Saturday February 8, 1975

Up at noon. John and I take the car into Guiseley and then get a train into town (Leeds). Wander round aimlessly looking in shop windows and laugh at the craze which certain male members of our generation have adopted - wearing trousers ridiculously short. Poor lads - they've no idea at all. Home at about 5.
Marlene, Frank and the kids have come for tea. Mark is a nice little lad and we have several games of marbles before and after tea.

Leave for the Hare & Hounds at 8 so that John can attempt to pick up the girl he was with yesterday at Wikis (Naomi Downing). We're going to Tiffany's by the way. The female doesn't respond and we leave for the Fleece empty handed. Pick Christine B up and then meet Peter Mather and Andy in the Fleece. Have several drinks whilst waiting for Lynn & Dave. Andy goes down to the Hare & Hounds and well drive like hell let loose to Leeds. Never again. Tiffany's is the most diabolical so called disco I have ever had the misfortune to attend. Nobody in there looked younger than 65. Most of them with fond memories of Disraeli's last government and the Relief of Ladysmith. Truly revolting. Have a laugh all the same but vow with all my heart, body and mind, never to set foot in the place again as long as I live. The others liked the place, and some were so taken in by it all that they actually said they'd go again! Back to Ratcliffe Hall for coffee until nearly 4am. Absolutely tired and shagged out after the exertions of the evening. Bed and deep sleep at the unearthly hour of 5 o'clock.

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Friday February 7, 1975

I feel as though I have another cold. It's only a matter of three or four weeks since I last had one, and the very thought of being tied up in bed for days and nights on end, with no other company than Tony Blackburn and David Hamilton sends vibrations of horror down my spine.

Go into town at lunch and get a new pair of cords and a Jersey - both blue. Lynn says they enhance my baby-face look.

To the Hare & Hounds with John - in the car!! Yes, it came back today after all those years. Move on to the Commercial, all except Chris and Christine, and it's packed out beyond belief. Mum and Dad are near the bar so they can relay the drink out to us. On to Wikis later. Meet Maura and a freaky, attractive friend of hers called Marianne (as in Faithfull and not in Robin Hood's girlfriend).

Maura drifts away and I remain in the company of Marianne until her taxi comes at about 1.30. We got on extremely well, and after a few minutes I really felt as though I'd known her for years. We're going to a party in Leeds a week tomorrow, something to do with Helen Willis I think. Home in the 1100 (with John of course), Christine Dibb, and John's new bit of skirt, who refuses to speak an audible word to me. He drops me off then takes her home, but to my horror I discover I'm locked out. From 2 until 4.30am when he returns, I amuse myself in the garage, mainly playing darts and leaping around to keep warm. However, it's my fault and John can't be blamed. Bed at 4.45 with a hot water bottle to calm my knocking knees.

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Thursday February 6, 1975

Pleasant day. Eileen and I mess about in town at lunchtime and I return home furnished with 'How Long' by Ace, a particular favourite record of Miss Braithwaite and myself.

Pleased to see the flags flying in Leeds and indeed above Guiseley Police Station, for the twenty third anniversary of the accession of Her Majesty the Queen. These anniversaries certainly come round quickly. Two years time and it will be the Silver Jubilee.

The Tory party fiasco continues. The revolting reactionary Sir Geoffrey Howe is now standing for the leadership, along with the Nation's Sweetheart Mrs Thatcher, William Whitelaw, one of the bulldog breed, old James Prior of whom little can be said, and an unknown person called Peyton, who was originally thought to have become extinct along with the Dodo and Lord Hailsham.

Do nothing at all in the evening other than watch the TV, and play my new record a few times. Bed at a relatively early hour.

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Wednesday February 5, 1975

Horrid day. Gordon Pickles, a reporter on the EP, was killed in a road accident in the early hours of the morning. I didn't know him really well, but it's nauseating to think I was laughing and joking with him on Monday about something in 'Private Eye'. Here today, gone tomorrow, or is it more appropriate to say 'here yesterday, gone today?'

To the Hare & Hounds with John, No one other than Andy arrives, but a pleasant evening is had. John and Andy certainy know a nice bunch of women, and I wonder what exactly I've been doing all these weeks while they've been pulling in the talent.

A silly old hag on 'Nationwide' tonight remarked that the late Mr Heath is 'a second Churchill' in his oratory abilities. She couldn't possibly be referring to the great Sir Winston, so I think she means either Baroness Spencer-Churchill ( a right little raver when she's roused) or her up and coming grandson, Mr Winston Churchill. God only knows where all this Tory party eye-wash will lead us.
Sit in bed with Agatha again. Finish 'The Mystery of Chimneys' - really entertaining. Pass out into a deep sleep at about 1 o'clock.

