Friday August 21, 1981

 _. A day of bliss at the YP today thanks to the absence of 'Mrs Slocombe' who is attending a golf tournament at Wetherby with her boyfriend who is the double of [President] Jimmy Carter. Such a dead ringer in fact that people stop him in the street and ask for his autograph. Kathleen did a night shift and so just Sarah and the new girl, Margot [who has replaced 'Shazzo'], who is becoming more and more quiet as the days roll on. Quieter than a mouse. 

Club Street.

I couldn't make any personal calls from the office until after 4 because the line in the library was out of order. Phoned Ally. A house on Club Street [number 9] is for sale and so I phoned Whitegates to be told, to my horror, that the property is on the market for a mere £6,000. Surely, something must be wrong with the place. Ally paid that two years ago, but the market has gone wild since then. I also phoned Mama to remind her we'll be away for the weekend. She had no startling news.

Home at 6. Marlene phoned asking me to get her some news cuttings from tonight's EP where Mark is mentioned doing something in the Peak District. ________.

Dave G phoned just to confirm the weekend orgy. Watched 'Casablanca' with Bogart and Bergman. Exquisite. I'm still on with Antonia Fraser's Charles II. I went to Lidget Green library and took out a biography of the Duke of Edinburgh [just to look up one particular fact]. It's a painful volume actually. Ally is buried behind another Agatha Christie.

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Thursday August 20, 1981

 _. Brought back to consciousness by the drone of the radio alarm at 6:30. Putting my head under the pillow as the BBC informed us that President Reagan has shot down a ghastly Lebanese aircraft [Oops] I of course mean a ghastly Libyan aircraft. I sincerely apologise to all Lebanese followers of this journal. In other news, the railwaymen are to strike and today sees the Fermanagh and South Tyrone by-election. Obviously, another IRA hunger striker will be elected. 

Had a very large breakfast and left my gurning wife at the door. YP dull. Kathleen went home at 12.

Phoned Mama. She spent yesterday afternoon in Masham. They've booked a coach tour with Wallace Arnold to Alassio in Italy for two weeks from September 20. They haven't had a foreign holiday since Spain in '74. The warm Italian climate will do them good. I told her the sad news that her friend, the landlady of the Miner's Arms at Greenhow, has been killed in a car accident. She told me that Mr Bradbury from the White Cross Post Office is dead and was buried yesterday.

Had two phone conversations with Ally who laughed hysterically throughout both, for some reason. Derek Jenkins was the cause of much of her merriment.

Ban smoking on buses.

I'm slowly becoming sick and tired of the typical British bus passenger. I always make for the upper deck and wherever possible I throw open all the windows for some fresh air on my tortuous journey to Bradford. The majority of my other passengers are invariably over dressed. They nearly always close the windows and then proceed to set fire to the roll of tobacco hanging from their nicotine stained lips. I now know why Lidget Green cemetery is so full of young corpses. Smoking should be banned in all public places. Surely this seemingly ridiculous move will improve the collective health of our nation? Bloody Hell. If they don't kill themselves they're going to kill me. The fumes this evening were unbearable.

Home at 6. Ally was waiting for me in a white shirt. Red lips. Tomato soup, then liver and onions. An evening of tranquil domesticity reading. I'm on with Antonia Fraser's Charles II, and Ally is 37 pages into Queen Victoria's correspondence with her granddaughter Victoria of Hesse [later Marchioness of Milford Haven] by Richard Hough.

Some old crone by the name of Jessie Matthews has died in Pinner. I can't see what all the fuss is about. I don't think she's done anything since 1923.

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Wednesday August 19, 1981

 _. The YP is becoming intolerable. My job is slowly being phased out because Kathleen is convinced that I will soon be quitting. She thinks that within twelve months I'll be gone. Much of my routine is being done by the night staff. I spend most of the day reading the national newspapers and filing the interesting stuff, pondering over the troubles in the world. Keeping a watchful eye on the current state of emergency in Sri Lanka.How many people out there are mourning the loss of Jack Coia, the Scottish architect of Italian extraction? 

