Sunday February 20, 1977

Quinquagesima. By 4am only Judith, Kathryn and I are conscious. But when we decided to call it a day I realised with horror that my jacket and keys are locked in Tony's car. We drove to Kirkstall for sausages and chips and pots of hot coffee at an unpleasant transport cafe which, by coincidence, is closing down today. Listen to Elvis Presley on the juke box and debate whether we're sane, or not.

Tony.

On leaving the 'restaurant' we were accosted by two or three police officers in cars, who question us about a shooting which had just occurred in Leeds City Station. Kathryn turned to me and said: "What have you done with the gun, Michael?" This did not amuse the officers.

Frankenstein's monster.

Back to Judith's serenaded by the clanging of church bells and the singing of obnoxious bird-life. To make matters worse Kathryn has an elephant in her mini which plays the drums and makes one hell of a rumpus when wound up. A clockwork elephant. Judith dumps us in her dining room and then slips into a coma on the carpet. I sit moaning and groaning trying to keep Kathryn awake and for her to amuse me. Silly bugger aren't I? By 8am Kathryn decided that Tony would be on the move and so she drove me down to WH Smith's. Tony was indeed up. But what a nauseating sight! Frankenstein could not have looked worse, in fact Mrs Shelley's creation is angelic in comparison. I sit at Tony's breakfast table in dark spectacles watching him pace up and down with a strange look in his eyes. ______.

Home for 9am and immediately retire to bed until 12 o'clock. Tony takes me to the YP at 5 o'clock in the snow. Yes, snow. By 10pm I'm just about unconscious with exhaustion.

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Saturday February 19, 1977

My alarm sounds at 10.45. Sit about with some crumpets and tea waiting for Tony. He comes at 11.30 looking worse for wear. Go down to Ilkley with his car packed with belongings and unload it at his new apartment. We then go off in the direction of Doncaster to collect some so-called furniture from his friend Peter. Bugger all it is really. Just three broken down old chairs and something closely resembling a table. Hardly worth trailing all that way to Doncaster for. Tony isn't too happy about it either. Have a cup of tea and watch TV before returning to civilization.

Tony Crosland: snuffed it.

Hear that the Foreign Secretary snuffed it this morning. Is it bye bye to Denis Healey at the Treasury?

Back to Bradford and fill the car with more bric-a-brac. I get home for 8 and am back out again at 9. Tony, Martyn and me down to the Hare. Joined by Chris and Pete M and go down to the Crown at Ilkley. Get pissed and ring Judith, who is serving at the Hare. She says she will come to the flat if she can find Kathryn. Oh do we get pissed!  Back to the flat: Naomi, Karen (Moorhouse), Chris, Pete, and eventually Judith and Kathryn - the hilarious Miss Kathryn Young.I end up getting engaged to Judith and we exchange rings and shirts, &c. Martyn was horribly seduced by his lady and I've never seen Tony get in such a state. We polished off a bottle of gin and a couple of bottles of wine.




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Friday February 18, 1977

If you could see me now you'd say I didn't have all that long left to live. In fact, at this moment, I closely resemble the Rt. Hon. Charles Anthony Raven Crosland, Secretary of State for Foreign & Commonwealth Affairs. Pneumonia may well have set in. However, at great personal loss and danger I struggled into the offices of the Yorkshire Post and did a fair days work.

Home by 5pm. Have a sirloin steak with Lynn. We had a good chat too.  Oh she is so like her big brother. Mum and Dad were at Marlene's for tea and Sue was at the hairdressers until 7pm.

Oakwood Hall.

Martyn came here at 8.15 and Tony at 8.30. Down to the Hare & Hounds to see Judith. CB (who rang me this morning) comes down to the Hare and reminds me about her 21st birthday party on March 11. Andy and Linda, Chris and Pete M are in too. To the Shoulder of Mutton on Hollins Hill. It's a strange pub. We move on to Bingley after one pint. On to good old Oakwood Hall. When I say 'good old' Oakwood Hall I don't actually mean it. In fact it was 'bloody lousy' Oakwood Hall. Martyn was on good form, Tony was fed up. I was miserable - probably because I've over done it a bit lately, I don't know. Home at 2am. Discuss tomorrow. Definately no discotheque. I'm helping Tony move to Ilkley so we may well end up in the flat - an orgy of merriment and piss. (By piss, I mean booze of course. I'm not addicted to urine like Mr Hitler was).

