Thursday March 24, 1977

No one at home after tea except sweet little me. After my bath and general sprucing up I rang Tony. He's going out with Linda, Martyn and Ruth. He says he feels quite rotten about dumping me but I respond by saying I'm a good looking lad, over 21, who is quite capable of taking care of myself and able to provide my own amusement. Rightly so. I then rang Martyn.  He says he and Gayle will be in the Hare tomorrow. I then used the telephone for the third and final time tonight and rang Judith. I arranged to meet her and Kathryn in the Hare. Left home at 8.10 and marched all the way to Menston. Yes, on foot.

with Judith.

Virgin Queen?

Not a soul to speak to in the Hare until Judith came in at 9pm. I was sitting near the juke box like 11 and a half stone of cabbage. Quite a good night in all and the climax of the evening could have been dubbed with Handel's music for the royal fireworks when Carol (Fat Carol who works at the Hare) emptied the contents of the ice bucket over Judith and squirted half the contents of a soda syphon over her and Kathryn. The scene which followed was reminiscent of Queen Marie Antoinette's procession to the guillotine as Fat Carol was hotly pursued around the pub lounge. Quite hysterical really.

The three of us then passed on to the Chinese take-away in Guiseley where Judith treated me to a gastronomic delight. Afterwards on to Bedside Manor (26, Fieldhead Road) for coffee until nearly 2am. Kathryn and I debated whether Queen Elizabeth I died a virgin. She died 374 years ago today. Judith was flat on the floor in a coma as this indelicate chatter went on. It's an awkward point. How would one go about asking God's annointed if she fancied a bit of hanky panky? Those who valued their heads would have avoided such banter, we decide. Home to bed feeling absolutely buggered.

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Wednesday March 23, 1977

Callaghan: reptile.

Our reptile of a Prime Minister has pulled a fast one over on the feeble little party the name of which I cannot seem to recall. Yes, the Tory vote of 'no confidence' in Her Majesty's government failed and the reptile scraped through with a majority of 20 or so. No doubt you know more about it than I do because it will be history by the time you come to read this. I bet your 'A' Level tutor has dictated Mrs Thatcher's speech to you recently. You know, the one referring to Jim (Callaghan) as 'Jim of all parties, and master of none'.

But to get down to the really important things: Spring is certainly in the air, folks. Indeed, as I walked down the lane today I made every attempt to ignore the fog, drizzle and biting wind and instead my eyes searched the hedgerows in vain for signs of those pretty Spring floral offerings - namely daffodils. None to be seen. Not a bud on a tree. The youngest sheep I've laid eyes on qualifies for a telegram from Her Majesty the Queen congratulating it on it's longevity. The word 'lamb' is about as relevant in today's society as 'dodo', 'democracy' and 'statesman'.

Tony is in Worksop. What a revolting place to be on a Wednesday night. Spoke to Barry via telephonic communication. He says he's working 'too hard'. Cannot contact Martyn because some unhelpful person or persons have seen fit to conceal our telephone number book in a place unknown. I can only just recall Mr Brotherwood's number (Ilkley 3173), but Martyn's evades me. I think it begins with a 3 and has a 9 in it somewhere.

Sheep: Telegram from Her Majesty?

Motherdear has spent the day in bed. A bad, irritating cough and aching bones. Probably influenza. She doesn't look too bad tonight but ought not to struggle into work for a few days.

Back to the subject of sheep. How long do they live if allowed to grow old gracefully? I ask this because the one I spied this morning was aged. When was the last time you saw next week's lamb cutlets in a wheelchair? I'm not mad either. Oh no.






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Tuesday March 22, 1977

Not discussing work other than to say we've been having some bother with Carol.

Margaret Thatcher: I don't fancy the idea of a woman PM

A good cartoon in the Daily Mail this morning on the subject of Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister and Mrs Indira Gandhi. Tomorrow we will know for certain whether we're in for a general election or not.

I don't fancy the idea of a woman PM but anything will be better than Callaghan. Even a gorilla will do. A right-wing gorilla though.

Spoke to Delia Collis this afternoon on the phone. She has invited me to tea on an date yet unknown but in the near future. Should be a laugh.

Chris Monckton: future Tory whip?

To the dentist at 5pm. I need a couple of fillings. No appointment until September. I can think of nothing worse than dentists. They should all be herded together and shipped to the Maldives, or perhaps the Outer Hebrides. On reflection it's probably a silly idea, but I'm not here merely to be sensible. Blimey, I'm not standing for parliament.

