Friday March 28, 1975

Good Friday. No work - just pure, unadulterated bone-idleness. At 12.30 on a beautifully sunny, but cold afternoon Dave, Lynn, Helen and I gather in the Hare & Hounds, Menston, Yorkshire, for a little drink before departing, in Mr Baker's car, to Woodhouse Moor Fair for the afternoon. Prior to embarking on the afternoon of childish entertainment, the four of us satisfied our refreshment buds in the Hyde Park public house, upon which I'd rather not pass comment at this moment in time and feel that the comments I would surely be called upon to make are unfit to languish on the page for this holy day.

Spend all afternoon in the fairground and return with fish and chips to Helen's at about 4.30. Home after 5 where Mummmy makes us yet another tea. Mum and Dad walked from our house to Ilkley this morning in just two hours and then came back on the bus.

Down to the Hare & Hounds where Miss Christine Mary Dacre-Braithwaite joins us unaccompanied. Pass a pleasant few hours and plan to go to Wikis, but alas and alack, Gary comes in at about 10.0 o'clock. Blast and Damn him! However, still set on the idea of going to Wikis, John, Gillian and I depart thereunto. Kicked out at 12.30 - Sunday licensing on Good Fridays - bah - and back to Gillian's to see a film. I tried to have sex with her without much success.

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Thursday March 27, 1975

Maundy Thursday. Yet another bloody busy day. Chaos and Hell Fire all rolled into one. Curious about something on the Court page of the Daily Telegraph. The Queen, Queen Mother and Princess Anne yesterday attended a memorial service for Her Majesty's cousin, Rev the Hon Andrew Elphinstone. No where have I seen anything to the effect that he has actually died. So, being highly curious I rang the Daily Telegraph to be informed that he had passed away on or about March 21. Obviously such information is of little interest to sane people, but it means a lot to me.

Sarah was in a good mood for a change and leapt to my aid when I had written a letter to Christine only to discover I had no postage stamps. She suggested I route around in the waste paper basket to salvage a respectable looking unfranked stamp to glue onto my epistle. And to think her Papa is the head postmaster at York.

In my letter to Christine I woffled on for ages about nothing. Well, when I say nothing I mean woffling on about Gary's surname - Walters. Being absolutely insane I connect Gary with Lucy Walters, the mistress of King Charles II, by making out he was her grandson.

Home at 5.15, my usual hour of late, and sit in front of the tv making little attempt to prepare for my meeting with Helen at the Hare. Both John and Papa refused to take me to the pub, so I go by bus, arriving at about 8.45. Sit with Helen, and Naomi (who John thought wasn't going out) brought us home at kicking out time.

I departed for bed after being quizzed as to what I'd been doing out with Naomi.

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Wednesday March 26, 1975

Another day of toil and labour. Cut the YP for a change. So much better than the nasty little EP, which sinks even lower than the lowest rags - the Sun and Daily Mirror.

A certain gentleman writer with the Yorkshire Post today expressed bafflement that no news cuttings were to be found on the new King of Saudi Arabia or Crown Prince. The mentality of some people amazes me! Everyone knows that the Arabian Royals come and go like flies, and that they have at least 300 children each, and the fact that they all have the same name makes it all the more diffucult to keep tabs on them. Khamel Hamed Aziz Woz Ben Fhadi is a prime example.

Amused by a piece in today's paper announcing that the 87-year-old Earl of Midleton is seeking a divorce in order to marry his mistress. I only hope I'll be still getting up to the usual tricks at that ripe old age. It must be a fantastic feeling.

Miss Braithwaite rang tonight and we arranged to meet at the Hare at 8.30. Oh, by the way, last night I booked Kiko's Disco for Friday April 5, and today I managed to get a coach with Rhodes's Coaches of Guiseley - £20 will be the cost - but everyone will contribute I hope. Helen will be chuffed. I'm almost certain she gave up the idea of ever seeing those plans finalised.

