Tuesday January 14, 1975

As you can see, I have purchased a bottle of ink and can now scribe here in the correct form. I consider it a disgrace to write my journal in rubbishy biro. Future generations don't want to see before them a page written with an instrument of the 20th century far more horrific than the atom bomb and John Stonehouse, MP.

Slade, the pop group came in state to the YP today. A scruffy bunch they are too. Dave Hill is minute, just about reached up to my knees. Sarah and I bumped into them at the top of the staircase on the 2nd floor. They went down by the stairs and we went in the lift. Don Powell, the drummer, was giving everyone filthy looks and to sum up I'd say they fancied themselves.

Home for tea at 6 o'clock. Mum and Dad are out and Lynn makes tea. Quite pleasant it is too. A letter awaits me from David, Thane of Worcester. He's not going to MMs at the weekend which is a big let down. He also had news of MM thinking about leaving poly! Strange tale indeed from my far-off friend.

Christine rang me at the YP. She's arranged everything with Marita and they're meeting in Leeds at 6pm on Friday. We're all getting the train at 6.45 or something like that.

I'm getting excited now. It's only 346 days to Christmas. Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All the Way! Despatch a reply to David. He had me in stitches about blackmailing me with certain pictures he's got of ____, drawn by me, and passed on to him without thinking of the consequences. Mum and Dad are in Askern I think.

-==-

Monday January 13, 1975

At the YP all day. Sarah is strangely subdued and almost sharp with us. Probably because Kathleen is off, and the heavy mantle of responsibility weighs too heavily on her slender shoulders. Sarcastic sod, aren't I?

Whilst waiting for the bus this evening I did comprehend an amusing sight. Christopher Monckton, the heir to that glorious viscountcy, marching down the central reservation of the dual carriageway on Wellington Street, rotating his umbrella at a fantastic speed, as though something sinister and unnatural possessed his very soul. I smiled all the way home.

Heard on the news briefly this morning that the IRA planned to kidnap the Prince of Wales several months ago but then changed plans without any explanation. It's an impossibility. The security surrounding the prince is so tight that even his own grandmother would be unable to nab him.

A man rang me today and asked me if the ventriloquist Arthur Worsley is the father of the Duchess of Kent. Can you imagine it? Arthur Worsley and his dummy - parents of the Duchess of Kent? I pretended to be unsure on this one, and went away sniggering to look in Burke's Peerage. He, the befuddled member of the public, seemed quite surprised when I informed him that HRH's father was Sir William Worsley, 4th Baronet. What a laugh.

What can have happened to Marita? Hang on folks whilst I go ring her. All will be revealed herein. Now then, where shall I begin? MM moved into his own residence before the weekend, and so the letter I posted today will have gone to the wrong house. Marita is going down by train next Friday evening and wants to know if Christine and I are going down with her. Super idea it seems to me.

Mum and Dad go to Esholt and the girls go to bed. Strange having no visitors for a change. Dave and Peter are almost permanent fixtures these days.

See TV all evening. Retire at 11.50 after writing to MM again, for the second time today. My first letter went to Horndean Rd which he vacated last week. My chat with Marita was the first one since the New Year.

-==-

Sunday January 12, 1975

1st after Epiphany. In bed until lunch. No after effects from the night before and quite look forward to tonight's escapade with rellish. See Ingrid Bergman in 'Joan of Arc', a corny film. The very mention of the Maid of Lorraine puts the fear of God in me. Reminds me of having to read 'St Joan' by Bernard Shaw at school. No pleasant task by any means.

Out with Chris, Christine and Maura to the Hare & Hounds. John comes along too and does seem to be getting Christine down. He insists on plagueing her to despair, but Maura says she loves it and being pulled to pieces gives her a special pleasure. Kinky, that's what I say.

Move on to the Dyneley. Getting there is like scaling the north face of Everest (if it's got one), and if Edmund Hillary can pick up a knighthood for his endeavours I see no reason why Chris and I can't have the same. The girls don't like the place at all. Sit near the juke box listening to such hits as 'Discotheque and the Sexolets', a revolting thing really, but it keeps us smiling. Back to Westfield for fish and chips in the back of the Ratcliffemobile. After ten minutes the windows were all steamed up, and mushy peas lay thickly over the entire interior, like sediment at the bottom of a forgotten fish tank. Back home for coffee and off to bed with Baroness Orczy and 'I Will Repay'.

-=-

Saturday January 11, 1975

Lynn wakes me at my usual Saturday hour. Have a coffee and glance at the Daily Mail which never contains anything worth reading. Fail to see why they bother to publish the soddin' thing. They'd do everybody a favour if they packed up and cleared off to Uganda.

Nothing tremendous happens at the office and come home on the 33 bus. John is just climbing out of bed, the lucky devil, but the extra half day in bed doesn't seen to have done him any good at all. I really do think that one can have too much sleep.
The reception room, or foyer, at the YP harbours a pleasant sight at the moment. A collection of Sir Cecil Beaton's works displayed for all to see. I especially like the pictures of Lady Diana Cooper (dressed a s nun of all things) and of Harold Pinter. The Royal photos are all very nice, but we've seen them all before. His work of genius is one (photo) of the Queen Mother taken at Buckingham Palace in 1938 - the light and shading as it falls on her dress is a sight to behold.

Lunch with John, Mama and Papa. Dash upstairs when Mum says she wants some help with the housework, and Perry Como moaning away in the background isn't very encourging. After a few minutes John and I disappear on a walk around Tranmere and surrounding areas. After giving our approval to the new houses we come back refreshed. I re-read 'I Will Repay' by Baroness Orczy, the third time round and still enthralling.

Go out with Chris, Christine B, and Dave Knowles's old fiance, Maura, a pretty little thing with curly dark hair and oval face - truely gorgeous. Chris and Christine are more than pals now, and I'm left to entertain Maura. The four of us go to Wikis until 2, where we dance and jive about to our hearts content. A quiet night really, but we didn't notice. Laughed ourselves stupid. Back to Pine Tops for coffee where Lynn, Dave, Sue and Peter are recovering after a large meal in Leeds where they were refused entry into Cinderellas and the Pentagon, &c. John and Peter Mather had been to 'Wheels' at Seacroft and by all accounts it's a smart joint.

-=-

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.

-==-

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.

-==-

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.

-==-