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Tuesday February 4, 1975

Busy day again. Kathleen goes home at lunch with 'flu. Never seen Kate ill before. See in the Sunday People that another young lady is denying a romantic relationship with the Prince of Wales. The difference this time is that she's married. Yes, Mrs Rosalind Ward, the wife of a young millionaire landowner. Like Edward VIII and Mrs Freda Dudley Ward in the early '30s. Can't really say I believe it, but you never can tell.

Wait for ages in the cold for a bus home and meet Marita on Wellington Street. We come home on the 35 together. Hear all about the love, passion and ecstasy of Sheffield at the weekend. Her 20th birthday celebrations went with a bang in more ways than one I can imagine.

See in the EP that Margaret Thatcher won todays battle for the Tory leadership, but even better news awaits me on my arrival home. Dad informs me that Edward Heath has conceded defeat and will not stand in next Tuesday's ballot! The Grocer is gone! Ted Heath is no more! Tories all over England will feel numbed by it all, other than Margaret Thatcher and myself that is. Mrs Thatcher captured my heart sometime last week when the current affairs programmes were going to town over her. An utterly charming lady, whom I'm sure the Queen would love to ask: 'Come on, Margaret. Form a government!' A weird feeling hangs over us all. As though a great cloud has moved from above, letting the sunshine through for the first time since 1965. Only the ending of a war, the death of a beloved monarch, and the freedom from prison of a man who has served 29 years for something he never did, can be likened to the resignation of the hopeless Edward Heath. To be rendered insane at the height of ones political career is tragedy indeed.

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Monday February 3, 1975

Busy day at the YP. Attempt to do a few letters in the afternoon but don't get through more than a handful. Sit in front of the television all night after having a bath. See 'The Likely Lads' - one of the funniest programmes around at the moment. Then sit in bed with Agatha Christie until nearly 1.0am.

Lynn and Dave went to Tiffany's in Leeds with Andy and his so-called cousin 'Judith'.________.

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Sunday February 2, 1975

Sexagesima. A beautiful morning. Up by 11 o'clock. John astounds me when he says he's not going out tonight. I realise he told Chris last night of this plan, but I put it down to the effects of alcohol and delirium since he paid his £8 deposit.

Dreamed last night that the Duke of Edinburgh was dead and I was the only person in the office to deal with it.

Lynn is, at this very moment, preparing to go to Bolton Abbey with Dave, and I can't help thinking slightly proud of myself. Why is that, you are all asking? Well, you see I commend myself on the fact that my scheming back in September brought these two young lovers together in the first place. Not that I've had anything to do with it since, but I feel full of pride and joy at the sight of them bounding merrily through life's playground. Love is certainly a marvellous thing.

The brilliance of the afternoon sun fades at about 5, and a fog descends upon us. I was almost convinced that Spring was here, but things look quite different now.

See 'The Gospel According to Matthew' an Italian film which drags on for ages. I much preferred 'The Greatest Sory Ever Told' with Max von Sydow. John Wayne didn't even put me off.

Christine rang to see if I was going out. I say no and she says Chris is also staying in. Really unusual for a Sunday night. We discuss the idea of going to Worcester on Feb 22 - a great idea.

Sue is in the Dales with Peter, and Lynn is at Bolton Abbey with Dave. Dad is at work. So John, Mum and I sit before the television. I delve into the bookcase and select another Agatha Christie - 'The Secret of Chimneys'. It's up to her usual brilliant standard. Read and see TV until after 12.

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Saturday February 1, 1975

Sleep until lunch at 12. Leap into the bath in order to revive myself, but even after this experience I don't really feel much better. All that sleep didn't seem to do any good.

See a film on the BBC and then go play 'Ruslan and Ludmilla' by Glinka and the prelude to Act III of Lohengrin by Mr Wagner. Yes, we aren't all unsophisticated Donny Osmond fans up here you know. The classics are as welcome here as they are in Covent Garden, and in some cases even more so.

My first free Saturday in years. Yes, I have the occasional one off, but it's much more pleasant to know that it's a permanent thing.

The papers are full of Edward Heath and Mrs Thatcher. I must admit, at first I abhored the idea of woman Tory leader, but these past few days have heralded a change. Good luck to her anyway. We certainly having nothing to lose. She can't make a worse mess of it than Heath did, and even if she does we'll forgive her because she's only a silly, dumb blond.

