Friday August 28, 1981

John and Raine Spener at Althorp.

 _. Hot day. After a couple of hours at the YP with a very bronchil Mrs Slocombe and Kathleen I was met by Ally at 12:30 and off we went for our Bank Holiday break. It was a warm and clammy journey down the M1, in chugging Audrey. We arrived at Althorp House at 3. A splendid house, and not too large. We were given a guided tour around the Spencer pile by an old lady with a blue rinse and pearls. Sadly, the Spencers are away. Johnny sometimes greets the guests himself. It is obvious that Raine [Countess Spencer] has made her mark here. The guide hurried us past the Van Dycks and the Rubens and the Vermeers to bring our attention to a shoddy portrait of Raine's grandfather by Oswald Birley. The desks too, all Chippendale, groaned beneath Raine's family album snaps. Althorp is undergoing some renovation work and some of the rooms are beneath dust sheets, and scaffolding clings to some of the facades. But all the same it's an excellent joint. We also inspected the gardens. We had salad sandwiches in the car.

After a three hour drive we were in Martyr Worthy [our only other stop was at Brackley, where we had 'flat' lager in a pub there].

Bessie was in her usual state of high fluster and Frank was in his study, and this too is undergoing some renovation. Graham and Gill came in from a night at the Plough. He is more delightfully silly than ever.

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Thursday August 27, 1981

 _. We are both becoming weight conscious. This morning Ally [naked] weighed in a 7st 5lb, whilst I [naked] weighed in at exactly 12 st [that's 192 pounds]. I think this is the first time I have committed my weight to paper. In fact, I rarely ever weigh myself. I recall that in the summer of '77 I was a feeble 10st.

As I headed out to the office today Ally mumbled something about seeing a solicitor today to cite Delia as 'the other woman' in her expensive divorce case.

Auntie Delia.

Just Kathleen and I in the office. I went out at 12 to meet Delia on Wellington Street. She pleaded that parking in town is such a bore, and says 'come back to Horsforth for a Martini on the lawn'. And so it came to pass. We sat on the manicured lawn at Ivory Towers. She made me salami sandwiches and we sank a bottle of Martini whilst Delia flicked through the wedding photos. She commented that Ally's dress was exqusite. The house was deserted but for the Shih Tzu dogs. Sarah is somewhere with Trevor and poor Delia doesn't have a clue where he lives. Most odd. She deposited me back at the YP for 1pm, but my rushing back to work was in vain because Kathleen decided to work through, sacrificing her lunch. An industrious afternoon.

Mum phoned to say she and Papa were just about to leave for Scotland.

Home [82 degrees farenheit]. Went out for fish and chips at 8 o'clock. Phoned Dave G. Jim sounds to be fading. Lily was very depressed. 

I packed the suitcase tonight in readiness for my first visit to Chillandham Cross as a member of the family.

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Mick Jagger on 'Top of the Pops' looks so healthy for his 63 years.

Wednesday August 26, 1981

 _. Extremely hot. YP. Too hot to work. 'Mrs Slocombe' went off home early with a 'cold'. She has always been very bronchil.

After lunch Ally phoned. Gillian is driving her to distraction. She is so sick of work at the AHA.

Delia phoned suggesting we meet for lunch tomorrow. Does Auntie have lustful designs on my firm, youthful and nubile form?

Home at 6 and spent some considerable time in the bath watching Ally paint her finger and toe nails. We then went to Lynn and Dave's at 7:30 for fish pie - too much food. We peeped in on Frances slumbering in her cot. We marvelled at the little miracle which gives lovers such fruit. [Blimey, that sounds almost poetic].

Home after 11. Bloated.

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Tuesday August 25, 1981

 _. Up at 6:30 and out to inspect the blackened street. It wouldn't have been such a loss to have lost Audrey in a ball of fire last night. The insurance money would have been nice. Over toast and syrup with Mrs Rhodes I discussed the possibility of bringing the youths back to finish the job properly.

The YP was abysmal yet again. The office is becoming deader and deader. The only excitement came at 3:20 when Margot swatted and killed a particularly annoying fly.

John & Maria.

Home to my loved one at 6. I phoned Mum to tell her of last night's excitement and she informed me that John and Maria will not be coming down from Scotland for Jill and Tim's wedding. Mum says John cannot have the day off work, and mournfully adds we won't be seeing them until Christmas.

Ally had created a marvellous tea. Succulent sandwiches including prawns and cheese. We cuddled on our little settee. We watched part two of the drama about Charles Dilke, and the scandal of 1885. Good, but not very convincing. Charles Dilke stood about much chance of becoming prime minister as Jessie Matthews, if you ask me. To bed with Charles II. We had eaten too much. I feel very 'Falstaffian'.

