed feeling like Sir Winston Churchill. The funny thing about it all is that Lynn and I laughed ourselves stupid afterwards, and we caused the whole rift in the first place. It got to the situation where we just couldn't look at each other without dissolving.

-=-

Sunday December 11, 1977

3rd in Advent. Not a very comfortable night. Dave and I were tucked up in the same bed again. Me at the bottom and Dave at the top. I kicked him several times in the face.

We eventually took breakfast at noon and went straight into the bar for yet another session. I cut down my alcoholic intake drastically. Bill was amusing. He seems to have taken a shine to me. We chatted away in Rotter's like we were ancient friends.  I fear Garry is very shy.

Queen Victoria: is that a smile?

At 2 we had lunch and watched 'Royal Heritage' with some film of Balmoral including scenes of the Queen and Duke (of Edinburgh) dancing Highland reels at a ghillies ball. The royal way of life is no different to what it was in Victoria's day. Princess Alice, Countess of Athlone was featured too and she said she'd once asked her grandmother, Queen Victoria, whether she had ever said "we are not amused" and the venerable old lady flatly denied she had ever uttered such a sentence. Princess Alice is disappointed. Victoria, she says, is a much maligned monarch.

At 7:30 after bidding farewell to Mr & Mrs Glynn Dave, Bill, Garry and I went to Manchester. More booze (only a slight amount though) and at 8:30 I left for home. Won't be seeing the lads again until the New Year. Dave is working on New Year's Eve. Home by 10:30.

Mum is knitting me a 'sloppy' pullover which, to the horror of all present, doesn't even fit over my head. Certain amendments are going to have to be made, I fear.

Back to the YP in the morning. It's going to take a super human character to get through the day.

-=-