Friday February 25, 1977

We had a good evening out. Tony and Martyn came up to Pine Tops at 9 o'clock. Mum and I were listening to 'Raphsody on a Theme by Paganini' by Serge Rachmaninov, and Tony shouted 'Oh great, it's Barry White'. This amused Mum.

Il Trovatore

We went to the Ukrainian Club in Bradford. I'm seriously thinking about adopting Ukrainian nationality. If the drinks prices over there compare with those in the clubs here I'm going on the next flight. We all had doubles, including Michelle and Keith,  and the price of the round came to £1. We departed quite drunk at 11 for Oakwood Hall, where only last week we vowed to miss for a couple of weeks. We must be addicted to the revolting place. We decide that nothing is to be lost in going on to Il Trovatore, and so we leave at 11.30 passing Chris, Peter M, and Laura's .boyfriend, Dave Paterson. At Il Trovatore Tony and Martyn make a dive for Naomi and Miss Moorhouse and I stand about like a spare part until 2am. I did approach a familiar looking lady from the Wikis era and received an immediate snub. Piss off the lot of you.

Raphsody on a Theme by Paganini by Rachmaninov

Thursday February 24, 1977

What do you think of the red ink? After a fortnight with it I'm not quite sure whether it's quite right for the job. Blimey, it's a bit of a strain on the old eye-balls, isn't it? Should I perhaps go blue again? No, I've paid 25p for a bottle of Quink so I'll be damned if I'm going to give in and revert to the traditional hue. This colour may be loud and cheeky but it's symbolic of my life at the moment.

Tony: moaning

Pay day today. Not very rewarding though because Barclays Bank want £60 from me, or else. I pay up without much fuss and then draw out £10 to survive for the next week. I should have said "withdrawn" but the sexual connotations of the word would have distracted my readers from the importance of the story. The less said about money the better.

At the office I managed to lay hands on four free tickets to the Leeds 'premiere' at the ABC Cinema of  'The Last Tycoon' starring Tony Curtis, Jack Nicholson and Ingrid Boulting. Ring Martyn and Tony and they decide to come along. They arrive at 8.30 dressed to kill and raring to go. I have to change into decent apparel in order to accompany them. Have at drink at the Hare and then go to the Ostlers. The film began at 11pm and only Sarah from the YP, with Peter B go along, and our revered film critic Alan Thompson, who was ______.
By 11.10 Martyn was asleep and Tony was moaning uncontrollably. The film is from the book by F. Scott Fitzgerald. That accounts for it really. I like his books and I think I was the only person in the UK who didn't go into a coma during the film of 'The Great Gatsby'. Tony and I, in the darkness, argue about the film, and a guy two rows in front turns and asks us to 'belt up'. I thought Tony was going to become violent. However, he lit a cigarette instead. By 1am he can take no more and I'm forced to leave the film with it still in full swing. Outside Tony quips: "It's a good thing he was the last tycoon, because I couldn't stand another one."

-=-

Wednesday February 23, 1977

Ash Wednesday. Nothing much to talk about other than politics. The Devolution Bill was defeated in the Commons yesterday and I had the misfortune to watch Margaret Thatcher discussing this on News at Ten. Let us pray to God she will never get to No 10, Downing Street. (Does my politics confuse you all? I don't aim to deceive you in any way, but please remember I don't vote or support 'personalities'. I shall always cast my vote with the Tories but as far as I'm concerned Margaret Thatcher is as capable of forming the next government as Queen Victoria Eugenie of Spain. So that settles that problem.) -=-

David Glynn.