Black Hole:

Just what is the point in anything? We are led to believe, in a report in one of the papers, that the Universe will be catapulted into a Black Hole in 50 million years time, and when that happens what will it all have been about? Why did God go to all the trouble of creating Leonardo Da Vinci just to send everything he created into oblivion, along with Wren's St Paul's Cathedral, Alan Whicker and the Petit Trianon? Blimey, Michael. Go pour another coffee. Taking up another newspaper I see that that reporters have caught up with the Prince and Princess of Wales on Deeside, and both say married life is marvellous and highly recommended. I tend to agree with this sentiment.

Can I discuss Ally's face-pulling gurning ritual? Each morning my darling wife accompanies me to the door and kisses me goodbye, and then, when I look back over my shoulder, I see her face, pressed up against the little bottle-bottomed glass window in the door, hideously gurning, her face contorted in some horrific grimace. And with each passing day the facial postures grow steadily worse. I lay awake in the night, sweating, my mind racing: what horrific apparition will send me to my daily labours in the morning?

Home at 6. We had a peculiar quiche with some chips. It wasn't quite like Ally intended. Later, wallowed in the bath. Ally, wearing my pullover, doing the ironing. Afterwards we shared an orange and watched an American disaster movie. The characters in these films are always so vile you want them to die anyway, and so some of the suspense is diluted.

Are you bored of reading this? Gone are the days of spice and degeneracy. You heart no longer pounds at my tales of bawdy exploits. It's gone from depravity to homely regularity. Goodnight.

-=-

Tuesday August 18, 1981

 Wet first, dry later. Dead at the YP. Home at 6. Dumplings. 

[As I write the above gripping entry Ally is sitting on the floor, atop a large cushion, thumbing through The Times passing remarks as she does so, such as : 'Shelley Winters is fifty nine today', and then, taking up the Yorkshire Post she giggles at a leading article entitled 'The Irish Albatross'.]

Later: we watched two films, the names of which escape me. One featured Jack Hawkins, in ancient Egypt. An epic from 1955 co-starring Joan Collins. Then Burt Lancaster and Virginia Mayo in a Robin Hood-type swashbuckling drama.

Ally took a volume of P.G. Wodehouse to bed with her. 

-=-

Monday August 17, 1981

 _. Up at 7. Sat dangling my legs out of bed whilst Ally tempted me downstairs rattling the pack of crunchy oat puffs. A sort of Pavlov and his dogs routine.

Sophie: low profile.

At the YP I sat with the nationals [newspapers] and the Sunday papers. 5,000 turned up at Balmoral yesterday to see the Prince and Princess of Wales go to church at Crathie. A distant cousin of the Queen, Prince Charles von Thurn und Taxis, is putting it about that the Queen should restore the Dukedoms of Cumberland and Albany, removed from the Roll by King George V in 1919. [They were on the wrong side in the Great War]. Another report in one of the Sunday [papers] discussed Prince Philip's sisters who, forty years after the Second World War, are still enforced to keep a 'low profile' when visiting the UK, and remain almost in obscurity. Philip's sister, Sophie of Hanover, stayed at Windsor for the Royal wedding, and was apparently seen waving at the Queen in St Paul's Cathedral.

Sarah is being driven insane by the behaviour of 'Mrs Slocombe'. The latter is constantly humming some indefinable and nameless tune as she swans around the office like Madame de Pompadour. Just a nasty habit, or a mental disorder?

Phoned Mum. Sue was violently sick this morning. And no letter from their solicitor. Gloom. She has, however, phoned Wallace Arnold today, and they have two spare seats on a coach tour to Yugoslavia. I do hope they go. She told me that Christine Airey is expecting a baby in February.

Phoned Ally from behind yesterday's Observer, but Derek Jenkins was 'playing up' and so she left in a hurry.

Home at 6 to a fish concoction preceded by a decidedly weak carrot soup. Dave Porritt came at 6:30 and collected the wedding video. He is always so nervous and hyperactive. He scurried around and fled to his car still quietly talking as his car sped out of Club Street.

Dave G phoned this evening. Jim is out of hospital and confined to his room at the Hollywood [Hotel]. Dave is relieved to have him home. It's all on for next Saturday.

-=-

Sunday August 16, 1981

 _. 9th Sunday after Trinity

Warm & sunny. Ally was awake just after 8. She says it's impossible for her to move in bed without me noticing.

I ate my oat puffs for breakfast and then continued with the painting activities until noon. The sitting room [which is in fact the only room] is now bathed in a golden glow.

Savile: dreadful.

Sat with salad sandwiches listening to the dreadful Jimmy Savile on Radio 1. Pompous buffoon that he is.

