Sunday April 16, 1978

3rd Sunday after Easter

I slept from 12 midnight until 12 noon. A splash about in the bath and coffee restored me to normal health. Jacq came at 1pm and Sue, Pete, Jacq and I decided to go to Bradford (ABC Cinema) to see 'Saturday Night Fever' starring John Travolta.

A hot, sunny day in Bradford and by 2:30 we were queueing six deep around the cinema. Susan didn't help by saying things like: "I thought you said it would be quiet on an afternoon, Michael?" The film, I thought, was excellent. Travolta is a brilliant mover on the dance floor and of course the Bee Gees are the tops. Sue and Pete liked it. Jacq, mustering up all her creative powers, said the film is "crap".



Back at home we were joined by John, Maria and JPH ~ Maria being at the wheel of the MG ~ the blue smoke and flying mud heralded her arrival at Pine Tops. JPH looked slightly silly with an awful haircut, but he ran around happily enquiring after the whereabouts of his grandparents. He played with an old balloon ~ still inflated since Christmas. They left after an hour to return to Molly's where they are 'looking after Jimmy' while his parents are away.

By now we were close to starvation. Quite understandable really because none of us had eaten since yesterday evening. So off we went to Addingham for fish and chips (after a quick drink at the Commercial) and then to the Devonshire Arms (Bolton Abbey) where Peter saw his boss with a woman from his office. I suggested that Peter could make quite a bit of cash out of the embarrassed guy if he played his cards right.

From the Devonshire Arms it was a ritual trail to the Shoulder of Mutton for one final drink. Jacq was taken back to Leeds by Peter and on our arrival home we found Mum and Dad entertaining Edith and Ernest back from their visit to Morecambe.

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Saturday April 15, 1978

Moon's first quarter 14:56

Sun rises 06:06

Sun sets 19:57

Quite revolting. What words can adequately describe the horror of a furry tongue, and eye balls like mushy peas in a sea of blood? My throat resembled the floor of the Black Hole of Calcutta. To make matters worse Jacq and I were compelled to walk to within one mile of Burley-in-Wharfedale in blazing sunshine, to suffer the agony of scraping walls, helping to demolish walls, and such like for almost eight hours. No Jew in any of the luxurious Russian labour camps can ever have suffered like poor Jacq and I did. And all this for no reward of any kind. Truly, we did a great Christian thing this day. "To labour and not to ask for any reward save that of knowing we do thy will ~ Amen".

At about 12 Jacq and I took a lunch break and devoured fish and chips and supped one meagre drink in the Red Lion. We laughed a good deal because we were so exhausted and couldn't stop ourselves.

Back at Lawn Road we were joined by John who talked a good deal of mumbo jumbo with David. At 5 my dear brother brought Jacq and I home. He's lending me a suit for Gina's wedding next week.

Peter, yes Peter Nason, made pork chops, &c for dinner, and we all ate at about 6pm. I almost fell to sleep across the table.

Jacq and I went down to the bus stop with every intention of going into Leeds to watch 'Close Encounters of a Third Kind' at the Odeon cinema. We stood for an hour an no omnibus came and so once again we had to resort to consuming booze. The Yorkshire Rose, our first port of call, then on foot to Yeadon and the Clothiers. We had a quick dash round Yeadon Fair, which was ridiculously muddy, before heading down Henshaws Lane to the Woolpack Inn.


The Woolpack.

A couple of drinks later we decided to call it a day. Neither of us had been bounding around with joy and a lifeless expression hung over our gaunt features. At about 10:30 Jacq got a Leeds bus and I walked home. It was a pleasant evening and I bounded home under the twinkling stars.

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Friday April 14, 1978

Mother woke me at 10:30 with a coffee and the horrible Daily Mail. Half an hour later they collected Edith and Ernest and set off to Morecambe where they are holidaying for the weekend.

A bright, sunny morning, but the confounded snow is still clinging to the garden. The poor daffodils look absolutely stupid. I sat with the radio blasting merrily away and with a volume of Mr Pepys's journal laying open. The 1650s were no less permissive than the 1970s. Some of the people today who moan about the state of affairs ~ morally ~ really should spend half an hour with Samuel Pepys, Esq.

