Friday January 10, 1975

My first drinking session in what seems like several decades. Go to the Hare as usual with Lynn, John and Mr Baker. Joined by Keith, Helen, Andy and Linda, and the semi-human slag heap herself _____. Had a few minutes hysteria with Miss Christine Dibb concerning my patchouli oil. She says I've gone freaky and have 'crept out of my shell before the world is quite ready for me'. Such a perfect scattering of wit I have yet encountered.

Came home from the YP tonight on the same bus as Phyllis Whitethighs. She kept having to nudge me to stop deathly unconsciousness creeping upon me.

Unfortunately, everyone has undergone a severe set back, mentally, since last week, when they all rushed to Wikis, regardless of a lack of monetary reserves, and categorically refuse to entertain ideas about inhabiting the highly favoured nightclub this night. Miserable buggers they are. I think ____ overheard me refer to her as a 'cow and a half', which didn't do much for our declining diplomatic relations. Her little boyfriend gets me down with his obnoxious large grin and crawling expressions. Something really should be done to curtail his activities as a living human being.

Home at 11pm to see the 1935 version of 'The Scarlet Pimpernel'. Very good considering.

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Thursday January 9, 1975

Go to work despite the fact that I'm not too brilliant yet. They are all surprised to see me. Kathleen had given up hope of seeing me before Monday. Derek Naylor, one of our beloved feature writers comes into the office and asks "who would be on the throne now if the Duke of Windsor hadn't abdicated?" I am astounded beyond all description. How can anybody not know the answer to that? Look at it logically, it cannot be that hard. King Edward VIII doesn't abdicate in December, 1936 and goes on to reign until death catches up with him May 28, 1972. Having no legitimate issue, the throne would then pass to his next brother, the Duke of York, who had unfortunately died in 1952, leaving two daughters, Elizabeth & Margaret. So the Crown would have devolved upon the elder daughter, the 46-year-old Elizabeth. Answer: Yes, the present Queen would have succeeded in 1972 instead of 1952.

A busy afternoon in the office. A chap from Leicester CID rings me with a weird request. He tells me that a man died in Leicester yesterday from injuries sustained in an accident he had in May, 1937, whilst installing decorations in a Wakefield street for the festivities celebrating the coronation of King George VI. After half an hour rummaging through the YPs for May 1937 I failed to find anything relevant. 

Christine rang again today. This sudden rush of attention from Miss Braithwaite is certainly of a heart-rending quality. Her sudden freedom is a novelty I suspect, and now that she can ring as many males as she likes in the shortest possible time I suppose it gives her a boost. Understandable really.

Home on the 55 with Sarah. Lynn is unusually nice at tea time and she can be beautifully pleasant when she tries, but as the poem goes 'when she's good, she's very very good, but when she's bad she's horrid'.

Go with Denny to the Hare & Hounds at 9 - walking from Pine Tops. Have a few drinks. To her horror I tell her that Lorraine's wedding day, June 14, is the Queen's official birthday and the Trooping of the Colour. Devastated we scrap our plans and begin over again.

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Wednesday January 8, 1975

Wake up at 11.00am to find the house void of human life, other than me that is. Make myself a coffee and take the necessary medication which is supposed to do something for my cold. Give Kathleen a ring and tell her of the recent developments. She isn't particularly bothered about me being absent, and wishes me a speedy recovery.

Sit in bed reading the morning paper. I can hardly believe that the Stansted Airport trick pulled off without any hitches. The demented Arab will be feeling such a fool this morning. Climb out of bed and devour a bowl of soup. Deposit myself in front of the television until tea time, and repeat the pattern after devouring the meal. Bed at about 11 o'clock.

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Tuesday January 7, 1975

Wake at about 8.30 feeling slightly better, but do not intend going back to the office until it has cleared up entirely. Mum, in her infinite wisdom, says that the doctor really ought to visit me instead of vice versa, but on ringing she discovers that he's far too bogged down with other cases to find the time for me.