Over to Guiseley at 3:30 with a bottle of sherry and box of 'After Eight' mints. It was good to see Mum, who was looking well and tanned. Papa was out on constabulary duties hunting down 'hit and run' drivers on his bicycle.

We lounged in deckchairs in the garden. Sue & Pete came at 5. She looks better and larger. Dined at 6. Roast chicken, Yorkshire puddings, broad beans, marrow, &c. All washed down with wine.

After dinner Dave Porritt arrived with his video machine and we watched the glorious events of June 27. More than a little nauseating to hear our own voices. We watched the 20 minute epic three times.

-=-

Saturday August 15, 1981

 _. A day of activity. We were awakened at 9 by the postman delivering a batch of photographs. We nestled beneath our quilt inspecting the snaps. For breakfast we had sausages, eggs and toast, &c. I was somehow cornered into demolishing a bookcase, and after a hideous re-assembling session which was reminiscent of a Laurel & Hardy film, I was daubing gold/oyster paint onto two of the walls. Painting is such much needed therapy. 

Phoned Mum this evening. She is annoyed, or at least sounded so, that Ally and I haven't been to Pine Tops in two weeks. She's very touchy. When I referred to Pine Tops she snapped back: "Why can't you call it home?" I have never called it 'home' and always call it Pine Tops. Dave Porritt is bringing the wedding video to Mum's tomorrow evening so that we can have a 're run' of our great day. We're dining at Guiseley. I didn't repeat any of Mum's negativity to Ally.

Later we had fish and chips and gallons of tea. I'm unsure about the decorating. It's like being inside a giant banana. 

News: More riots in Liverpool. Shoot the buggers, that's what I say. The Prince and Princess of Wales flew to Scotland from Egypt to join the Queen at Balmoral.

Later: watched two horror films that took us through until 1:30am.

-=-

Friday August 14, 1981

 _. I didn't feel too good all day. It took me until 5pm to recover. Kathleen gave me a couple of paracetamol tablets. Raging headache until 6.

Stonehouse Inn: £80,000

Saw in the YP that a Mr Ian Taylor, of Skipton, has bought the Stonehouse Inn for something in the region of £80,000. I was my hideous and painful duty to phone Mum and tell her. The solicitors working for my parents are incompetent. It's a bloody disgrace to have to read about the pub malarkey in the morning papers when one is paying a bloody fortune to lawyers to keep one informed. At least now it's all over other plans can be made.

At home Ally cooked sirloin steaks with salad. The sight of her shifted my headache. She wasn't too good this morning [the wine] but picked up later.

News: Lord Drogheda has died. The Prince and Princess of Wales entertained President Sadat on board the Royal Yacht Britannia. The couple looked bronzed and radiant. It's refreshing to see them smiling from the pages of newspapers when the rest of the news is gloom and disorder. The YP and EP simply don't know how to style her despite my protestations. Today they were 'Prince Charles and the Princess of Wales', then 'Prince Charles and his wife'. In an article in the Sun ['Diana captures Egypt'] they were 'Prince Charles and Lady Diana', whilst the Daily Mirror said 'Princess Diana'. Oh dear.

-=-

Thursday August 13, 1981

 _. Pay day. Still no tax rebate. I expect a handsome windfall now that I'm a married man.

Home at 6 to find Ally draped, all in black, on the sofa looking sultry and mysterious. It was very obvious that she wanted to be wined and dined, and so we motored to the heart of the Bradford metropolis to the Pizza Margherita [opposite the Telegraph & Argus building]. We were the sole diners until Rachel Judson and Garry came in. It was refreshing to see them back together. When we saw her last it looked like curtains for this friendly, rounded Yorkshire chef. Dear Rachel was dressed like a dog's dinner. Our pizzas were only adequate, but we did manage to knock back a litre of red wine after which Ally's eyes went 'glassy'. 

On to the Bod. It was full of tarts. Felt bloated and ill-humoured. Ally, however, was playful and boisterous. The music was abysmal. These compilation records are ghastly. Why are they so popular?

Home and to bed at 10:30.

-=-

Wednesday August 12, 1981

 _. The Glorious Twelfth. To the YP carrying my wedding photographs for the girls to gaze over. No catty remarks. 