I feel relieved about the content of this diary. If you lot think you're being badly done to enduring my scribblings, just consult the published journals of Evelyn Waugh. Positively sickening they are. You ought to take my volumes round to Sir George Weidenfeld and get them published. I am doing far better than the depraved Mr Waugh. Sadly however, I'm not a world-famous author or leading wit, am I? Well, not yet anyway. I have been notified by Papa that Mrs Margaret Phillips, mother of Carole, of ex-relationship with the author fame, appeared in court at Otley last Friday and was fined £40 or so for ______. I always said that Mrs P was a silly cow. Tony rings at 8. He and Martyn are off out with Miss Moorhouse and Naomi to the wine bar and he wants to know if I am endulging. I say 'no' because it's Barclaycard pay-up or bust day tomorrow. Dave G also phoned from Stockport to say he'll try to make it on April 2. He rang on Sunday when I was at the YP and again yesterday when I was at John & Maria's. Good lad is David.

Tuesday February 22, 1977

Pancake Day, or whatever you want to call it. Pissing down with rain all day but I'm not put off wandering into town to collect the record 'Body Heat' by James Brown. Got a bit wet even after taking precautions with an umberella. The soaking was worth it for this soul masterpiece.

Link to Body Heat by Mr James Brown

David Owen.

Yes, David Owen is the new Foreign Secretary at 38. It sure looks like we're going to be lumbered with (Denis) Healey as chancellor until the next rotten general election, doesn't it? (Why am I asking you? You know the outcome anyway. I suppose David Owen is now Sir David Owen, KG, the former prime minister?) The Foreign Office at thirty eight surely ensures some sort of promotion in the next 20 years and the premiership is only three or four places up the scale. Oh, I'm bored with this topic anyway. Politics is dreadful. Mr Callaghan is a silly old fool, and you know what I think about Margaret Hilda Thatcher. Don't talk to me about devolution either.

Sitting on the bus at 4.30  I remembered I promised John & Maria I'd pay them a visit for tea tonight and so I disembarked in torrential rain in Guiseley and telephoned Papa with the news that I would not be home for a heap of pancakes. Down to J and M's where I sit entertaining the baby whilst Maria did her bit towards making Shrove Tuesday the traditional thingy. JPH is taking notice now and his grin is even wider. Spent a couple of hours going through Maria's mail order catalogue and made a few orders. I played my new James Brown record over and over again attempting to indoctrinate the baby with it. We want him to be a little soul kid. I also held his face very close to the TV when the 6 o'clock news showed the Queen and Prince Philip in New Zealand. He must learn to adore his sovereign from a very early age. His mother however yelled abuse and sang Irish rebel songs at the TV.

-==-

Monday February 21, 1977

It's afternoon when I'm awakened by Susan. She's ridden with another cold. She's like a lobster and sneezing her head off. Mum comes in for lunch and we eat hurriedly because she wants to get back to the grindstone after half an hour or so.

Dad comes in at 3 and says a lunatic from Highroyds threw himself under a train in Guiseley this morning. How he can come home for a hearty lunch after picking up bits of leg, foot and thigh God only knows.

I went to Guiseley Library and got Evelyn Waugh's diaries which have only just been published. CB and I always laugh about Evelyn Waugh, for some reason, and I often sign letters to her 'from Evelyn Waugh's Dad'.

Brisk walk to John and Maria's. Baby is in bed which is disappointing because I wanted to give him some chocolate. Give Maria a run-down on the weekly events and the details of Saturday night's orgy. She enjoys tales of carnage and lewd goings on.

Dave Lawson.

Back home by 5.30. Sue says Dave L's been on the phone. I ring him. He's on half-term until Wednesday. He comes for me at 8.30 and I'm surprised when he suggests we go to the Commercial. He hates the place, but his excuse is that it won't be quite so busy in the week. It's great going out with David because it's brilliant and soothing to know I'm not the only skint guy in the British Isles. After a couple of drinks we go on to see John & Maria who, unbelievably, are tucked up in bed at 9.30pm. This really made David's night and he pulled Maria's leg. John is given the quest of finding David a buck rabbit before he returns to Gloucester on Wednesday. Good old Mr Lawson. Surely one of the greatest persons I have ever met. Won't be seeing him again until CB's party on March 11.



-==-

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.

-==-

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.




-==-

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.

-=-

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.

-==-

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.

-=-

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?

-==-