John took me to the Hare at 8. He stayed for one drink then took Naomi to Bradford. Chris, Andy, Linda, Carol, Christine B and Gary are at the Hare. Moved on to that revolting pub, The Drop. Home at about 11.

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Tuesday March 25, 1975

Busy, but pleasant day at the YP. Kathleen, as usual at times of great stress and panic, lost her sanity and walked around the building cursing everything that moved and screaming on the top of her voice. I managed to calm her down with a packet of cigs and a cup of revolting coffee. My behaviour this morning was reminiscent of Chamberlain's appeasement of Hitler in 1938.

See the Crossman diaries in the Sunday Times again - the final batch. More detail about him and the Queen. In 1966 Crossman had an argument with Lord Porchester (a close friend of the Queen) on the subject of the monarchy. Crossman was highly critical of the institution. Embarrassment for Crossman came several weeks later when he was summoned to the palace on his appointment as Lord President of the Council. The Queen mischievously told him she'd been 'hearing' all about him.

Items in the news: King Feisal of Saudi Arabia was assassinated today by his loony nephew. The revered Prime Minister visited Uslter. The eldest son of the 9th Earl of Carrick plunged himself into matrimony - I know that's not really news at all, but you know what a sense of humour I have. Mr Peart, the Agriculture minister thinks that the dockers are all crackers and wants them to go back to work.

Mama drew her £50 winnings out of the bank this morning. Unaccountable wealth really makes me sick. Christina Onassis herself looks like a pauper in comparison with my venerable mother.

Just noticed that Good Friday coincides with the __________, a latter day John the Baptist. Millions throughout the western world regard her as a God. This world of ours would be a sad place without her love and guidance shining down from the foothills of Pudsey where her priestesses have worshipped her for well over 48 million years.

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Monday March 24, 1975

Rather a nervous day today. On my arrival at the YP Lynn rings me from home to say that a Mr Simpson from Greenwood's wants me to contact him about the job vacancy. I immediately do so and he asks me to go for an interview at 10.30 tomorrow morning. Eileen takes her driving test then, so I ask whether I can go today. We plan a meeting for 5pm. I receive Royal permission from Sarah to leave at 1 o'clock, and come home for lunch.

Mum says that poor Sue didn't get into Nursing College, and that Lynn is having at interview at Barclays Bank at 4.30 today.

At 3 I leap into the bath to make myself presentable for the coming onslaught. You never know, it might be Bye Bye YP before the month is out.

Meanwhile: Later the same day. No, it won't be Bye Bye to the YP at all. In fact, the Yorkshire Post is like Heaven in comparison with the Greenwood Empire. On my arrival at the dreaded place I met a Mr Simpson. He informs me that 'Mr Denis' (whom I presume is Mr Denis Greenwood) 'doesn't like long hair' and so if I should be employed therein, it would all have to go. This didn't amuse me much. I nearly died with laughter on being informed that my wage would amount to £18 at the start and would increase to the vast Onassis-like £20 on my 20th birthday. In other words, a slump of £6 would be awaiting me at the Greenwood's Empire. The prospects too are non-existant. I'll dwell on the subject no more today. I can't wait for the cheerful call of the Yorkshire Post tomorrow morning.

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Sunday March 23, 1975

Palm Sunday. Wake up to a beautiful morning and a beautiful hangover. Palm Sunday too.

The beauty of the weather draws John and I out to the car. We go in the direction of Otley Chevin. Stopping at the Chevin Inn for a quick one we encounter Andy Graham's papa. He buys us a pint each before departing for his lunch. We then go down to the Station in Yeadon - a bloody awful place - where I indulge in one half pint. Back for lunch.

Mum had her hair flashed yesterday and looks like a different person now. She no longer tries to antagonise me. I wonder why?

Dave Baker makes his traditional visit for Sunday tea. Lynn admitted to me tonight that this weekend is the first time they've quarrelled about anything. Nothing serious though.