I lay in bed with the radio banging away in my left ear 'ole until lunch. In the midst of Johnny Walker's show one of the news features holds a story on the horror of horrors, Anthony Wedgwood Benn. I was relieved to hear a top authority on politics say that Mr Benn is far too rebellious ever to become Prime Minister. A sad day it would be indeed if it dawned with Lord Stansgate behind the door in no. 10 Downing Street. Even fat, little Harold Wilson is better than him one hundred fold.

See in the morning paper that little Lady Jane Wellesley is now escorting James Balfour, the estranged husband of Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia. Over in France the Paris newspapers still carry futile, impossible stories about her and the Prince of Wales. There is no doubt in my mind that His Royal Highness gave her the push months ago - and rightly so. Never did like the idea of her being Queen Jane. (Correction: I have just called the husband of Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia James Balfour. In fact he's Neil Balfour, and I apologise deeply to all the relatives of the 20th century Prime Minister).

Later: a plane hijacked at Heathrow by a mad Arab is, at this moment, preparing to fly to Stansted Airport which has been disguised to look like a 'typical French airport'. The demented Arab wants to go to Paris, but Mr Giscard d'Estaing won't let the plane enter France. How they are going to make Stansted look like France I do not know.No doubt they'll get a crowd of men in berets, bicylces, and festoon them with strings of onions, playing old Maurice Chevalier records over the loud speakers. We shall see.

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Monday January 6, 1975

Epiphany. Rotten feeling when I awake, but nevertheless I plod on to the YP. Kathleen was surprised to see me and was preparing to cut the EP. Have a few laughs with Sarah, do all my work, and take a half-day at 12, coming home to the peace of this arm-chair near the window.

Gale force winds are ravaging Yorkshire at the moment & here I am sitting peering out into the bleak garden - my face streaming with cold, not unlike a white meringue with a red, sticky cherry on top (the cherry being my red nose of course). Mum comes in at 1.30 and gets me to rinf the doctor. Make an appointment for 11 o'clock tomorrow morning.

Ring Denny and inform her that the Queen's official birthday this year falls on June 14. She leaps with joy at the thought of spending another week with John and Sheila next summer. Over tea I inform John (John Philip that is, not John Edward) of this joyous piece of information but he is unenthusiastic. He says he wants a 'proper' holiday this year and refuses to waste a week in Windsor. Mum agrees with John and says that I cannot afford this. Whatever the cost, nothing can deter me from seeing the Trooping of the Colour for the fourth year running. Dear Christine B rang at about 11.30 whilst I was at work, and I think it's fabulous how friendly she is now.

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Sunday January 5, 1975

2nd after Christmas. A nice, quiet day. Have beef for lunch and then see the film 'The Greatest Story Ever Told', a film on the life of Christ. My cold becomes steadily worse as the evening arrives, and it affects by head and ears. Bloody illnesses are a bore, they really are. The day will dawn when nobody is ever poorly, and everyone lives in perfect health until the end of time, because nobody actually ever dies. (Bloody well mad, aren't I?)

No more today, fans. My slowly sapping strength is needed for more important things.

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Saturday January 4, 1975

Lounge around in bed until 11. Mum rang Kathleen about my cold. I'll be OK on Monday no doubt, but work just wouldn't do me any good this morning. Have lunch and then go upstairs to look for some counterfoils for a £15 postal order which was despatched to Barclaycard before Christmas. They keep sending me reminders about it, and I'm worried it's lost in the post. After an unsuccessful attempt to find them I sit on my bed in despair. £15 is a hell of a lot to have to fork out again. Mum tries to cheer me up by saying the Xmas post will have delayed it, but I can't see it being held up for two weeks.

Contrary to all my practices and beliefs as a human being I go with Mr Mather and Denny to the Hare at 10 o'clock to see all the others. I feel far from well and come home half an hour later to a barage of questions from Papa 'what has possessed you to go out supping ale in your condition'.

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