Chris Monckton is departing from the YP to become a PRO with the Conservative party. Should suit him well. One day I bet he's a Tory whip - in more ways than one. On the subject of the peerage, a duke saw fit to make an exit from his mortal role yesterday. Namely the Duke of Portland who was 84. Strangely enough the successor to this title is only a slip of a lad himself. In fact he's 88.

11:30pm. Nothing much more to report. The BBC is, at this very moment, going on and on about the revolting government. It angers me more and more. James Callaghan is no politician. How he has the cheek to crawl round the Liberal party at this stage is quite amazing. No, obscene is the word. Even Dad says it's disgusting. The shoddy way this country is governed! If I was an MP I'd admit defeat when it it staring me right in the face.

To bed with P.G. Wodehouse. An amusing book. No telephone calls tonight. Must ring the lads tomorrow.

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Monday March 21, 1977

What a wonderful weekend. But in no mood to discuss it this morning. Thoroughly tired out.

Cheered somewhat by the fact that our beloved government may be resigning this week. Mr 'Callagas' may be packing his bags and shifting his belongings from Downing Street at this very moment. Is Margaret Thatcher's moment of truth upon us already? You just wait and see. Callabum has only been in office for ten or eleven months.

Go to Boots and collect a packet of photographs that have been waiting for me since April. Yes, pictures of Lynn's 18th (birthday) at the Yorkshire Rose.

Walkabout, starring Jenny Agutter.

Bathe and eat tomato sandwiches in front of the television. Watch a Jenny Agutter film about a nubile schoolgirl abandoned in the Outback with a solitary Aborigine. It quite put me off my food.

The Queen was on the BBC news. 'Go it, Old Girl!' Oh, and Peter Sellers is ill in hospital. He was only married (again) last month. He was similarly taken ill shortly after marring Miss (Britt) Ekland too - a coincidence? Over indulgence perhaps?

Yes, the more I think about the weekend the more I come to realise that life isn't all violence, politics, boredom and Margaret Thatcher, Thatcher, Thatcher as it is so often portrayed on 'Panorama'. Life is bliss. Life is a great joy.

Retired to bed at 12.05am. Read 'The World of Mr Mulliner' by Wodehouse.

Do you like this red ink yet?

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Sunday March 20, 1977

Whilst Martyn and Tony were presumably playing scrabble in a steamed up, dimly lit vehicle with two scantily clad maidens last night I took the opportunity of placing myself at the back of the tent, furthest away from the entrance and on an upward incline. Thus, my nights comfort was assured.

To be honest, the lads had no time to play scrabble in the time they were bidding their fond farewells to the ladies. Whilst waiting I smoked one cigarette and drank half a bottle of chilled beer, which puts their time of absence from the tent at approximately four minutes because you know I don't mess around with bottles of ale.

Back to this morning anyway: Me and Martyn were awake by 8am and our chatter brought Tony from his slumbers ten minutes later. Spam sandwiches for breakfast with Linda and Ruth. Our morning repast was somewhat marred by the sight of the bespectacled ogre from the neighbouring tent with a Joan Armatrading phobia. He cannot have been much older than public school leaving age. His tent was quivering (with fear?) as I consumed my sandwich and swilled Coca Cola. Only public schoolboys can frown like that. You know how I mean, that Winston Churchill look.

James Hunt: race of champions.

To Brands Hatch at 12.30. £4 entrance fee - each. Blimey, the five of us must have paid James Hunt's wages for the day. Mr Hunt won the Race of Champions, as we fully expected him to. The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Warm enough in fact to sit on the grass and eat more Spam sandwiches moistened this time with cottage cheese.

Tony, Martyn, Ruth, Linda and me. 

Racing good. Linda hilarious. Tony impersonating Peter Cooke and Marty Feldman rolled into one. Marvellous day. Then went on to Linda's father's place in Slough and had chicken and chips in his caravan with his common-law wife and Linda's common-law brother.

We visited every village in Kent, Buckinghamshire, Berkshire and Derbyshire. Saw Windsor on the horizon. Whipsnade, Cliveden House, High Wycombe all came in our path. Hit that nasty big road at Watford at 10pm and thus began our journey north. We stuffed ourselves with sweets in the car  and collapsed in hysterics into the motorway cafe at Leicester again.

