Wednesday June 4, 1975

The 20th birthday of Mr Ratcliffe. The post brings a letter from him, telling me of his journey down (to Hayes), and certain details about the hotel itself. A letter too from Judith R, and one from good old Dave. Tonight I persuaded John to write to Dave to remind him about the records he borrowed in April & is still in possession of.

This referendum thing ends tomorrow after what seems like months and months of campaigning and useless BBC programmes. Tomorrow night we'll all be able to breathe easily again. I'm still not going to vote, but I hate to think I am making no contribution to such a historic event. One never knows. I might be voting 'YES' by this time tomorrow night.

The Derby was run at Epsom this afternoon. Grundy won. I looked in on one of those midget tvs in the Press Hall. The Duchess of Gloucester paraded herself at the racecourse knee-deep in plaster. HRH broke her leg whilst skiing some weeks ago, but she is carrying out engagements undaunted.

Lynn and Dave sit in the dining room compiling a photo album. I retire at 10pm for a bath.

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Tuesday June 3, 1975

One of the most hideous days of the year. Rain, rain, and even more rain. I went to the YP wrapped in two woollen pullovers as a protective shield against the ridiculously cold weather. Snowing in June!

Just think, tomorrow may be the last day that Britain is a member of the EEC. What a tragedy that would be if it were true. Although I do not agree with the idea of referenda and all they entail, I'm nearly persuaded to go out and use my vote. We should stay in the Common Market, but I don't like the way the people have been asked to decide. A General Election on the subject should have been offered to us - the only democratic process in Britain. We'll be one step down the ladder to hopelessness if Britain chucks herself out of Europe. Things have changed since Lord Salisbury went on about 'splendid isolation' in the 1890s.

Quite a busy day really. I sat attempting to fathom something out this afternoon. What is the difference between a step-brother and a half-brother? Does such a thing as a 'half-brother' exist at all? This line of thought began when I dug something out of the files on Martin Parsons, the step-brother of Ld. Snowdon. Ooh, and did you know that Lord Snowdon has a half-brother, Peregrine Thomas Owen Llewellyn Armstrong-Jones, who was born Nov 15, 1960? Remarkable really considering that Snowdon is 44 now. Having a brother 30 years younger than oneself cannot be a pleasant thing at all really.

Home at 5.30 for dinner consisting of roast lamb & roast potatoes. Lamb is always greasy and horrible, but the others seem to like it.

John is still minus employment but Mum may have found him a job at Moon's, her place of employment. I hope and pray he finds something soon. It's quite impossible to find anything in this economic climate.

See 'Edward VII' which is up to its brilliant standard.
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Monday June 2, 1975

Holiday in Irish Republic. Last night was hilarious really. After arguing with CB about Gary and telling her of my own experience with June, we are caught almost 'red handed' sitting on top of one another in a corner by none other than Gary himself. Christine and he exchanged words and he left 10 minutes later to 'have an early night'. He doesn't love herat all and it pains me to see her virtually throwing herself at him. However, after my own experiences with JB I don't have a leg to stand on. I threw myself at her for two years without receiving anything back whatsoever!! CB isn't as mad to do a thing like that (I hope).

Worry all day about John. What with unemployment being the way it is at the moment I'm a bit dubious about whether he'll find anything easily. The poor devil looks really cheesed off.

Quiet day at the YP. Sarah is on holiday until next Monday and so the office isn't all that happy. Miss Collis brightens the place up no end.

It snowed in certain parts of England today, and in Essex snow stopped the county cricket match! The Second of bloody June and we have weather not fit for February.

CB rang to say she accidentally left the Monty Python book in the phone box last night. I had to laugh because she's been chasing after the damned thing since January.

I rang Marita to let her know I was still alive. Received a letter from David today.

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Sunday June 1, 1975

1st after Trinity. It was nearly 5am on June 1 before we were all allocated places of sleep at the Ratcliffe abode. John, crippled with his ankle, and scarred for life thanks to the dog, was passed out next to me in a sleeping bag on the lounge floor, and Peter was placed on a camp bed in Chris's room after undergoing harsh recouperation treatment in the garden. The poor boy was hysterical and didn't quite know who he was, or who anyone else was for that matter.

Awoke at 11.30. Mrs Ratcliffe made me a cup of tea, and I went out into the garden to mock Peter, who didn't look at all healthy propping up a lilac tree. Mrs R bandaged J's foot and she didn't bat an eye lid when he explained just how he had received his injuries.

At 12 we went to the Fleece for a couple of drinks before lunch. All the gang, except the Grahams and Smiths, came in and we sat near the fruit machine laughing about last night. Peter was in high spirits considering.

