Friday September 16, 1983

 The Why Not, Hemlington

Up at 6:30 and packed the car. Our last Linthorpe breakfast. We went to the Why Not at 9 and on to court with Fogarty and Fran O'Brien at 9:30. I went into the box at the magistrates' court and took the protection order without any problems. Mr O'B was keen to hear all about my interview with Inspector Dale. I think he expected to do battle if need be. I have yet to see the horrible side of Fran O'Brien, and no doubt it will come all too soon. We went back to the Why Not where Ally was with the insipid Anne Fogarty. The fire alarms and burglar alarms sounded off and the whole place was in uproar because nobody could stop the racket. Fogarty, in an act of desperation, smashed a pool cue into the box and brought silence to the place. Eventually the Fogartys went and we were left alone. Ally will make a good manageress. Such a good head on her shoulders and she will not tolerate inefficiency. Some of the barmaids leave a lot to be desired and seem to be as dim as Toc-H lamps. Tip sheets and electric tills puzzle them. So, who would have thought it, eh? To think that on this sixteenth day of September in the Year of Our Lord 1983 that Alison and I would be running a licensed establishment. Indeed a divine offering from above. Praise be to the Lord.

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Thursday September 15, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Hungover. I spent £17 on whisky last night. I was in bed for the duration but Ally was good and took herself off to the shops, and was happy, busy and bright. Eventually I came back to life and we went to Asda at Billingham and spent £39 on tinned tomatoes, &c. I am nervous about the ordeal ahead. I do not want our first foray into relief management to be a bloody disaster with murder and glass fights, &c. Our last night at the Linthorpe. We owe Roy so much. A brisk goodbye. Carol and Rose kissed us, but Mags refused, saying she will not say goodbye to people she'll see again. To bed at 11:30 with no gala or sing-song. Ally didn't want fireworks.

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Wednesday September 14, 1983

Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Rudd's Arms.

Our much needed day off. We stayed in bed only until 9. Mags was startled to see me padding round in the kitchen. The insurance cover note arrived and we walked up to Forshaw's at 12:30 to collect Mandy metro. She was gleaming on the forecourt. We couldn't collect her immediately and we went to the Master Cooper and had lunch with the reprobate Timothy. He wants out of the business. A fat man from Accrington came to inspect the place and went off to the Why Not afterwards. Ally didn't like this. She wants a long stint at the tiny Hemlington madhouse. We went to buy something pink and woolly for young Sanderson and then went to collect our automobile at 3:30. Back at the Linthorpe we went up to lay on the bed, like you do, and discussed our plans for the night. We went out at 6:30. The car lights failed to work and we drove, Ally in a rage, to Dutton Forshaw's, and a man connected several wires. He was very close to death. We went then to Rudd's Arms at Marton, a Beefeater, and sat giggling at a table. T-bone steaks again. No, Ally had a rump. Not as good as the Beefeater at Chandler's Ford, but a good nosh for £14. Pouring rain. Back to the crowded Linnie at 9:30, and we sat in the snug with Paul Grainger and Jake and his girlfriend Emma. Ally was tired and decided not to to go out to the Speakeasy to celebrate Rose's 24th birthday. I was given permission to attend and we did much kissing for the night of separation. I went down to bar and had a strawberry mivvi cocktail (£3.49) then switched to large whiskies with dry ginger. In a taxi with Roy and Maca to the Speakeasy, a smoke filled brothel if ever I saw one. With Rose, Ian (her Hells Angel lover), Mags, Marie, Eric, Roy, Jon-Paul, Ron Perry, JT, Carol, &c. We went on to the 53 Club, a gay spot where young men sat groping, and heavily tattooed women, toothless at that, sat swigging other peoples brandy. We danced and clowned around. It was one of those nights when everyone went quite daft. We ended by singing the 23rd psalm, all in full voice, much to the consternation of the manager, who was the salesman who had sold us our chairs. Back at the Linnie. Marie to bed. I went to bed at 4:30 or 5. Not hideously stoned, but pleasantly.

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Tuesday September 13, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Roy took us to a smelly sale room where we bought two very tatty armchairs (Parker Knoll) and a ghastly table to use as an office desk. The rounded, gipsy-like salesman, a galloping homosexual, ia a former proprietor of the Wellington. There was a heap of dog excretia on the saleroom floor. I speculated it might be a piece of contemporary art. Anyway, it must help to keep flies out of the kitchen. The car insurance didn't arrive and so the little mini metro cannot be ours until tomorrow. Frank has got us a 30 day cover note. We went to see Inspector Dale at Hemlington, who did his best to terrify us about the Why Not, and thinks I am inexperienced and completely unsuitable. However, the police will not oppose my application for a license. Baby names: Roy and Marie think like we do. William was not fashionable in 1966, but is back up there now thanks to HRH. They like Oliver and Samuel too. The pregnant barmaid Janice or Janet is going to call her child Anthony or Carol. Ugh. Back from the sale room we went to bed. Mum phoned at 4:30 to say that Karen gave birth to a daughter at 3pm. The baby is to be Hayley Lauren as in Mills and Bacall. Hilda, when speaking to Mum, was in a highly emotional state. Tony is away in London busily steel erecting. Steve so wanted a daughter. The Sandersons are all male and the Gadsbys all female.

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Monday September 12, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

To the vault. Ally did all the tills at 10:30pm and then spent a couple of hours in the office after closing because tomorrow Roy is going to show her the cellars. Should be fun. A throng of policemen filled the bar after time. One was celebrating the birth of his second son (Iain) a brother for Craig. Some people have absolutely no imagination when it comes to names. A big, bearded bloke with a face like Capt Webb on the match boxes reassured me about the Why Not. A local there by the name of Peter Clayton is in custody after attempting to murder a friend, and so we won't be bothered by him. Mr Nicolson, a pleasant Scot who is an insurance investigator, was also propping up the bar. He drinks Glenfiddich. He thinks I'm Roy's son. Roy was pissed on massive gins and bitter lemon. The bottle of Chivas Regal came out and I went to join Ally after two large glasses. She was tired after her late night count.

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Sunday September 11, 1983

 15th Sunday after Trinity

Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Sat with Marie and did no session in the bar. Looked at books and pages of figures. At 12 Roy took us to the Why Not? where we spent two hours with the hideous Fogartys. Complete snobs. He is moving to a country club at Farnham, Surrey, and beside himself with excitement that he is to employ a retired wing commander to do his 'bottling up'. Fogarty is a small bearded man, with very bad breath, who seemed to be frightened to death. A small monkey. Ally detested him from th start.  They have an Irish Wolf Hound called Seamus.

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Saturday September 10, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

I am far too busy to keep a diary. I have been saying this for years but it is the case today more than ever before. I needn't tell you it isn't actually the 10th today as I write. In fact it's many wine sodden days later and the diarist, dear reader, is older, wiser, and poorer. However, September 10 cannot be ignored. It would be such a shame to allow it to pass by without a mention. A horrible wet day. Roy dropped us at Dutton Forshaw's and we went for a spin with the greasy Mr Docherty. Ally took the wheel and was masterful to the extent that the saleman was struck dumb. The starter proved to be knackered, but we never take possession of cars smoothly. Mr Foreskin insists all will be well when we take delivery of the vehicle on Tuesday or Wednesday next week. He assures us we will be driving Mandy (for it is she) until 1993 and beyond. Salesmen are such ghastly little men, eh? What am I? If you can sell beer, you can sell anything, says Roy. I would never have thought I had it in me. Ah, well.

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