Tuesday March 4, 1980

Mugabe: slithered into power.

_. A most dreadful man by the name of Mugabe has slithered into power in the Rhodesian general election. He is of course a Marxist and now it is only a matter of time until the next blood bath occurs. The Ruskies are behind it, if you ask me. However, Robert Gabriel Mugabe is a saint when one compares him to the man I've just had to endure on a late night BBC TV interview - yes, Denis Healey of course. The former Labour chancellor and Keighley Girls' Grammar School pupil. The misguided fool believes he will live long enough to see another Labour government in office. Quite preposterous. Mr Healey is 63, and the Tories will be in power for years to come. Denis will be even more of an imbecile than he is now by the time Mrs Thatcher is turned out of office. Denis Winston will not hold office again.

Did a little more painting. Sue and Pete have seen a solicitor about 23, West End Terrace. It is almost signed and sealed.

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Monday March 3, 1980

_. I moved back into my newly decorated bedroom. I must say the whole thing looks wonderful. Like bathing inside a chocolate Easter egg, with a sheen resembling the glow of Muhammad Ali's backside. Yes, a peculiar description but I can think of nothing better. Blimey, I'm no W.H. Auden, speaking of which, didn't he have a craggy face like Gordale Scar? Or was that E.M. Forster? I'm not too clever when it comes to poets. Rupert Brooke, I know a bit about him, but if you ask me poets are just novelists who decide to take the easy way out. This modern stuff is the biggest con inflicted on the literary world. The literature, art, architecture - you name it - of today is all diabolical. In one hundred years time what, other than this journal, will be looked upon as a worthwhile contribution to the artistic life of the late 20th century? What will the Japanese be flocking to our shores to photograph in say 2080? Obviously, the grandson of the current Prince of Wales will be drawing the crowds on Horse Guards Parade, in the way that Elizabeth II does today, but what else? I am not academic at the Henley Centre for Forecasting, but I'd say the prospects are gloomy. Am I going to end my life in a trench, like so many millions did in 1914-18?

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Sunday March 2, 1980

_. 2nd Sunday in Lent

Ally left at 9 in a sickly stupor to Bradford and I continued painting.

Ally came here at 7:30 breaking the law driving the disintegrating spitfire. We went off to Skipton and beyond, but on reaching Kettlewell the petrol gauge stood at nil. I was far from pleased, with the prospect of night drawing in and the knowledge that the locals in this remote backwater are not known for their friendly hospitality. Ally sat giggling, shrugging her shoulders in that annoying way, and we went in search of a petrol station. At 7 we were sitting in front of the Devonshire Arms at Cracoe waiting for the doors to open. We were first in and soon joined by Sue and Pete. We ordered basket meals, scampi, haddock, fried chicken, &c. Then on to a pub in Skipton.

The Observer was lying open on the dining table. Nib: The Duchess of Gloucester gave birth to a daughter yesterday.

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Saturday March 1, 1980

_. St David's Day

Up at 10:30. Painting my bedroom. Wasn't planning on going to Tony Green's leaving party but then Sarah phoned 'Oh what fun it will be' she squealed. So half an hour later I was hot footing it down the lane, the prospect of a delightful binge ahead. To the Eagle on North Street for 1:20, joined Sarah, Carol J, Lynne Bateson, and a multitude of revellers. The Timothy Taylor's bitter soon took effect and I was soon slobbering over the comely Carol J, taking drags of her cigarettes. Carol, in recent weeks, has diminished at a phenomenal rate. The weight has fallen off. Was it the beer, or has she taken on a Raquel Welch-like aura? Sarah and [John] MacMurray left us to go 'the match', whatever that meant, and I was left to the delights of Carol J.

At 3 Carol drove Lynne B and I to Lynne's house in Horsforth where we slumped in armchairs downing whisky and dry Martini with 'earfulls' of Diana Ross. Home with Carol at nearly 5. Pissed. Sat eating a blurred lettuce. Ally came over at 7:30 and we drove over in the spitfire to meet Lynne B, and in contravention of several road traffic acts. To the Queen's on Town Street in Horsforth, then back to Lynne B's. At about 11 Ally passed out on Lynne's bed. If I'd been sober I might have felt a twinge of embarrassment, but I wasn't.

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Friday February 29, 1980

_. Pleasurable entertainment at lunchtime. To Len's Bar with Sarah.

Mum's car conked out on her today at the top of Thorpe Lane.  She had been to Burley-in-W to see Lynn for the afternoon.

With Sue and Pete to Morrison's this evening. Spent £10 on paint. Afterwards we took one solitary drink in the Oddfellows, a pub I have never previously visited. At 8 it was back to my bedroom where, with the assistance of Lawrie, I slapped chocolate coloured paint over my bedroom walls until about 10.