Chris leaves at 5.15 this afternoon for his new post at Hayes, Middlesex. No one really wanted him to go, but he seemed in cheery form. Peter brought me and John home for lunch at 1pm.

Dave is messing about with John's car and they spend the afternoon dismantling it.

Out with Christine to the Hare at 8.30. However, at 8.15 John learned from his employers that his services will no longer be required after next week, due to lack of incoming work. We're all astounded. Poor John - redundant.

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Saturday May 31, 1975

John and I go into Otley in afternoon for a lark around, but with the main intention of finding a decent tool shop for my younger brother and eventual heir. I say heir because the title will of course go to him and his children after I'm gone, because unless CB marries me, I will not produce any offspring. Christine Braithwaite is the only person whom I'd consider making my duchess.

Home at 5.30 to find Mum and Dad looking sun-tanned after a week in Scotland laden with relics and souvenirs of Balmoral and Inveraray. They tell us the tale and explain how they managed to motor 1300 miles in seven days. Glad to see them home safely.

To the Fleece with Dave, Lynn and John. I tore a hole in my trousers climbing into Mr Baker's sports car, but otherwise received no other injuries, well other than verbal ones that is. At the off-licence in Guiseley we were asked our age! Twenty years old, and people still think I'm 15.

All the mob gather in the Fleece and we move on to Laura's at 9.30. A drunken evening follows. Laura's parents are nice folk. Much nicer than I ever imagined. Her eighty-six year-old granny was a right case too. Chris, Pete M, John, Raymond and his mate, and me walked back down Town Street at 2am and we left chaos and devastation in our path. John fell off the causeway and sprained his ankle, and was then bitten by Dandy, the Ratcliffe hound, on our arrival at 21, Victoria Drive. Poor Pete had never been drunk before. And WAS he drunk!

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Friday May 30, 1975

Friday again. Feeling miserable because Christine doesn't love me, and no doubt I ruined a perfect friendship by telling her I'm besotted with her. However, I'm not dwelling on that any more today.

At 8 o'clock we went to the Hare & Hounds and I was roused from my dreary state by Marian and Maura, who were sitting in a corner debating the idea of going for a meal in the Hare restaurant. Embarassment followed when I explained to Marian that I'd gone into Woolworth's, where she told me she worked, in order to have a chat, and she dissolved in a heap of hysterics beneath the table. She explained that at Gillian Barker's party she'd been too drunk to say she was a cartographer, evidently someone who draws maps, and amidst the giggles coming from her and Maura, she told me she'd never worked in Woolworth's, especially never on the sweet counter. The girl is horribly mad.

Saw poor Christine for about ten minutes. Mr Braithwaite was taken into hospital this afternoon, and her Mum didn't specify in the note she'd left as to which hospital he'd been taken. Gary took her off at about 9 o'clock.

John, Sue, Pete and me go to Wikis which is quiet really. Have a good dance. The DJ is playing a lot of James Brown. Meet a little girl from Hill Way - Shirley - who delights me. My dreams are shattered when she says she is only 15. All the same, there is no denying she is a nice looking bird. Of course, I won't see her again.

Thursday May 29, 1975

The Press is still full of the Prince of Wales's beard. Certain annals of the newspaper industry have gone so far as to say that HRH was breaking naval rules by parading himself with his moustache before his mother, the Lord High Admiral. In the Royal Navy you either have to have a 'full-set' i.e. moustache and beard, or nothing at all, and when His Royal Highness was installed as Grand Master of the Order of the Bath - brandishing a ginger moustache - he was breaking the law. Anyway, he left to join his ship, the Hermes, later on today clean shaven. And that is the end of that.

Saw 'Top of the Pops' on TV and do little else. At least it is pay day today, and £6 is going into the bank for the holiday. Bye Bye.

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Wednesday May 28, 1975

A right Royal Day today. I arrived at work to find a photo of the bearded Prince of Wales on my desk, and I was startled to see how much he looked like a young King George V. Without further ado I delved into the picture archives and emerged with a photo of George V, suitably bearded of course. The resemblance is remarkable and I realised immediately that this would be a good idea for a story. 'People' the YP diary is an obvious place for such an article. However, my labours are in vain, and every time I attempt to pass on my ideas they are shouted down and ridiculed. By lunchtime I have given up hope. However, at 3 I was approached by Chris Dawson with a request for pictures of ALL the bearded monarchs of England. 'Hell', I thought, 'how many Kings of England have been bearded. Let's solve this by a process of elimination.' George VI and Edward VIII were clean shaven, and so was Queen Victoria. King Edward VII and King George V were proud beard owners, and none of the first four Georges had one. Queen Anne didn't have one, and William and Mary couldn't grow a beard between them. So, in one way or another the throne of Great Britain was beardless between 1649 and 1901. Henry VIII and poor Charles I were reasonably endowed with facial hair, but that's about all.

