Thursday September 1, 1977

Michael Robertshaw's stag part. Martyn is 19 today. They picked me up on the lane at 7.40am and he thanked me for the silly birthday card.

Martyn: 19th birthday.

Tonight: Eileen took me to Michael's house at Mirfield where I stayed to tea. His grandmother, widow of a miner, told me she's 86 and a native of Hull.

Out at 7.30pm with about eight of his friends and the orgy of drunkenness spread to Huddersfield and the Amsterdam Bar, which was riotous. Full of transvestites and other bawdy, dangerous types. From here we staggered to a discotheque where everything is a blurred mass. Remember smoking and throwing up in a sub-way. we seemed to have lost more than half the lads in the disco and only Mick, Stephen, Dave (Mick's brother-in-law) and I arrived home together.

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Wednesday August 31, 1977

Sir Kenneth's wedding ....

The chairman of the Yorkshire Post's only claim to fame is that, in a moment of cunning calculation, on the morning of October 2, 1937, he did take as his bride, the Honourable Miss Dorothy Lane Fox, third daughter of the 1st (and last) Baron Bingley. Nice one, Kenneth.

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Tuesday August 30, 1977

Our managing director is a lunatic. Just watching him sitting behind his desk makes one wonder how he ever rose to such a position. I am sure that the fact that Mr Linacre is the holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross has a lot to do with it. The DFC is essential for newspaper management.

-=-

Monday August 29, 1977

Went to Leeds at 8 with Dave G, who departs down Wellington Street for his bus. A great lad.

Trojans: not really office workers.

I'm at the YP all day with just Carol J to amuse me. (By the way, I've re-discovered my fountain pen). We worked like Trojans, that is if Trojans ever really worked like we do at the Yorkshire Post, which I doubt very much. They wouldn't know the first thing about filing news cuttings or dealing with the news desk.

CB.

Home at about 5 feeling warm and weary. CB, yes, good old CB phoned and demanded my company for the evening. I'm washed, groomed and ready for 8 o'clock and she came and collected me in her new car. We went to the Hare for the first one, then because it was so dead, we moved on to the Shoulder of Mutton, the Commercial and then the Regent and finally the Yorkshire Rose. We had the usual laugh and customary breakages and other mishaps but all great fun. She is in possession of a new boyfriend and by all accounts he's not the usual rogue-like vagabond with whom she so often becomes enamoured. She says they are going to take me out to the Amsterdam Bar at Huddersfield. A new innovation. I'm usually kept well away from Christine's beaus.

Home by 10.30 even though the pubs are open until 11.30. It was so bloody quiet everywhere so much so that we forgot it was a bank holiday.

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Sunday August 28, 1977

12th after Trinity.  An article of the Sunday Trash says our dear Princess Margaret is suffering from porphyria, the 'Royal Malady', and it says this accounts for her irrational behaviour and the break down of her marriage. Utter and complete rubbish I'm glad to say.

Dave G, Dave B, Lynn, Sue, Peter N, and I went to the Commercial from 12 until 2. Joined later by Mum and Dad who bump into cousin Brian (Myers) and Valerie in a dark corner and chat with them for over an hour. Valerie is very attractive, but childless. They have no news of Jennifer (Myers) and her imminent delivery. No doubt Auntie Mabel will be informed of the news when it occurs.

Redgrave & Jackson.

A hot, sunny afternoon. We sat outside discussing friendship, and particularly, Glenn. Back at Pine Tops, very hot weather, we sprawl on the lawns and muck about in deckchairs. Hilarious afternoon.

After 'Sunday dinner' we collapsed in the lounge. Joined by Martyn. We just watched TV. 'Mary Queen of Scots' starring Vanessa Redgrave and Glenda Jackson.

Everyone laughs at Dave G. He's so funny. The ladies especially rock with laughter. Lynn made a pile of sandwiches and then we watched another film, a romance set in the 16th century. Quite good, but too sloppy.

-=-

Saturday August 27, 1977

Stuart (Newton) and Christine (White) were married at St John's (church), Yeadon, at 2pm. We only just made it to the ceremony after a somewhat farcical chase across Aireborough, and our arrival at the church coincided with that of the bridesmaids and other important personages.

Stuart & Christine

Sue, Pete N and I sat with Messers Ratcliffe and Mather, and Lynn and Dave B sat warbling behind. Christine looked very nice, Stuart looked petrified. A horrible sight to see a man so frightened. We needed a 'Scarlet Pimpernel' figure to perhaps come and rescue him.

The reception at the Colours Restaurant at Horsforth went off brilliantly. Home at about 7pm nicely stewed. David G arrived at Pine Tops just as we got in. His Ibiza pictures are incredible. Martyn joined us at 9 and we went back to Horsforth to continue the festivities, the happy couple having left for Scarborough some hours previously. More drink in larger quantities. Mrs White is a darling and I gave her a large kiss on leaving. Chatted with Linda and Andy. Very congenial.

Took Martyn to Ilkley and then entertained Dave G to 'home brew' until some ridiculous hour of the morning. Why do we do such things? Agreed, it's my Plantagenet nature peeping through from the depths of the Middle Ages. Edward III liked the occasional beer, you know.

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Friday August 26, 1977

Martyn and I paid a visit to Tony at Bradford Royal Infirmary this evening. The place stank of disease and rotting flesh and made me feel positively flat, but otherwise it was a joyful 45 minutes. We were joined at the hospital by Barry, Wendy, Anne, Georgina and other Smith vassals. We polished off Tony's grapes, Kit Kats and Bourbon biscuits.

Mum: Plantagenet blood.

At 8.30 Martyn, the ladies and I went on to the Hare & Hounds at Heaton. It was the usual tight squeeze but we had a laughable time. However, at 10.55 when Martyn and I went out for a bus our laughter turned to grimaces of devastation and horror. It was like the Nazi invasion of Czechoslovakia and the defeat of Leeds United by Sunderland at Wembley in 1973 all rolled into one. Precisely, no bus was to be had whatsoever. We legged it to Shipley and then paid £1 to a sombre taxi driver to bring us to Guiseley. Had an exchange of 'words' with Mum in her boudoir. She objects to Martyn using our home like a hotel. Mummy takes on an extremely fiery  and war-like countenance at times which I can only put down to the hot, Plantagenet blood in her veins. Blimey, when your great-uncle started the Wars of the Roses, a bit of aggression is bound to rub off isn't it?