Some wag has placed a large cardboard cut-out of the prime minister in the middle of the office, which was a target for ridicule and abuse throughout the day. That fixed and steadfast gaze and resolute smile exuded confidence and pride. Is the Conservative government doomed? The majority of those in the office seem to think so.

Phoned Mum. Dad had an accident this morning and almost cut off a couple of his fingers whilst cutting the hawthorn, and then Mum smashed a window in the sitting room as the kettle in the kitchen exploded, sending choking fumes into the atmosphere. What a hideous week they've had. Jill and Tim visited them last night, leaving wedding invitations for us for Sept 19.

Reagan: working wonders.

On the subject of politics, isn't President Reagan working wonders? In January I would have laughed myself silly at the suggestion that Ronald Reagan would make an adequate president, and yet here we are eight months later and he has Congress in his pocket, and the USA playing into his hands. It's wonderful too that he jailed the striking air traffic controllers. I'd like to see some of our strikers in chains too. My only worry about Reagan now is that he won't survive his term of office. He is in his 71st year.

Home at 6. A clammy, overcast evening. We ate fish fingers swamped in parsley sauce and new potatoes. A domestic evening in front of the smouldering TV. Ally knitting with gusto. Coronation Street followed by a horror film about a maniacal plastic surgeon cum circus owner, starring Donald Pleasance, but he died ten minutes into the movie. It went on until 12:30. 

We have arranged to go to Winchester on Aug 28 for the bank holiday weekend, my first visit to Chillandham Cross as a son-in-law.

-=-

Tuesday August 11, 1981

Princess Diana?

 _. Very hot. To Leeds in a crisp white shirt, sleeves tantalisingly rolled up, displaying my brown, manly arms. As I left Ally was hanging out yet more blue washing. 

At the YP I got onto my 'high horse' about the title of the Princess of Wales. No royal bride is ever afforded the honour of becoming a princess in her own right. The wife of the Prince of Wales is the Princess of Wales, and never 'Princess Diana'. The Queen Mother was never 'Princess Elizabeth', and the wives of the royal dukes of Gloucester and Kent are not princesses in their own right either. The Queen mother, as wife of Prince Albert, Duke of York, became Princess Albert, Duchess of York.  Let us suppose that Diana is made a princess in her own right as 'Princess Diana'. A dangerous precedent would be established. In 5 years times, Princess Diana could go off and divorce the P of W, and marry Arthur Evans, and remain HRH Princess Diana. Retaining the present style Diana takes all her styles and titles from her husband, and at the dissolution of this marriage [God forbid] she would have to drop the royal appellation. The only fly in the 'royal ointment' is Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester. On the death of her husband, the first duke, in 1974, Alice became HRH The Dowager Duchess of Gloucester. However, the Queen, in a court circular announcement declared that her widowed aunt would henceforward to be known as 'Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester'. No Royal Warrant or Letters Patent. Quite incorrect, but I cannot argue with the personal wishes of Her Majesty. However, until and if the Queen issues a ruling about the style and title of her daughter-in-law we can call her nothing but HRH The Princess of Wales. The Duke of Edinburgh was married to the Queen for 10 years before being granted the style and title of a prince of the United Kingdom. Until 1957 he was HRH Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. He ceased to be Prince of Greece and Denmark when he took British citizenship. A lettter in the Times from a Peter Cash includes the quote: 'The Princess of Wales sounds more like an aircraft carrier than a human being! It is too impersonal for her.'

I phoned Mum and received no reply. Has she perhaps joined Lynn & Dave on holiday at the Baker caravan in Norfolk to recover from the Stonehouse shock?

Spoke to Ally. She came through to Leeds at 3 to deliver something for Derek Jenkins and picked me up at four in Audrey [with the roof rolled back] and on we went to Bradford where a casserole was bubbling in the pot. We dined at 6:30. Afterwards, the evening being exceedingly hot, we went for a walk and found ourselves in the cemetery among the grave stones. We did remark that people are continuing to die at obscenely early ages, despite the advances made in medical science. Depressing really. We walked back hand in hand.

Finally made contact with Mum. They have been to Burnsall with Lynn and Dave for the day.

Dave G phoned. Jim Glynn is in hospital and sounds to be on his last legs. A suspected heart attack, &c. We are going to Stockport on Aug 22.

Watched a documentary about Cecil B. De Mille. To bed, quite beaten, at midnight.

-=-