Wednesday March 2, 1977

54F in Leeds today. Is bloody summer here already? I'll be 22 before you can say Takeo Miki. Anyway, it was quite a good day all in all.

At lunchtime I met Martyn at Dormie Dress Hire and we're both togged up for evening wear for David B's 21st. The suits are going to cost us £9.50 each to hire, which neither of us can afford, but it will be so worth it for the laughs we'll get and to see the look on the faces of the other guests. Very smart we'll be. I'm not telling anyone at home so as to enhance my spectacular entry into the Aero Club. Tony is getting his gear from Moss Bros. in Bradford.

Sir Frank, later Lord Marshall.

This evening Sarah and I were closeted together in our tiny lift at the YP with that great personage Sir Frank Marshall. By way of conversation I discussed our air conditioning system with him and he told us that his 'members' had enjoyed their visit too. Who or what are his members? Who, or what is Sir Frank Marshall anyway?

I have a couple of quid left over from last night's extravaganza and am sorely tempted to go out tonight for a drink. Let us pray I can withstand the temptation and may God guide me through this sinful evening.

Later that same night: Slip into a coma in an armchair. Tired and shagged out. When did I last go to bed before bewitching hour? You'll be flicking over the pages for the last couple of years to find the answer to that one. No phone calls and feel too lazy to make any. Must write to Judith and get something sorted for March 12.

Had a bath and returned to the TV. A programme glorifying the comedian Tommy Cooper. Must have my hair cropped tomorrow. I can't even afford to do that! Suicide is the only way out.

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Tuesday March 1, 1977

St David's Day. I do hope my Welsh readers have their flags flying today. It was a tiresome day at the YP keeping the conversation away from the subject of Martha Reeves and the Vandellas and Batley Variety Club. Somehow I think Carol J must suspect something because she didn't once mention the subject of tickets to Ursula.

Delia rang at 2.30 to say she is making her TV debut today at 3.45 on YTV (re her flowering arranging genius). She added that she'd just had four of five gin and tonics in the YTV bar and was tipsy. Carol, Sarah and I gathered round the office TV at the pre-arranged time and sure enough Delia emerged onto the 12inch square set in glorious black and white. She was marvellous - her usual hilarious self. I really must get an autograph or signed photo.

Home at 5.30pm for chicken, &c. See in the Daily Mirror - if such a newspaper is to be believed -that Davina Sheffield has taken in a lodger at her London home. Today is her 26th birthday and it may well mark the decline of her liaison with the Prince of Wales. Who knows? Nothing more of vast importance going on in the big, wide world.

Martha Reeves & the Vandellas ...

I am afraid that the month of March is going to be a month of costly entertainment. Numerous birthdays, and an unseemly batch of orgies coming up. How am I going to last until April?

Leave for Batley at 8.30 with Tony & Martyn. Well, what can I say about Batley (Variety Club)? The seats were revoltingly uncomfortable. Either designed by a retarded chimpanzee or Sir Basil Spence. The heat was unbearable and the drinks ridiculously priced. Martha Reeves, though quite good, didn't emerge onto the floor until after 11, and she'd gone by 12. I may have made it sound a depressing night, but it wasn't. Quite good for a Tuesday.





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Monday February 28, 1977

Forgive me keeping you waiting but I mislaid my old pen and have just discovered it tucked under one of the cushions on a chair in the lounge. The last day of February. A revolting month and can't wait to see the back of it.

Martyn told me a good joke.A young man, Jim, is in the pub with Dilys, who lives in her own flat free from parental control. Jim enquires: "How about me coming back to yours for the night?" Dilys replies: "Sorry, but no. You see I'm on my menstrual cycle". "Oh" exclaimed Jim, "that's no bother. I can follow you on my Honda 50."

No Kathleen at the YP today. We chat about the possibility of an evening at Batley Variety Club tomorrow. Ursula has managed to get hold of eight free tickets and I claim three of them for Tony, Martyn and self.

Tony and Martyn come here at 9. After they'd left Lynn remarked how well they seem to get on considering the age difference. Tony is 30 next month and Martyn is only 18. Age is something I never consider.

Miss Phillips range me this morning just to see what I'm getting up to. It must be three weeks since we've spoken. Poor Carole. She should never have met me. I must be a lunatic.

Sir Ian and Lady Caroline Gilmour.

See a Clint Eastwood film and watch Sir Ian Gilmour moan on and on about defence cuts on a boring current affairs programme. Gilmour is opposition defence spokesman and married to a daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch. A regular little alcoholic encyclopaedia, aren't I?






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Sunday February 27, 1977

1st in Lent. Awakened at 10.30 by Maria and baby. Give him a nurse sat naked in bed sheets. Me naked  in bed sheets that is. JPH was fully clothed. I think he was expecting me to breast feed him. Babies are a wonder. I wouldn't mind having a few myself shortly - ones begotten on the wrong side of the sheet, or is it blanket? You know what I'm getting at anyway.

Out at 8 o'clock to the Hare with Tony and Martyn. We fall upon Judith and Kathryn. I ask if she's made any attempt to get March 12 off work to accompany me to David B's 21st. She seems to favour the idea. The three of us go to the Craven Heifer again. It's ridiculously packed - like a London air raid shelter in 1942. All very friendly. Meet three schoolgirls who work as Saturday girls at Smith's in Ilkley. One is a bespectacled Arien and is nice and witty. We are joined by an uncouth cad who has nine endorsements for various motoring offences. The women regard him as something of a sex object. We all go back to the flat for a quick coffee. The girls refer to the absent Barry as 'Mr Munnings' which is thoroughly hilarious. Home by 11.30. To bed.


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Saturday February 26, 1977

A great day. Tony and Martyn come at 12.30 and the three of us go to Bradford. The Gay Liberation movement are holding a mass rally and we seriously consider setting up a 'Kiss Me Quick' stall in Manningham Lane.

Kiss Me Quick Stall?

We go to WH Smith's and make verbal love to Michelle. Delightful bird. Tony buys a pair of shoes, and at 2pm we set off for Uncle George's** residence at Harewood. Up to our knees in mud and slime we head straight for the beer tent where the lager is unbearably cold. Three sausage rolls later we decide that the hill climb is incredibly boring and we head back to the car which is parked in a cow field. Wading through water-bogged trenches we spot the car trapped in by three or four other vehicles. It's like the Battle of Vimy Ridge. Coated in shit we dislodge the car and set off like Japanese mud wrestlers in search of a car wash.

Meanwhile: That night. Down to the Hare with Tony, John & Maria. CB is pissed and says Richard Marshall is rotting in a dungeon in Leeds following an incident at the (Leeds) United match this afternoon. Chris and Pete M come in. Go with Tony, John and Maria to the Craven Heifer at Addingham and Chris and Pete follow on. Tony is such a great lad.

** The Rt Hon. Earl of Harewood.

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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."

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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.

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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.



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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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