Sunday April 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Easter Day

Easter day and not an Easter egg to be seen anywhere.Poor, little deprived Samuel. Ah well, he knows nothing about such things this year. I created a gigantic breakfast and then Sue and Pete went out with Christopher and Samuel in to the park. The blossom tree near the pub is in full blossom and one wouldn't believe we are stuck in the middle of Leeds. Susan waddled away with the pram. She has the Wilson ladies 'bandy legs' and from the rear she is very reminiscent of my aunt, Eleanor Myers. Pete still doesn't have an ounce of fat on him and looks very John Cleese-ish. We took them home at 2:30. Peter having spent some time at the bar with Frank & Bernie McCarron. We drove to John's. He wasn't in. On to Lynn's to look at the foundations forn the new erection. Blenheim in the early stagers must have resembled this. The Bakers went on to see Audrey, who remains bed-bound still. Back to John's. He has the children. We showed them our wedding video cassette which followed 'Star Wars' and preceded 'The Wind in the Willows'. JPH is fatter. He and Catherine are very polite children.

Moorhouse: Jane is 26 today. Very busy at 10:30. Ally slept from 8:30.

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Saturday April 21, 1984

 Birthday of Queen Elizabeth II

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Hot & Sunny. Her Majesty the Queen is 58 years old today. God Bless you, Ma'am. I ate my 'full-English' breakfast singing 'Happy Birthday dear Queen' which amused Christopher. 'Happy Birthday to You' is his favourite tune and Dad sings it with gusto everytime they visit Horton.

We dragged out the outside tables, umbrellas, &c. Sat in the carpark sunning ourselves and slurping. A summers day in April cannot be bad. Joe Cullen came over and told me of his sexploits with the nubile June. He is still copulating in the back seat of cars, in hedgerows and other rural settings, ~ and he's 40 years old.

Chicken salad and afternoon naps. John sauntered in at 9pm with Christopher Ratcliffe. After ten minutes they escaped to the Blooming Rose for Tetley's ale. We were so dead in the bar here. We went upstairs at closing and caught the end of a Woody Allen film. Hilarious. 

And, so to bed.

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Friday April 20, 1984

 Good Friday

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

In days of old I complained , nay played hell, about the archaic licensing laws on this Holy day. Not now.

It was a quiet afternoon. A dead loss in fact. Bright and sunny though and at 2:30 we drove over to Guiseley and collected Sue, Peter and Christopher. She had a rabbit casserole and Yorkshire puddings on the table. She is big (pregnant big) but not like two years ago and is set in her mind that she is having a girl. I do hope so. Another troublesome lad would be hopeless. Christopher is becoming Peter's double. We had a few drinks with the Nasons but didn't go daft and at some reasonable hour we went upstairs for coffee. Poor Susie is like a whale. Undecided about names. They like the name James, hate Benjamin, and Samantha is high on the list.

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Thursday April 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Maundy Thursday.

Very busy. Easter fever. Conversation with Susie. They are coming for Easter. The poor girl never goes out. They haven't had a holiday since their honeymoon in '80 and Christopher must be very trying. Spoke to our mums. Mine is busy with Easter walkers, and Ally's is worried about Frank who has another stone in a kidney. The man eats too much. 

Samuel is 14 weeks old. Frantic tonight. Tap room packed. Must be Giro night. The old man whose dog barks when I call 'time' at closing stormed out complaining about my beer. Sod him.

Had a glimpse of the Sovereign on the news. She was with Torvill & Dean - of all people. Does Her Majesty have a soft spot for these sickly ice-skating types?

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Wednesday April 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

The siege (at the Libyan embassy) goes on and the Home Secretary has left his dinner with the Queen at Windsor to conduct the whole business personally in St James's Square. Bomb Tripoli, that's what I advise. 

Our so-called day off. We stayed here to do the lunches but only took about thirty bob in two hours which is hopeless. To Club Street, dear Club Street. The place looked very well and the garden a mass of spring flowers. I went to have a haircut and spent £5. Not my usual 'hair stylist' because he doesn't open on Wednesdays. I came back at 5:15 to find Ally at Mary's. I joined them for coffee and biscuits. It's a relief to learn that nobody has dropped dead on the street since Charles Eyden. Mary had us gripped with the further adventures of .Nutty Norman', the Club St lunatic. The man is permanently in his pyjamas. 

Back to Leeds. Watched TV. Danny La Rue on 'This Is Your Life'. A plethora of homosexuality filled the studio. They were all out in force. We sat together ~ the three of us. Ally went down at 11 to help rid the pub of the boozy clientel and came back in a rage. Some members of staff will have to go. Bed.

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Tuesday April 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

PC Yvonne Fletcher.

A WPC called Yvonne Fletcher has been shot dead in London by some thugs from inside the Libyan embassy who now, presumably, have diplomatic immunity under the Vienna Convention. How disgusting. Send in the SAS, Maggie. Who cares about Libya anyway? Nothing more than a rat-infested pin-prick, a blob, somewhere in Africa. Surely, the severance of our relations with Libya will not affect us one tiny bit. And as for Colonel Gadaffi? He is on a par with Arthur Scargill. The PM is in Portugal but no doubt keeping an ear to the phone. The Home Secretary is dining with Her Majesty at Windsor. We dined here, bloody furious at the invasion of our streets by the (expletive withheld) fanatics disguised as diplomats.

Bessie's sister Joan has sent us a 'new baby' card, a little late, and a Mothercare suit. Samuel looks so grown up in it. He does beam brilliantly. He sleeps so well and then when he awakes he doesn't wail but waits patiently for someone to notice him.

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Monday April 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c.

Ally was tired out today. I came upstairs at one point and found her sleeping on the couch like a beautiful doll, with Samuel asleep across her lap, his smooth white legs hanging like sausages. 

The brewery.

I phoned Rob Piper at the Butchers and scrounged a lift to Cadtaster (sic). He came at 5 and sat in the car blowing the horn. We drove to the brewery talking about staff and stocks. He has it all sewn up. He does no work and yet has the same staff hours as me. Where am I going wrong? We saw Fran O'Brien in the car park. He is a creeping bastard. We all went into the dull Regency-style room, where LG interviewed us last year, and we sat around a large table covered in a green cloth. Like a billiard table without the holes. About a dozen of us. I was sat between Don Whitfield, and a man with spectacles called Littlejohn-Scott, from the Hansom Cab where he says the clientel are 'heathens'. He looked like Dr Crippen or the murderer Christie. Colin Black is in love with Colin Black. He is about 3ft 6ins tall and suffers from the Napoleon syndrome. LG was his usual self. Dear Donna went through the minutes of the last liaison  committee meeting. Nobody ever says a word. We have eight new beers to sell from next month. David Tyne bought us all a drink in the pub next door and Rob and I left after ten minutes. LG took me on one side and told me that he has put a letter to me in the post re our stocktakes, and I inmmediately thought to myself: 'Aye aye, it's the bloody chop'. What a queer old business this is. It's worse than ancient Rome. Back to the Moorhouse. Ally was coping nicely. Maureen says I look pissed. After two halves of Sam Smith's bitter? Not bloody likely.

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