Note: where's Miss Phillips been of late? Her Royal Highness must surely be 'Fogartising' even though rumour has it that they've finished. I have her new phone number but I don't want to use it. When I see her I really enjoy it, but I don't want to do so by appointment.

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Thursday February 17, 1977

Good night out with Tony, Martyn, Judith, Kathryn and a loud, outspoken maiden who's taken up a post at the Hare & Hounds. After having a few drinks at the Hare we go to Ilkley - to the Crescent - where we're all hysterical at different jokes. Judith laughs at the speed, or lack of speed, shown by the bar staff here, and the loud girl with prospects at the Hare keeps asking for a 'slice with the ice'. Nothing out of the ordinary, because we aren't out of the ordinary people. We just enjoy ourselves.

With Judith.

At 10.30 we go to Il Trovatore - Kathryn included, where Naomi and Miss Moorhouse confront us. Miss Moorhouse falls immediately into Martyn's clutches and within minutes they're bogged down behind a table doing more than talk politics. I saved Judith from a pissed geriatric who asked her the age-old question: "Do you come here often?" She (Judith) takes to Tony like David Wilkie takes to water and I drift off with Naomi into the corner where Martyn is conducting his affair. Nice girl is Naomi.  By 1.30 I think Mr Brotherwood had stomached enough and so he suggested we make a move. Martyn and Karen went off with him and Naomi ferried me back to Guiseley. Don't I pick the women with transportation facilities? Yes, I do. Pissing down when I get home.

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Wednesday February 16, 1977

Just can't be bothered to say anything normal today. Well life gets so boring doesn't it? Blimey, I don't know why the hell you've stuck with me for so long. Faithful chaps, that's what you are.

Lawrence: prime minister material.

Dad has just been performing something of a pantomime in his bedroom. He was measuring himself for a new pair of trousers but the way he went about it was reminiscent of the Charge of the Light Brigade. I have always held the belief that Papa should stand for parliament or something. He'd make a first class cabinet minister or even THE prime minister. Mind you, I don't think Sue would want to travel from No 10 to Park Gate Boutique every day, and his appointment would necessitate upheaval for us all. Blimey, I could act as his press secretary and when I'm hard-up in a few years time I could nip down to Fleet Street and sell my inside story to the highest bidder. Endless possibilities.  He could make me a life peer and send baby JPH to the Foreign Office where I'm sure he'd do far more work than this Crosland guy who just seems to lounge around in hospital beds day in, day out. It's all very well, but when we're a leading world power with an empire on which the sun never sets, you ought to be doing far more, Tony.

Tony B rings from Leicester or Lincoln to say he's going to Tramp's tonight but won't be scoring in the Silver Jubilee Lechery competition.

I celebrate one week of freedom today. Funny isn't it? After seeing somebody for months on end and then suddenly breaking off is a wrench - even for the one who terminates the contract. So final and straight cut, and very untrue to life. I keep thinking something else will happen. Rather like when someone dies.

Take to my bed spot on midnight just as Radio Luxembourg's 12 o'clock news is screaming out it's solemn deliberations. The DJ's illiterate.

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Tuesday February 15, 1977

Awful day at work. I'm sick to death of having to do Monday's work on a Tuesday. What they do when I have a day off I just do not know.  Sarah looks ghastly. She's had all her hair cut off and the reason why she and Delia didn't arrive to see me on Friday was because she went hysterical in the hairdressers.

Salad for tea which I detest. Susan and I go through the ritual of moaning about sodden lettuce and boring accessories.

Martyn: women drop at his feet.

Martyn rang at 8 to thank me for the photo of Her Majesty and the Silver Jubilee Lechery Society details. He experienced the delights of Miss Moorhouse on Ilkley Moor on Sunday afternoon and he wined and dined her that night. He's having a drink with her tonight in the Hare and I'm tempted to join them for a small sup. But glancing at my financial situation I decide to remain imprisoned here at Pine Tops. I could be jealous of Martyn, you know. His sex life is amazing and women drop at his feet wherever he goes. Denise thinks he's the sexiest lad she's laid eyes on in ages.

Mum and Dad go to the Commercial and I beg Sue & Pete to join me in fish and chips which they do at 10.30 when Pete drives me down to the (fish and chip) shop. I blame that ruddy salad for the pangs of starvation. No good for a growing lad.