Later watched the grotesque Joan Collins in a film. She always makes the most dreadful tosh.

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Thursday February 28, 1980

_. At 7:30 I went to Lidget Green and Ally and I went to 'Mucky Willie's'. Back to Slumber Cottage at 10:30. Ally's feather pillows almost sent me to an early tomb.

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Wednesday February 27, 1980

_. Cooped up at the YP until I made my escape at 4:30. My heart wasn't into decorating tonight and after just a splash of paint here, and a dab there, I cast down the paint brush.

Poor Ally. Her car has failed its MOT and the licensed bandit at her garage has informed her that she will receive no change out of £100 to put things right. She is destitute and will probably have to sell.

John phoned from a Scottish disco at 10:30 to say he hasn't lost his job after all. His boss approached him today to say they have a contract for a further years work and asked him to stay on. This is a relief to everyone. I miss John one hell of a lot.

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Tuesday February 26, 1980

_. An evening of activity. I ransacked my bedroom and painted a wall. It has been green since September 18, 1976. This bedroom has been a wonderful refuge for me down the years since John left home and I was allotted this excuse for a cupboard. Often I wake up bathed in a deep green light, like Neptune. Slapping white paint over the emerald glow wasn't as difficult as I imagined it would be. Neither did it jerk the heart strings. Within a matter of minutes my watery ocean-like room was transformed into something monastic. The green aqua effect has down the years resulted in me taking on a fish-like capacity for drink. Perhaps now I'll become more like St Francis of Assisi.

Susan and Peter have almost pulled it off. Buying a house that is. Their new home is to be at 23, West End Terrace, Guiseley. Spooky that. She was born at number 23, Market Square.

Slept downstairs like a Kampuchean refugee because of the wet paint.

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Monday February 25, 1980

_. Rain. I have mislaid my umbrella. I left it on the bus on Friday evening and as you'll expect it pissed down as though the world might end today.

Glynnie phoned and I told him about Pete's party on March 20. His new girlfriend is called Karen and she plays darts for Cheshire. They are going to Leicester on Saturday to a tournament. The image of a female arrow thrower doesn't conjure up a vision of Helen of Troy, but instead one thinks of a large, plain, buxom maiden with a flowery vocabulary and a large capacity for hand pulled ale. Let us hope I am wrong. Glynnie said he would have brought her to Grassington next month but she will be away in Switzerland.

Bush: prancing

The United States presidential election is on my my mind tonight. A revolting man called Bush has been prancing around in New Hampshire, in a swaggering fashion. The man is a Republican, and so I say 'VOTE VOTE VOTE REAGAN'. Yes, the former Lone Ranger, with dyed hair and a limp is the man for me. Kennedy has flopped and Jimmy Carter is romping home whilst doing absolutely nothing. He can thank the Russians for his good fortune.

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Sunday February 24, 1980

_. 1st Sunday in Lent

Ally was up and out to Lidget Green. She left me a note [here preserved for posterity]. I slept until 11:30 and then went into the garden in wellies and leather gloves to attack the remaining living rose trees.

Watched a Sunday afternoon film on the TV. One of those where Gregory Peck comes over here to save us from the nasty Hitler. Dad was at the table typing out death warrants and summonses, and Mum was knitting clothes for Catherine. A domestic scene.

Ally came at 7:30. We went to the Fox and Hounds, the Drop and the White Cross, the latter still not restored to full power following the recent fracas.

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Saturday February 23, 1980

_. I was up at 11:30 or 12 and after fried eggs and bacon I took up the shears and set about the rose trees in the garden. Dad was astonished at this because my Percy Thrower activities have been infrequent.

Horrific news from Scotland. John has been given a week's notice and he finishes with Robinson and Davidson on Friday. He isn't surprised because work has been very thin on the ground recently. He has applied for a job as a policeman at Stranraer docks. The ladies of the family went into their usual hysterics at this news. Mothers says he should never have gone there in the first place, and Lynn arrived proclaiming she had burst into tears at the news. 'The poor children will starve!' I am more optimistic. John always lands on his feet.

Foggy night. Out with Ally and Dave L to the Fox at Menston and the Albert Inn, for Dave's cockles and mussels, and finally to the Clothiers. A pleasant night. A merry trio. Afterwards we went into a fish and chip shop where a 15 year-old brat pushed his way to the front of the queue, which triggered off a fight of Afghanistan proportions. David, in the jostling that followed exclaimed: 'I know you can have scraps with your fish and chips, but this is ridiculous.' We sat at ate in Dave's car.

Ally and I returned to Pine Tops. Sat listening to Rachmaninov. Mum and Dad came back late from dinner at Jim and Margaret's.

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