John and I go with Naomi to the Hare and none of the regulars are in. We're bored stiff and leave at 10 o'clock. He and Naomi go on to Wikis. Aaarrghh! Yes, Wikis on a Sunday! Whatever next? I see tv until 12.15. Tired out, stagger to bed.


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Saturday March 22, 1975

I didn't think about kipping down until almost 3.0am. The sight of Dad going to work at 6am was most unusual. Dave and me lay in the dark talking all night. I can't have dropped off until about 6.30.

I was furious at Wikis last night. Maura, whom God Preserve, was chatting with Denny and I, when Dave Knowles, her former fiance, called her over. Naturally she went over for a chat, only to be kicked in the stomach. Poor Maura pretended not to be injured, but went straight home.

All Denny could say over and over was 'the bastard, the bastard', referring to her former associate, Adrian. Poor Dave's gear box fell off yesterday and the clutch is far from well. He bought the car in good faith from Adrian a couple of months ago. Naturally, Denny feels guilty and responsible because when Dave quizzed her about the state of the car she replied: 'Oh it's great'.

Whilst reading her paper this morning Mama saw an advert relating to a job in the designing department at Greenwoods in Guiseley. She gets me to put a letter together and it's posted forthwith. Await further details with anticipation.

A drunken occasion this evening. The gang met at the Hare & Hounds as usual, but at 10 o'clock Andy suggests a pub crawl around Addingham. I immediately agree, and we all depart. After an hours solid lager swilling session I am sick in the car park of one of the pubs, then it's back to Naomi's to see a lousy 1945 film. John was sick too.

Oh, Uncle Peter and Co. came today. Forgot about it.

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Friday March 21, 1975

Lounge in bed until the glorious hour of 10.30. Shear, unadulterated luxury. Bliss indeed. However, it isn't all idleness today. It's work at 5pm - so don't think for one single minute that laziness reigns here at Pine Tops. The first day of Spring - I certainly would not have realised this on my own initiative. Mum conveyed this news to me whilst I hung longingly over my chicken soup and pork cutlets. In fact, it looks about as much like Spring as I look like the Aga Khan. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, I haven't been all that lazy this morning. I ironed two pairs of trousers and listened to endless LPs and chatted to Miss Braithwaite via the telephone. So all in all I've done a decent days work.

Mess about with P.G Wodehouse and 'The Luck of the Bodkins' after lunch and prepare in general for my visit to the YP. Luckily, it's not going to be a miserable homecoming at 12. I'm meeting Denny outside Wikis at 12.15.

Quite a busy evening. I did manage to snatch a whisky in the Wellesley with Kathleen and Peter Chapman. Nothing startling in the news, and attempt to leave at 12 o'clock. The rain is pounding outside and my taxi is 25 minutes bloody late. I end up sharing one with a female reporter. Arrived at Wikis at some unearthly hour. Denny, thank God, had the sense to go straight in. Uneventful night. Helen is with Graham Pease. John brings Denny and me home - she intends staying the night. Discover Dave on the camp bed - the poor sod came off his brother's bike on the way over - so I camped down on the sofa, and Denny gets my bed.

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Thursday March 20, 1975

A good day really. Frantic in the morning but at least it all passed quickly. Pay day yet again, and it coincides quite conveniently with my Barclaycard repayments. £13 they want this time.

Home on the 4.30 bus where I bump into Martin Vere-Bujnowski, who is at Nottingham Polytechnic. Haven't seen him since Christmas, and apparently he's remained faithful to the Emmotts after all these years, and I suppose he's forgotten that other places of public refreshment exist.

'Private Eye' is funny this week with some good tales of the wedding of Lord and Lady Lichfield. The Queen is always referred to as 'Brenda' which is potty really. The Duke of Edinburgh is 'Keith'. Say no more.