Anthony Crosland is still deteriorating and is unconscious after his heart attack. I don't give him much longer to live. However, he could be like another General Franco and deteriorate for two or three months. Poor sod. Somehow I think he might have eventually had a bash at No 10, Downing Street. Will Healey now move to the Foreign Office?

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Monday February 14, 1977

Valentine's Day again. Blimey, it comes round quickly doesn't it? Why it only seems like yesterday since that special delivery van from the Post Office brought 48 million Valentine's Day greeting cards to my door along with bunches of floral tributes and various other sundry gifts. And what did I get this year? Bugger all. Yes, not a sausage. Who would have ever thought that the day would dawn when Michael Rhodes could climb out of bed on Valentine's morn to discover no mail whatsoever? I wouldn't have. Nevertheless, life must go on.

Emerge from my slimy den at 1 o'clock. Pathetic isn't it? The BBC doesn't mention anything about the plight of the foreign secretary until 2pm. He's in a critical condition and it doesn't look as though he's going to get his money's worth from any Valentine's greetings he's despatched.

Maria and baby come up at 2.30 and stay to tea. John coming here straight from work with Mama. The baby is really incredible these days, smiling at everyone. It's hilarious to hear him laugh when he's 'roughed up' a bit. Dad spends all afternoon just bouncing him about.

Sir Robin Day.

Tony rings. See Robin Day on 'Panorama' make mincemeat of Joe Haines, former press secretary to Sir Harold Wilson. It's obvious to one and all that Mr Haines is a bloody liar. Dad goes hairless about these so-called political animals who cash in by writing books when the ink on their resignation letters is still wet. Can't blame them really, though some of the things they come out with is quite preposterous. Watch 'Up Pompei' with Frankie Howerd. Saw the film with Dave Lawson five or six years ago. That reminds me, if I don't write to David this week I'll be unfit to call myself a friend of his because I've made no contact at all since the beginning of January. Bloody disgraceful, eh? Bed at 11.30.

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Sunday February 13, 1977

Sexagesima. Good Old Sexagesima again. By Jingo it comes round quickly. Got up at midday and devoured a large bowl of porridge and a couple of slices of toast. Later, Sue, Pete and I went down to the Commercial. A couple of pints of stella artois later and we're much nicer people. Susan drank gin & orange.

Back at Pine Tops Lynn has made cakes and buns and lunch of pork chops with 'all the trimmings'.

Down to the office on the 5.10 33 bus and have something of a boring night. John Cameron gave me a form to fill in and I joined the YP-EP Mission Club of which no real details are known as yet. Will report on it later. Send letters to Tony & Martyn with a list of rules for new members of the Silver Jubilee Lechery Society each with a photo of H.M. The Queen.

Harold Wilson and Lady Falkender.

News items: This Sir Harold Wilson/Lady Falkender thing is brewing away nicely. We all now know why Uncle Harold packed in the premiership when he did, and the Sunday papers have stories of the Queen's reaction to Marcia Williams's peerage (Mrs W is now of course the notorious 'Lady Forkbender').

Henry Heaton comes in saying PA are announcing that Antony Crosland, the Foreign Secretary, has been taken seriously ill whilst out walking near his home. They seem to think that Merlyn Rees, the current Home Secretary, will take over. Why not offer the post to Lady Falkender?

Home in a dense fog at 1.30, really thick and nasty. Appropriately I have a can of pea soup. Bed at 2.30. Read until 3.

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Saturday February 12, 1977

Bugger about in bed until about noon. Didn't bugger about literally of course.

Did we arrange to meet the Yeadon ladies at the Clothiers in Yeadon at 7.30? Blimey, we'll all be pissed by half eight. By 'ladies' I mean an assortment of various types of female whom we procured last night at the disco. A particularly nice one, who looks like Angela Rippon, says she remembers me from Benton Park.

Listen to the American top thirty records on Radio One and then had sausages and chips with Lynn, Dave and Susan. Fruit salad and gallons of cream followed. Ugh - felt sick afterwards.

Walked with Lynn and Dave to John & Maria's. Christine Dibb had rushed down to Maria's the other day with the news of my break with Lynne. ______.

Clothiers: horrible, low-class pub

Martyn and Tony arrive at about 8.30 and Tony drives us to the Clothiers. A horrible, low-class tavern. A group of men were discussing the Silver Jubilee and this is a morsel of the conversation.