To the Hare & Hounds for a couple of drinks before moving on to a pub in Bingley, one of Andy's hang outs. The highlight of the evening was when Dave rang me up at 7 and said he was coming out. I'd no idea he was home this weekend. When the pubs shut John, Dave and I go to the new take-away in Guiseley. Food is horrible and what's more _______walked past on the arm of her boyfriend. ____ignored her completely.
Home in time to see a good Bette Davis film. Laughed all the way through. Sit in Lynn's bedroom until the early hours reading Agatha Christie.

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Friday January 31, 1975

Marita is 20 today. She'll be in Sheffield by now, but I made sure her card was in the post in good time. The poor girl hates the idea of being 20 - no longer the little teenager and all that. I suppose I will feel ancient too when the times comes (4 months yet).

A frantic, chaotic day at the YP. The Duke of Norfolk died in the night, and the phones haven't ceased ringing with queries about the new duke and Earl Marshal. I know everything about the 17th Duke of Norfolk off by heart now. Born in 1915, Miles Francis Fitzalan-Howard eldest son of the 3rd Baron Howard of Glossop and the 11th Baroness Beaumont. Married 1949, Anne Mary Theresa Constable Maxwell. 2 sons. 3 daughters. Residence: Carlton Towers near Goole. Heir: Edward Fitzalan-Howard who now becomes Earl of Arundel. Clever lad aren't I?

Carry on working through lunch and so Kathleen kicks me out at 4. Meet Lynn, Christine D, and Alison on the bus, and we are all home for just before 5. Lynn lodges a few complaints about the unimaginative meal awaiting us, and I go off upstairs to prepare for the usual Friday orgy.

To the Hare & Hounds as per usual with the regular mob. Chris and Christine don't come until nearly 10 o'clock and until then I rotate round the mob discussing all sorts of things. Give Chris £8 for the deposit for project Majorca, but he later gives me £5 back to see me through the week. Go to Wikis where nothing much takes place. I chat with Miss Dibb and have the occasional dance with 'CB', as I used to call her. John and I walk home arriving in at 2.30am. Eat piles of cheese and biscuits before hitting the sack.

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Thursday January 30, 1975

Whilst messing around with the EP at work I see that the headlines of last night's paper concerned Lord Snowdon and Mr Hamilton, the repulsive Labour MP who should have been shot years ago. It appears that Lord Snowdon has written to the publishers of Hamilton's new book 'My Queen and I', and has has asked him not to publish it. Obviously, he's been instructed to do this by Her Majesty herself or by Princess Margaret, who receives some obnoxious insults in the vile publication, and it is quite understandable that the Royal Family are hurt by it. I for one, absolutely refuse to read it. William Hamilton is so disgustingly low, it would be impossible for most normal people, even certain Labour members of Parliament, to stoop to his level.

Home at 6 o'clock to discover that I've mislaid £2 since last night. After a frantic search I fail to discover it, and sit about moping, pestering myself with worry, and tearing out large chunks of hair, screaming and biting my nails off. Quite upset really. Chris rings at 8.30 to say we may have got in somewhere for the holidays. The travel agent in question is ringing him back at 9.30. So I'll report on the details later. My fingers are crossed with expectancy.

Three hundred and twenty six years ago this day King Charles I was brutally murdered by his captors. A foul day ineed that was. What with William Hamilton's new book and this anniversary I cannot envisage much joy and happiness at Sandringham this week.Her Majesty may well be quaking in her boots.

Chris rings at 9.30 to say we have managed to get a place in Majorca for the weeks we wanted. Not too happy about Majorca, but Chris was assured it's a good place where we're going. More developments tomorrow.

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Wednesday January 29, 1975

A busy half day.Kathleen gives me a half-day off because she feels I've worked too hard lately - and this is the reward. Meet Christine outside the CA and we make our way to the Ostlers where I consume several pints of lager and spend a small fortune on the juke box. We go looking for tartan material in order to make some 'Rod Stewart style' scarfes. Don't find any we like, and proceed to make our way to the bus station. Masses of photographs are taken in a booth whilst waiting for a bus, and then fight and squabble over who is having which ones. Home at 3.30 or something very close & then sit in a chair with Agatha Christie. I really am passionate over reading at the moment, and having to wait for volume 2 of 'Edward VII' is hideous. Collapse underneath my book and sleep for ten minutes, which is weird for me. I'm becoming an old man before my time.

To the Hare with John, Christine and Chris at 8.45 - have a few lagers and then back here for coffee. Christine and I sit listening to records whilst John and Chris talk holiday brochures. I haven't the stomach to do so. A few nights with all these glossy magazines and I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Margaret Thatcher, Hugh Fraser and Ted Heath have been nominated for the Tory leadership, and it'll be a close battle between Uncle Ted and Mrs T. I'll die if the old bag wins. The thought of a woman Tory leader is repugnant in the extreme.

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