Thursday August 1, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

So-called Yorkshire Day. Harold Wilkinson brought Ally a white rose with which to festoon herself. They all joked about Ally being a Lanc.Of course this isn't so. Where the Hell is Wallasey, the place of her birth? Ally stayed upstairs tonight in a collapsed heap. I have knocked off the tradition of staff taking cash home. It is quite immoral. Customers who buy the girls drinks surely do not expect them to take cash home instead? It is an abuse of the system. Some staff take a fiver home at the end of the evening. If I am to have a written warning from Donna Lea I'll be damned if the staff don't suffer too.

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Wednesday July 31, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn/ Full Moon

Waltergarth.

The last day of this foul, wet July. Surely the nastiest summer in this millennium? Sunny start, but wet later. We went at 9 o'clock to Horton. I drove. I collected my photos from DH first. I stuck a snotty note to his vehicle. Poor Waltergarth. It is hard to describe the complete and utter feeling of loss. I can say nothing to Dad. Sue made a large stew to ward off the cold and we washed it down with cans of strong pale ale. The Nason boys are such a handful. I took my usual afternoon nap and then we walked to find the Troll under the rickety rackety bridge. Jim and Margaret N came. Jim spent the afternoon fixing Dad's lawn mower. I set to and set about the jungle with an appliance belonging to a neighbour. Hard work. I haven't cut grass since Pine Tops. This evening we went to the boring Crown and I drank everything except the awful bitter. Three tattooed skinheads sat farting. Dad baby sat for an hour and then Jim and M took over and allowed him to join us. Sue sat nursing the flea-infested pub moggy. We left at 11. Sammy wide eyed in the back wrapped in a car rug.

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Tuesday July 30, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Ally took Samuel to Lynn's but they were not in. I stuck some of Dad's photos into an album but couldn't do much. The nostalgia choked me. 

It was our evening off, supposedly. I went to the Junction pub at 8 to buy some £1 coins, and to have a pint. Back home I had a few Diet Pils and hung around waiting for David H to return my photos. That little squirt Norman in the tap room tried my patience just a little too much and I dowsed him in a pint of his own lager. An eerie silence fell over the room. People dripping in tense suspension. Naughty of me, I know. I just flipped. Ally infuriated at my behaviour. 'Conduct unbecoming a public house manager' &c. Dave H didn't appear and so I went upstairs. Henry VIII in bed.

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Monday July 29, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Me: July 28.

We collected our fancy dress snaps from the photo processing place. They proved a lively talking point tonight. David Howard asked to borrow them and took them away at 11. Why? he isn't on any of the photos. I smell a rat. He'll be blowing them up and posting them to the Sunday People.

Four years ago today the P. of Wales married Lady Di amidst a burst of national hysteria & pride at St Paul's. What a transformation she (the princess) has undergone. Poor Mum gave a lovely party at Pine Tops. Looking back on those days now is painful. ___________.

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Sunday July 28, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

8th Sunday after Trinity

Gary and I came upstairs for breakfast of bacon and eggs and a Rolling Stones session at 6am only to find Samuel awake and Ally wilting. I gave Sam his breakfast and soon Gary was passed out on the settee. I played with Sam for a few hours and then fell asleep in a chair leaving him rummaging through our vast record collection. Lynn and Dave emerged from their bedroom at 8:30 only to say goodbye and seemed scandalised at my inactivity, and Sam's apparent freedom to roam. Gary staggered out at 12 as Margaret and Marjorie came in. Ally stayed in bed for the remainder of the day with the exception for an hour or so when she emerged for fish and chips. Gary and I worked tonight. We were both washed out and awful. The pub buzzed with chatter about last night. So worthwhile. Audrey, Edna & Co collected £27.80 in the club and the Junction, &c. To bed with Henry VIII by Jasper Ridley. Exhausted.

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Saturday July 27, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

with the Nun & Raquel Welch.

Our fancy dress party. It was atrociously successful. Everyone came and it proved to be an enormous drunken bash. Lynn, Dave, Sue, Pete, John & Janette, Jacqui Sate (and her fiancé, Ian), Karen, Steve, Jill, Tim, &c. &c. It kicked off at 8pm and by 9 all were pissed. Whisky was 31p a tot. Phyllis, a French tart, soon had me on the floor. Maureen came dressed as a naughty nun, her arse hanging out at the back. Jacq and Ian dressed as Edwardian boating types. Geoff, a tramp. Audrey came as a female vagrant, and Edna claimed to be Raquel Welch in the film One Million Years BC. Pam, a schoolgirl hockey player. Tina, a buccaneer with an attached parrot. Lynn a 20s flapper. Sue a bridesmaid. One could go on. The place was buzzing with fun until 12 and then a few invited drunks joined us in the tap room. We danced on the tables. Ally looking delectable in a silver 1950s gown. I was wearing a Ronald Reagan 1940s dinner suit. You must look at the photos to feel the intoxicating atmosphere. Gary stayed the night here. Recall very little of the late session. I do enjoy the company of Jacq.

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Friday July 26, 1985

 Moorhouse Inn

Tim came from the Station (pub) and we sat complaining about Sam Smiths. He has visited the Red Lion at Girlington and has taken a fancy to the place. His recent bonus was nil. He shares my views about the bearded stocktaker. His stocks are down £200 one week, and up £200 the next. This is lunacy in a pub with such small stocks. 

Sue phoned. It's their fifth wedding anniversary today. They are coming tomorrow to our fancy dress extravaganza, but they aren't staying the night because Lynn & Dave & Co have decided to do so. 

Janette has been reprieved for the weekend and allowed home under the condition that she returns to the Clarendon Wing on Monday at 7am. She says she and John will come here tomorrow. 

Joyous peerage news: Patrick Hope-Johnstone has become Earl and Annandale and Hartfell after petitioning the House of Lords. There's hope for me yet. Earl of Pudsey & Stanningley.

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