"How long has t'old King been dead anyway?"

"Oh, about a fortneet".

The two young ladies arrive at about 8.30 and we go straight to the Hare & Hounds with them. Sue & Peter, John & Maria are in. Chris comes in with MM and Marita. I don't really take to these women at all and nearly die when one, Jackie, announces she's coming to Oakwood Hall with us. At 10 Tony takes them to the Liberal Club at Yeadon. We go on to Bingley and then Oakwood Hall, a dead loss tonight. No women of decent bearing at all and  come home after a 'danceless' night. Had a curry from the van outside Oakwood which was ridiculously hot. Have a coffee at home with Tony, Martyn, Sue & Peter and retire by 3-ish.

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Friday February 11, 1977

Yes, it's another day off. Lynn's chatting wakes me at 8.30 and after a coffee with Mum and Susan I'm ready to return to bed. Mum and Dad are going to a hotel in Scarborough tonight - for the weekend. Blimey, here we are in the midst of a great financial upheaval, with the prime minister quaking in his surgical boots, and my parents are off spending cash like no tomorrow. Good luck to them anyway - I don't think they've had a decent break since last summer.

Lynn.

Return to the sanctity of my bedroom world until 11.30 when it fell to me to do the housework. Well, not exactly housework. I went about with the vacuum cleaner and washed the breakfast pots, then switched on the stereo. You may recall that I secured today as a day off for Miss Akroyd's benefit? A model train set and bottle party was planned but further enquiries reveal she cannot have a day off until Saturday. So, I'm lumbered with a lazy, good for nothing day lounging here in the chair at Fort Pine Tops.

Smash hell out of the stereo all afternoon and press Papa's trousers while he's ferrying mother to-and-fro Moon's Mill. No telephone calls, telegrams or naked Swedish film starlets at all - which makes a change.

I'm awaiting the arrival of Sarah & Delia with a new sculpture I've commissioned from her (Sarah). But they don't arrive. Less said about that the better.

Martyn & Chris

Down to the Hare with Tony, Martyn, Sue & Peter. Move on (we three lads that is) to Neville's Wine Bar and then the Craven Heifer (Addingham). Oakwood Hall followed and Oh what a night it was. Some ladies from Yeadon were the highlight of the evening and Mr Mather, Mr Ratcliffe and Mr Hudson were there. Peter was quite moving on the subject of Lynne and the sad fact that 'she'll never see me again'. Drop the ladies off in Albert Square (Yeadon) and then come home with Tony & Martyn. Lynn and Dave are snuggled up in a corner of the settee.







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Thursday February 10, 1977

My first full day without Her Majesty Queen Lynne as my consort and help-meet. In many ways a sad day. The Lynnian era is no more, and with it goes all the security, brilliance and power. The days of convenient car rides to the pub and pleasant weekends at Ty-Onnen have automatically ceased. Once again, I am nothing more than a pleasant, roving peasant.

David Baker

Work is unmentionable. Meet Dave B at the Yorkshire Crown at 12.45 after wading through several feet of water on Wellington Street. Boards outside the office (EP ones) proclaimed 'CHARLES AND DAVINA - PALACE STATEMENT' which is fact a denial of any imminent marital alliance. The Buckingham Palace spokesman says 'it's preposterous to suggest any engagement could take place whilst the Queen is out of the country'. She's in Australia, of course. These palace spokesmen are nothing more than paid liars.

To the dentist for a check up. I have to go back next month for a couple of fillings. Nip to Marita's with a box of chocolates for her birthday, which was a couple of weeks ago, and sit for half an hour or so. She said she'd heard on Monday that I'd finished with Lynne. Coo, didn't that get round quickly?

Down to the Hare with Tony and Martyn at 8.30. John is in with a lad called Steve (Hudson?), & Carole, Naomi and Karen Moorhouse are in. Barry (from Smith's at Ilkley), Judith and Kathryn roll up. John says Chris hates Martyn's guts for 'pinching Karen off him'. Howls of laughter. Karen looked like a deckchair actually - all stripes. Killer. We all go the Il Trovatore in Ilkley. Quite a good night but by 1am we'd developed a 'Darby & Joan' complex. Home with Tony and I sit laughing to myself whilst he and Karen look on as if I'm raving mad.

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