Tony, over his brew, said Ruth's hair looked quite nice when in fact it looked exactly the opposite and when she said she felt like a wet lettuce I answered: "Well, why don't you get one, then?" Wet with laughing. Home at 1.30am. House in darkness and silence. To bed. Camping is all very well but one night is quite enough for me. It takes a David Livingstone to last out any longer I'm sure.

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Saturday March 19, 1977

To Brands Hatch, Saturday and Sunday, Perfect weekend.  Tony, Martyn and the girls, Miss Linda White ('White, not Shite') and Mrs Ruth _____ collected me at about 11am.

Linda is hilariously funny and we did nothing but howl with laughter all the way to Kent. Tony and Martyn sat up front leaving me with the two ladies in the rear of the vehicle.

Ruth.

We only stopped for two breaks. Once at the familiar motorway services at Leicester and the other at the Tower of London so that the girls could relieve themselves.

We got to a camp site about 2 miles from Brands Hatch by 5pm. The tent was erected by 6. By 7.30 we were in the nice village pub. We all got on like a house on fire. Like one, happy family. All pissed. Linda recited 'I know a woman with a punt cut square, not a square cutted punt, but a punt cut square'. Martyn tried to follow this, after three Southern Comforts and eight pints and began 'I know an old Cunt'.

We went on to a disco all horribly canned. The place was more like a youth club. The five of us did a spot of formation dancing. And to think we only met on Thursday! Linda is a great girl. Back to the camp site we had such a laugh with a camera and a lamp. Linda playing at Florence Nightingale and me hopping round the tents like Quasimodo. We had the Joan Armatrading tape at full volume in the tent. A rat bag in the neighbouring tent moaned that we had 'insisted' on keeping her awake for 'most of the night' and yet it's only 12.30.

Heatwave and Boogie Nights

Miss Joan Armatrading singing Love and Affection


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Friday March 18, 1977

Went to Christine's  at 1pm to view her scars. They're not as bad as I imagined them to be and she is unperturbed about the whole incident.

Paddy Braithwaite gets her to tell the tale of the reaction of the policeman to her 'Starsky & Hutch' roll over a car covered in whipped cream and glace cherries. Hilarious.

CB goes off to prepare to go out and Paddy tells me he is the only person alive with no pituitary gland. It's something at the bottom of your brain and as far as I know it controls every gland.

He drives CB and I to Otley where we go straight to the Black Bull. Met Peter N with his father, Jim. At 2.30 -3pm we went to the Bowling Green for more. Met Rick Rider, Mick Lynch, &c. Left a 4pm feeling slightly intoxicated. Christine was starving and so we went up to Harry Ramsden's for 'one of each'. We then bid each other farewell until 8.

Home for tea with a banging headache and a present for mother (it's Mother's Day on Sunday). Eat and slept until 6.30. Out with Tony and Martyn to the Hare. Joined by an exhausted CB who looks really rough tonight (no offence) and by Chris R and Peter M. We all went to the Rose & Crown (except CB). I drank ginger beer and Coca Cola. Felt dreadfully tired and put this down to the combined effects of last night and this afternoon. By 11.30 I'm at home watching a Yul Brynner film. What will the female contingent be like tomorrow?

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Thursday March 17, 1977

St Patrick's Day. Drastic evening out. Well it was for Michael Rhodes. I worked evenings and met Tony and Martyn at 11.30pm outside the YP.  Martyn looked dead and slept peacefully in the front seat.

Martyn: like the Cheshire Cat.

To Il Trovatore for Tony's birthday drink. Whilst I'm at the bar ordering some drinks for the three of us they both have a dance with a couple of young ladies and desert me completely, leaving me helpless with a Coca Cola and a half of Guinness. I found some solace in the company of Denise, Naomi and Carol (that's Fat Carol who works in the Hare on Sunday nights). _______.The girls left at 12. Martyn came over for their drinks and eventually I'm introduced, but I've forgotten their names. Tony told them about our Brands Hatch trip and unbelievably they say they want to join us. Tony and Martyn were like the Cheshire Cat - Tony especially. Buggers. Spent about £5 and got pissed. Home at 2.30am.






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Wednesday March 16, 1977

Christine B, 21. Tony B, 30. Brands Hatch trip is settled.  Sarah is to work on Sunday and I'm working tomorrow instead.

