Tuesday January 11, 1977

Leave the YP at 1 o'clock. I just can't stomach work today. Get off the bus in Guiseley and trail down to White Cross to buy Mum and Dad their belated birthday present only to find the 'Stable Door' shop bolted and closed. Shit! I meander homeward up Thorpe Lane. Lunch with Mama and Papa. Oh by the way. We saw Miss Phillips in the Hare last night and of course she ignored us both. She even dispatched Richard Wellock or 'Left Bollock' over to spy on us. He didn't take very kindly to Lynne and proceeded to kick her handbag around the room. _______. Even Naomi was there [in the Hare].

Tony came at 7.30 and we went to the Victoria Hotel in Bradford where the staff of the Bradford branch of WH Smith are gathered. See Denise, Michelle, Simon, and I'm on a table with them. Tony is at the far end of the room. Typical Christmas dinner, &c. Simon and I buy a bottle of wine for the table - one glass cost me £1.30. Arrgghh. The disco started at about 9.30 and we 'freaked out' until 1am. Denise is such a miraculous dancer. She won a train set in the raffle which thrilled her. We plan a wild train set orgy in the near future. Chaperone Michelle for most of the evening. ____________________. -==-

Monday January 10, 1977

Anthony Eden,
1st Earl of Avon, KG

Peter wakes me at 6.30am to say I've been parading around the bedroom sleepwalking. Sleepwalking??! I don't believe it, mate. Michael Rhodes isn't that sort of guy. The snow is coming down in the volume that Bing Crosby likes to sing about and Lynne sits grumpily over her egg on toast watching it. The drive over to Leeds would be a sombre - even macabre - affair indeed were it not for Noel Edmonds and Radio One. Lynne is even worse than I am on a morning if you can imagine that. Horrid day at the YP. Poor Lord Avon is breathing his last down in deepest Wiltshire - 20 years to the very day since he resigned as Prime Minister. Poor sod. He married Churchill's niece, you know, Clarissa. Also, this Prince of Wales/Princess Marie-Astrid of Luxembourg thing is brewing up again. A pile of shit if you ask me. The Grand Duke [of Luxembourg] comes to Sandringham EVERY year to kill grouse and other wildlife, and just because he's here at the moment the papers are saying he's discussing the marriage arrangements with the Queen. Laughable. Charlie Boy will marry an English bird - I'll bet you a quid on it. Back to Pine Tops at 6 o'clock. Hear some scandal. Chris is knocking about with Carole again. Eek. Tony rings to say he's off to the Hare with Stuart and enquires whether I want to attend the WH Smith dinner tomorrow. This is a must. He says he went to the Boat Show for the weekend _______. Gossip is hilariously out of control at the moment. Lynne and I go to the Hare at 9 o'clock and meet Tony, Stuart, Martyn, Carla, and Stuart's replacement at Smith's and a new member of the Oakwood Hall Male Voice Choir. Only have a couple of drinks. Bid farewell to Stuart who leaves on Saturday for three years in Paris [C/O Madame Guichard, Residences Les Dauphines, 6 Rue Renault, La Defence 6, 92400, Courbevoie, Paris]. We may never see him again. Don't like parting with friends. Will write him a few daft letters. Home at 10.45. -==-

Sunday January 9, 1977

1st after Epiphany. Emerge at a late hour yet again but this time to the sweet serenade of Mr Peter Mather. He questions me on the latest intrigues, &c. He tells me that _____are in London for the weekend and that Chris had not so much of a party more of a 'tiny booze up' last night at the Ratcliffe pile. Where was my invitation? _____.

A day at Ty-Onnen. I refuse to help Lynne clean her car and sit with Mr M watching a black and white Jack Hawkins 'classic'. Anything's better than standing out on the drive with a soapy wash leather in one hand and a bucket in the other.

After dinner Peter announces that the film 'Jaws' is showing at the Pickering Empire, or Plaza, or wherever. I must have paid for that bloody shark three times over and kept Robert Shaw in luxury for the rest of his days the amount of times I've seen the film. They both enjoyed it. The bit Pete liked best was paying a mere 45p to see it. A saving of 55p on the Leeds cinemas.

Bed at 1.30 after more television.