Home to hear from Lynn that Mum won £50 on the Premium Bonds today. Bloody marvellous it really is, and about two years to the day since she last won £50. God only knows what she'll do with it all. Probably invest it. She keeps saying it will not affect her lifestyle in any way, and she doesn't intend buying a mink coat or Rolls-Royce. It's back to work tomorrow at her £30 a week office job - no life of luxury for her. No indeed.

The 17th birthday of Mr Peter Nason. Sue, Pete, Lynn and Dave are trotting off for a meal somewhere, and it certainly looks like a champagne all round occasion. I never did anything like this when I was his age. A sign of the times.

Mum had a letter from Ruby and Arthur today. They say they had a letter from Uncle Tony the other week who told them they don't see us anymore due to a squabble over a 'holiday'. A load of balderdash.

After the others had gone to dine Mum and Papa took John and I to the Commercial where we had a few celebratory drinks. Home at 11 for a sherry session with Pete, Sue, Lynn and Dave. Bed at about 12.30.

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Wednesday March 19, 1975

Hectic day really. Kathleen and I are rushed off our feet, but we plod on regardless. After lunch, Janice, the high and mighty Mrs Beaumont, pays us a visit in the company of her daughter, a pretty little thing aged fourteen weeks. She stays for the bigger part of the afternoon. so no work got done at all really. You know how funny women are with chubby little blue-eyed nippers - all hysterics and 'Goo Goo, Gaa Gaa' &c.

Arrive home at 5.30 feeling rather knackered. All week I've been saying 'Michael, you're not going out until Friday - so don't you dare try', &c. However, Maurice is off work, so I'm doing a 5pm-12 stint, which means I won't be going out on Friday either, unless I go straight to Wikis. So Wednesday night looks very much like a pub night to me.

I feel lately as though I want to break from routine and do something completely different and wildly interesting. Painting perhaps, or even a bit of writing, but the former seems the most likely at present. Yes, from next week on, a new Mig Rhodes will emerge in these pages. The creative Mig. The out-door type of Mig. No, I haven't gone mad. It's the Spring in the air, I think.


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Tuesday March 18, 1975

Quite a day of excitement really. That treasured relic of the Parliamentary system, namely Uncle Harold, announced today that the Labour government is in favour of our nation remaining a member of the Common Market. I can't really see why he made such a fuss about it in the first place. The one good thing which the late Mr Heath did was to obtain our membership of the E.E.C. and at the time I thought it was most childish of Uncle Harold to say he'd bring us out. Anyway, the so-called referendum will decide categorically what we're going to do - but if both Conservative and Labour parties think we should stay in, I fail to grasp why we have been consulted at all. I'm intending ignoring the referendum when it comes. Futile things like this should be of no concern to the general public at all. It's a bloody disgrace really.

Snowed again today. Weird weather. Went for a jog around Leeds at lunchtime. Consumed a couple of sandwiches in Park Square and made several useless attempts to lay hands on a copy of 'Private Eye'.

The editor ran around the library in a flap this morning shouting 'Sheila Viscountess Devonport' in a hurried voice at irregular intervals. No news cuttings were to be found on the dear, noble lady, but I did lay hands on a photo, dated 1952. 'Devonport. Sheila Viscountess D-E-V-O-N-P-O-R-T. Lady S-H-E-I-L-A Devonport. She's a viscountess. A peeress. L-A-D-Y S-H-E-I-L-A-D-E-V-O-N-P-O-R-T'. OK, we get the message. We enquire exactly what's happened to the peeress to cause such a panic. He says she's been kidnapped by the Black Panther, and leaves the library laughing hideously. Clearly not a devotee of the aristocracy. We later discover that she's only been forced out of her home in the early hours of the morning, and that no harm has befallen her at all. No doubt you're overjoyed on hearing this.

The Duchess of Kent was in Leeds today on university business.

See a Cary Grant and Doris Day film on BBC2 and stagger to bed at about 11 with P.G. Wodehouse, after listening to Uncle Harold talking a load of old rubbish on the late night news. It's really terrible the way he's trying to hoodwink everyone over this referendum nonsense.

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