I spent the whole day eating, reading and being blasted out of my chair by the record player. Sarah phoned at lunchtime to ask for the maiden name of the divorced wife of the present Earl of Dartmouth. After a slight pause I told her that the lady is the former Miss Raine McCorquodale, now wife of Lord Spencer, and daughter of the revolting authoress Barbara Cartland. To be honest, I thought Sarah was really phoning to see if I was really laid up at home, and the aristocratic inquiry was a last resort when I surprised her by picking up the receiver. I do have a devious mind.


Raine McCorquodale, Countess Spencer.

For lunch I made fish and parsley sauce with a touch of garlic. Susan was home at 4:30 and we had a prawn curry. Can you imagine what state my breath is in? However, undaunted, I met Jacq at 7:45 and went to the Yorkshire Rose. From here we went to the Crown at Yeadon (a cold night) and then the Clothiers where we were joined by Sue, Pete, Gus, Chippy, Janet Simon, Dave (Wainwright), Brian Johnson, &c. I was 'grossly over served' with drink, for the want of a better phrase, and smoked several of Jacq's cigarettes.

At 11:30 we all went back to Pine Tops where the spotty faced, teenage Dave made several passes at Jacq saying he'd never liked Cockneys until he met her. To be honest, he was only hanging around to smoke her cigs.

I was legless and threw up in the garden that is dear Papa's pride and joy. I was in a disgusting state. Chippy and Gus were behaving in a riotous fashion.

Lynn and Dave were utter miseries and she stormed off to bed after Dave's departure and insisted on yelling down at me from the top of the stairs about the volume of the record player. Susan and Peter somehow managed to snatch my bed and Jacq and I collapsed on Mum and Dad's bed. I think it was probably 2:30am when things died down.

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Thursday April 13, 1978

Deep, crisp, pathetic snow. Today I felt particularly violent. At lunchtime I trudged through the driving snow to Boots to collect an enlargement of a photograph of Mother and JPH. I think I saw the Abominable Snowman coming out of WH Smiths but I may have been mistaken.

Coming up a white Hawksworth Lane this evening I met Dad clad in his uniform carrying out his constabulary duties. He bowled me over by announcing that he and Mum have decided NOT now to buy Edith and Ernest's house after all. I told him he must have gone raving mad. The whole business is so typical of my parents. Everything is settled and then they go and throw a bomb into the saloon, or spanner in the works, or more apt ~ a turd in the swimming pool.



The tea, evening meal, or dinner, or whatever it's called was miserable. Mum and Dad, and even Lynn were justifying staying at Pine Tops, and I said not one word. Mum accused me of being a misery, but my opinion is once you set on a quest - an adventure - you should complete it. Blimey, Captain Cook didn't get half way to the North Pole and then suddenly decide to pack in, did he? Where would we be now if Mr Columbus had decided to be a bricklayer instead of discovering places? What my parents lack is a sense of adventure and I'm saddened. I have taken such a liking to 54, Hawksworth Lane.

I went and had a bath at 7:30. My nose is blocked. Bloody Carol Johnson is breathing her germs all over the place at the office. I must be 'run down' of late because I'm forever snuffling like a geriatric.

The Nasons and Edith and Ernest came at about 8 for the Thursday piss-up. I remained silent in the chair observing the different characters. I dislike _____ intensely.

The collapse of the house deal was not discussed other than when Mum told Ern I was the most disappointed member of the family. At 10:10 the Prince of Wales narrated the first of a new tv series on different cultures. The programme was quite good, and HRH made us roar with laughter when he said 'men are different to women'. I retired at 11:30 telling Mama I'm not going to work tomorrow.

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Wednesday April 12, 1978

Snow again, but warm and sunny later on. Work was quite busy and the Budget dominated the papers which is a great bore. I won't notice my extra £1 I can tell you. It (the Budget) may have been Denis Healey's last one. Sir Geoffrey Howe could be at the helm by Christmas.

I am reading (from the library yesterday) the diaries of Samuel Pepys 1659-69. I always imagined the diaries covered more years than this but it seems the poor man went blind after ten years of copiously scribing away about such things as the Great Fire of London. In 1983, if I'm still here, I may well have written more than Mr Pepys, and who knows where it will all end if I'm fit and well in the 2040s. Ooh, I do feel historic.