-=-

Saturday January 8, 1977

Up at noon. Lynne is bounding around the bedroom with the vitality of a six year-old. What can this be? Well, she has finally been horse riding this morning, and it certainly seems to have done the trick.

We have breakfast of bacon, sausages and eggs accompanied by Karl on the guitar. Later we, that is Lynne Mr & Mrs M and I, go to Filey for the afternoon. What a miserable dead loss that place it is. Murky just isn't the word. Gruesome, yes. A holiday at this so-called resort would undoubtedly maim, or even kill, a person of a weak mental disposition. We spent an hour or more looking for the centre to do some shopping before realising we were 'in it'. 'In it' is quite an appropriate expression, mate.

That night. To the Penthouse in Scarborough [see Aug 10, 1974] which is enjoyable. The clientel isn't what you might call elite, and a Bohemian atmosphere prevails. When I was last there I was too well dressed for the occasion. Lynne was a bit pissed by 2am. She didn't utter a single word on the drive back to Thornton-le-Dale. Have the usual ritual of cheese on toast back at Ty-Onnen. _____.

-==-

Friday January 7, 1977

Lynne collects me at 8pm and we nip down to the Hare for a quickie. Chat with Simon and his lady friend and of course the intrepid Judith. She is down in the dumps about something. I fear I have let her down over the 'Pink Panther' project? Just as we're leaving the pub Dave L comes in. He's going on later to see MM and Marita and then going to 'the dogs' [racing]. To the Damn Yankee in Harrogate for a pizza. Very good as usual.

Damn Yankee, Harrogate.

Lynne is in good spirits with a new haircut and a handbag and new shoes. On to a pub in a remote spot near  Harrogate before setting out to Thornton-le-Dale. Arrive at midnight. The Mathers still have the Christmas tree up and other Xmas regalia. I am appalled at this and tell Lynne of the hideous bad luck brought down on the households and members of families who fail to remove these frivolities by Epiphany. She pales at my sombre lecture and promises to do something about it. Bed at 1am in Pete's room. He's at the Ratcliffe residence until Sunday. Didn't see Mrs M[ather] tonight. She worries me really. It depresses her so much dwelling out in the wilds of North Yorkshire.
-==-

Thursday January 6, 1977

Epiphany no less. Derek Naylor [EP Features] has given me a book entitled 'Astrology and the Royal Family' which supposedly gives character analysis of members of that august dynasty - the House of Windsor. Shit really. The Queen Mother, it seems, is going to die in 1979, if Roger Elliot has his way, and the Prince of Wales will marry a 'big, busty blond' before next Christmas. Does Davina Sheffield have big tits? [Sorry, your future Majesty]. It's a load of bunkum.

Davina Sheffield: future Queen?

Queen Mother: to die in 1979.

Tonight: Martyn comes at 8 o'clock with another Martyn [Knipe] also with a Y, who is on a RN submarine based at Gosport in Hampshire. We go over to Carla's at Baildon and then go to Bingley for a few pints. Laugh at the so-called John Constable picture in the lounge. Carla is quite a bit of fun when she gets warmed up. At midnight we dump her and the three of us go on to Oakwood Hall, which is completely dead. Not a soul we know in the place. I drink pernod but the two Martyns look somewhat sober. Home at 2.30am. Raid the freezer for fish cakes.

-==-

Wednesday January 5, 1977

Peter Fearon approached me again today about my joining the ranks of the journalist brigade. Kathleen overheard the conversation and reminded me of my non existent future at the Yorkshire Post. I'd probably make a good reporter but I never do anything about it. Kathleen went upstairs to the personnel department to get an application form for me but came back saying Mr Austin-Clarke is hardly my closest friend. Malcolm Barker is wanting a junior male reporter and K suggests that I compile a letter to him saying the usual thing that grovelling serfs like me are supposed to say to editors of well-established newspapers. I must do this for peace of mind.

Rang David G in Stockport tonight to say I'm going to see him on January 15. We have to get the holiday sorted by then or we'll be knackered. I will get on to Pete M so that we can go over in the van.

Retire to bed at 11 with 'Claudius the God', by Robert Graves, a continuation of 'I, Claudius'. A bit heavy going at first but I may well be sat here with it clasped between my knees [the book] at 2am.

-==-