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Monday August 24, 1981

 _. St Bartholemew's Day

The anniversary in 1572 of the slaughter of 30,000 Huguenots by King Charles IX of France and his infamous mother Catherine de Medici.

Abysmal day at the YP. I use the word abysmal because Graham, my brother-in-law, uses it constantly to describe virtually everything from my green SAS-tyle trousers to his cold corn on the cob at the Connection restaurant. I spent the afternoon reading about Ronald Reagan's attack on Libya, and wholeheartedly agree with his decision. He may wear too much Brylcreem, but he's no fool. Articles about Joan of Arc in the Guardian and the Sunday Telegraph magazine.  There's a rumour going about that Carola Godman Irvine is to be the Princess of Wales's lady-in-waiting. She's currently one of the Duchess of Kent's ladies.

Sarah has gone on holiday for the week. Phoned Mum and spoke to Lynn, lunching there with Frances. We are dining at Burley on Wednesday. Mum is thinking of going to Scotland for the Bank Holiday weekend.

Audrey.

Home at 6. Had kidneys and rice. We discussed going to Hilda and Tony's but decided to go tomorrow instead. Ally disappeared outside with a bucket of soapy water to give Audrey a wash. The car hasn't been touched with a wash leather since we entered into Holy Matrimony.

Watched a drama on the life of Sir Charles Dilke, 2nd Baronet [1843-1911]. Quite good.

To bed at 11:15 but, dear me, the night was far from over. At 11:30 I heard the noise of a fracas outside and looking out I saw three youths, obviously intoxicated, urinating upon Mrs O'Connor's gate. [sorry, I mean Mrs O'Brien]. The boys had pushed a broken down car into Club Street and then went off with a can, laughing, to find petrol. I then went back to bed only to be rudely awakened at 12:15 by Ally screaming. Outside the lads had set fire to the car and the flames were licking around Audrey, threatening to blast our car and the whole of Club St into oblivion. Ally, in floods of tears, answered the door to Mrs O'Brien, who was worried about our car. I phoned 999 and the fire brigade and police were soon here. It hadn't been a deliberate attack. One of the drunks, pouring a can of petrol into his tank was also smoking a cig, and ignited the fuel. Sorry, I cannot give you a tale to match Pepys's account of the Great Fire of London.

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Sunday August 23, 1981

 _. 10th Sunday after Trinity

Hot day. Not that we saw much of it. In bed until 11:30. No ill-effects from last night. No time for cuddling, the pub opened half an hour later. 

Had a fry-up with David. Sat reading the 'Sunday People' - utter claptrap. 

with Billy.

To the Ring 'o Bells for 1, and we sat outside drinking until 2:30 with Dave, Billy, Garry and Steve. A woman, who'd been at last night's pyjama party, came over to talk and remarked that she had always quite honestly thought that Steve was deaf and dumb. He does give that impression. Billy has a mortal fear of members of the hymenoptera family, particularly wasps, and he amused us by running around the beer garden shrieking as the little vespula vulgaris gave chase. Nothing goes smoothly when out with Billy. He's like a 1930s music hall act. 

Back at the Hollywood at 3:30 for lunch - turkey. We collapsed afterwards but recall seeing Burt Lancaster as Moses, and Harry Belafonte on the Muppet Show.

Our last sighting of Jim Glynn was when he hobbled off for his evening bath. I do hope he pulls through. We had a final drink with the lads at 7 and arrived home at 9:30. Bed.

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Saturday August 22, 1981

 _. Sunny morn. Up at 8:30. Both into a very hot bath. Breakfast: eggs, sausages, &c. We squabbled over the toast and marmalade. Ally was in something of a foul mood. 

We left for Stockport and 11:00 and amazingly we were in the Hollywood pub at 12:15. It was wet and cold in Stockport, as usual.

Lily is a mass of brown curls, the blonde

The Armoury.

beehive of Bet Lynch-like hair is no more. She looks 20 years younger which is more than can be said for poor Jim. He's upstairs wrapped in a large dressing gown, looking haggard and pale. The poor man is only 58. He has not lost his sense of humour though, but was sadly incoherent, and mumbling. David attempted to act as interpreter.

We drank at the Hollywood and then went on to the Ring 'O Bells with Billy, Garry and Steve. Out this evening to the Armoury at 9, with the lads, to an 18th birthday 'Pyjama Party' at the Robin Hood. We frolicked until after 1 and then returned to the Hollywood. Ally went straight to bed and I sat bemoaning life's dreary outlook with David. He is cheesed off with his lot and needs a kick in the right direction.

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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.

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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. 

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