However, the only exciting thing for me to communicate is that I phoned Jacq at 8. The poor girl's working again tomorrow and we aren't going out until Friday.

Christine phoned me on Monday and mentioned going to Yeadon Fair, but if no vast multitude of friends wish to accompany us I can't see the point of it. Jacq, Christine and I on a roundabout would look really pathetic I think. Miss Sate was very cheerful and seems to enjoy the YWCA with all its grotesque inmates and odd characters. I think she's incredibly brave and valiant.

I was reading a report today in an old copy of The Times (from last week) which stated that in 1941 Sir Winston Churchill in a letter expressed his desire to be cremated. Good heavens! How would we have managed the remainder of the war without him? Thank God they didn't grant him his wish. If Lady Churchill had been burnt at the stake in the 1940s then today Britain would have a marvellous Graham Sutherland portrait of the old boy to admire.


Canaletto ....

In front of the TV this evening. Pete N and Dave B joined us of course. The Duke of Beaufort was on BBC1 talking about Badminton (House) and the horse trials, &c. Dad made his usual cutting remarks about the aristocracy. All you need is a red face, tweed jacket, two acres and a Canaletto and Papa's wrath is immediately aroused.

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Tuesday April 11, 1978

More snow. What's more, the whole house is full of daffodils and my nasal cavity aches and squelches 'neath the strain of it all. Spring is no joy for me. Yellow is such a loud, dazzling colour.

At 12 I left the YP and sought refuge in the library. Poor P.G. Wodehouse and Alexandre Dumas were returned to the shelves virtually unread. I was violently assaulted by the library assistant because I owed 45p in fines. Crikey! Who does she thinks pays for the rotten books in the first place? Harold Robbins, believe it or not, doesn't grow on trees.

I met Jacq at 1pm and we went to the murky, disinfectant-smelling Central. I disabled the juke box when I shovelled 5p pieces into it and it's obviously only programmed to take 10s. But the obliging landlord fiddled around beneath the lid and I ended up getting 6 plays for 10p! Coo! Jacq is fagged out. She was in Thorner yesterday typing and today she's doing the same in 'Leeds 10'. She couldn't be more specific, but I think it's behind the Corn Exchange somewhere.

I told Jacq that 1978 is the year that Michael Rhodes finds fame and fortune in a new job, but I'm not thoroughly convincing. Jacq's known me long enough now to realise what a slow, sluggish worm I am. I took my leave of her at 2 and went to the bank in Guiseley for £50 which I immediately converted into postal orders and posted to Barclaycard.


Postal Order.

At home by 3:45 I heard Denis Healey on the telly presenting his 13th Budget to Parliament. This non-event was recorded for the first time (no pictures). After all the rhetoric I am probably going to receive £1 a week more in my wage packet. Retired at 11.

-=-

Monday April 10, 1978

SNOW! Yes, bad weather maybe, but it didn't wipe the smile off my face, and do you want to know for why? Well, it's very simple. _____________. However, this pearly, sexually arousing grin of mine died on my poor lips when, at the YP, I managed to phone the Yorkshire Bank. They, the filthy bankers, have refused to give me a loan, and no reason is to be given. No doubt it's Barclaycard who have tipped them off about my eccentric monthly payment history. It seems I am to be forever branded a debtor. Indeed, the very mention of my name in financial circles immediately wipes billions of shares off the Stock Exchange. I'm not going to let it worry me, anyway.



The reception I had at home was nothing short of violent. Mummy gave me the usual lecture. At one time she likened me to ______. Tempers were frayed beyond all comfort. Mummy took on the character of several ogres all rolled into one. Adolf Hitler and Mussolini together would have quaked and dissolved in a mess of urine on the floor had they had to endure Mama's tongue lashing. Oh, it was foul. And all because I have been refused a bank loan!

I have, in retrospect, decided that Mum's Wilson pride must have taken a severe kicking by this latest embarrassment. The Rhodes family care little about whether bank managers bestow money on them or not, but to upset a Wilson so is like smashing an eighteen ton weight on a sensitive area of a male's anatomy. Have I made myself quite clear?

The Princess Margaret nonsense has quietened down slightly. The whole brouhaha has been monstrous.

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