But alas, and alack, no sooner had I suppled Chris Dawson with images of bearded kings that I receive news of horrific consequence. Carol is shouting something like: 'He's shaved it off! He's shaved it off!' Indeed, the prince has succumbed to the razor. Carol was laughing hysterically. 'He's got a moustache now'.

The thought of searching for moustachioed monarchs didn't please me all that much. Poor Dawson returned to his desk, head bowed at the thought of losing a good story.

On my arriving home I look in at the 6 o'clock news and see the Prince of Wales endowed with a moustache dressed in robes of Grand Master of the Order of the Bath, and looking remarkably like the Prince Consort. However, I have made up my mind never to notice resemblances amongst members of the Royal Family again.

Home at 5.30 for tea and prepare to see Leeds United in the European Cup. Dave Baker joins us and we indulge in a few glasses of lager, ale, &c.

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Tuesday May 27, 1975

Don't feel like compiling any events for today. In fact I feel like putting an end to this miserable diary once and for all. OK, I'm depressed and I don't know what I'm saying, but you've got yo admit, it isn't very exciting, is it?

First day back at the YP. No astounding news in the press, and 'Edward VII' wasn't on TV tonight because of the industrial dispute with the technicians.

Dave, Lynn, John and I go to the Hare & Hounds for yet another drink. This makes the total of boozy consecutive days to six. Last Wednesday at the Hare, Thursday with Gillian, Friday, Saturday and Sunday at Grassington, Monday back at the Hare of course and then today. However, it was Edward VII's fault tonight.

Home at 10 o'clock to hear on the news that a bus accident occurred near Grassington this afternoon killing 31 women and the driver. It is Britain's worst ever road accident. To think that yesterday afternoon we were driving around on the self same autobahn.

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Monday May 26, 1975

Holiday in England, N. Ireland & Wales. The last Day: Awake coughing and sneezing because of the feathers in my sleeping bag. Emerged from the tent looking like a Pantomime Duck, or something. After dangling my head in the river and taking in the air I clear up a bit, but it'll be weeks before my sinuses clear properly. This allergy of mine is a tiresome hinderance. The same thing happened when I went with CB to Sheffield. All Dave Baker's sleeping bags are full of little feathers, and I never fail to succumb to the horrors of them.

After breakfast (another fried one) we go into Grassington for one final boozing session. The town is full of Morris Dancers, and when they came in the pub we couldn't hear ourselves speak for the jingling of bells and other clattering noises associated with this hideous village pastime.

After spending an hour in the pub we made our way home, via Appletreewick and other scenic places.

On our arrival at the Devonshire Arms we find a note pinned to John's car from Mum and Dad, who'll now be in Scotland. He managed to get the car going, and we were home for 5 o'clock.

After tea we go to the Hare & Hounds (just for a change) and I spend the whole time chatting with Christine, who passed a miserable weekend quite alone. Gary was away pot-holing - creep that he is.

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Sunday May 25, 1975

Trinity Sunday. Day Three at Grassington: Nice day. Beautiful weather, though probably just a bit windy. After waking up at the same hideous, and unusual time as yesterday we once again partook of a fried breakfast, which isn't agreeing with John at all.

We intended going off to Malham, but because of the time we changed our minds and decided to go swimming at Skipton Baths. Spend a good afternoon in Skipton, and feel greatly rejuvenated after my first splash around in a pool for what seems like decades.

Back at the tent we lounge around in deckchairs listening to the Top 20 on Radio One. Well, Pete and myself did this. John and Chris were busy frying tea.

After the traditional fried meal we bung a few stones in the river and collect wood for another camp fire and generally prepare ourselves for the coming onslaught of alcohol.

To Linton and Grassington drinking. John is back on form again and we manage to deplete the beer stocks of several Yorkshire pubs.

The second camp fire proved successful again, but we are all melancholy because it's our last night. Chris was acting daft when he saw the full moon, complaining that he believed in the likes of Dracula and other creations of Hammer Horror Inc. & Warner Brothers. It was impossible to make him see reason. We ate baked potatoes on the fire, and argued whether Princess Anne had done the right thing by marrying Mark Phillips.

Bed at 2.30.

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