My grandfather, John Wilson, would have been 87 today.

Ring Tony at 7pm and say happy birthday. He suggests we go to the Il Trovatore tomorrow for a few birthday drinks. He and Martyn will collect me from the YP at 11.30pm or so. Not a bad idea.

Newspapers and TV are critical about the Viv Nicholson play last night. I spoke to Derek Naylor today and to Fred Willis and both said how true to life the play is. Both have interviewed her over the years.

Judith: great girl.

Do you think I should have contacted Judith after last weekend or is that falling once again into the age old trap? She is a great girl but I am sure neither of us want a relationship and so ringing her for no reason other than to make polite conversation seems a bit pointless.

Mum is embarrassed about Dad's drunken behaviour on Saturday at Pool-in-Wharfedale.

Nothing in the news. Indian general election. If they can have one, why can't we?  I'm just about sick and tired of Jim Callaghan, Wedgwood Benn, Judith Hart, Denis Healey, Eric Varley, Hugh Gaitskell, James Ramsay MacDonald, William Joynson-Hicks, Viscount Goschen, Earl Baldwin of Bewdley, W.H. Smith MP, Nancy Viscountess Astor, Reg Prentice, Barbara Castle, Manny Shinwell, Anthony Crosland, Airey Neave, Mr St John Stevas, Lew Grade, Fortune Duchess of Grafton, the late Louis Armstrong, and many more.

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Tuesday March 15, 1977

Pathetic day. Bloody rain. The Ides of March, whatever that means. I know Julius Caesar bit the dust on this day but if his last March 15 was anything like this one he was well out of it. Old Brutus did him a bloody favour.

Our trip to Brands Hatch seems well and truly doomed. I've brought up the subject in the office seven or eight times and have had no decent response. Kathleen most certainly cannot work Sunday night.Really annoyed. Ursula says she can manage quite well without me.

Go to town and buy birthday cards for Christine and Tony, who celebrate tomorrow. CB's card has a photo of Greta Garbo in the arms of Basil Rathbone, I think, with the inscription: "They don't make 'em like you, anymore". No doubt I'll hear from here before Friday. We're supposed to be going on a booze up to Otley.

Nothing in the news. The Queen is in Tasmania. Mother is baking bread and I'm doing absolutely bugger all. Today is my Uncle Jack's first anniversary in Heaven. Let's hope they have parties up there because I tend to live from one party to the next. CB says she'd prefer to go to Hell because it's warmer and she'd prefer to spend eternity with her old friends. Not a bad idea. Is all this blasphemous? I might as well go all the way and say something disrespectful about the Pope. He is ill with 'flu and I can imagine the scene in the Vatican every time he sneezes - "Bless Me!" Not funny?

Reading Evelyn Waugh's diary. He's so sarcastic.

See a TV play based on the life of Vivian Nicholson, the pools winner, who spent £150,000 in four or five years. Very good. Bed at 11.36pm.

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Monday March 14, 1977

Dinner suits back to Dormie at lunchtime.

See in the papers that the Queen is having a controversial time on her Silver Jubilee visit to the feeble Australians. A maniac smashed her in the face with a banner demanding the dismissal of the governor-general.

Gough Whitlam: silly sod.

Gough Whitlam's rude and sarcastic remarks made in Her Majesty's presence last week cannot have been received with the humour and delight by the royal couple as it was reported. Mr Whitlam is to have his leadership of the Aussie Labour party contested by a colleague. The silly sod has signed his own death warrant.

Other news: Margaret Trudeau has eloped with the Electric Light Orchestra.

Ring Martyn at 8. I'll have to have Sunday off if Brands Hatch is on the cards. Can't see any difficulty here. Martyn talked of his financial difficulties and the Ibiza '77 project. The less said about money the better, but at least I'm not the only man in the boat.

Penelope Eastwood.

Martyn said Christine had her scars on display in the pub last night. By all accounts she looks a right old mess. Blimey, is my mini-Elizabeth Taylor going to require plastic surgery? Tony's birthday on Wednesday as well as CB's. Don't forget cards.

Have a bath. Watch a late film until midnight. Davina Sheffield's uncle has died. She is in Kenya with HRH. Or is the mysterious blond Penelope Eastwood? Or Claire Watson? What about Laura Jo Watkins? Even Georgiana Boothby. Certainly not Lady Jane Wellesley.




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