Wednesday September 21, 1983

 Why Not, Hemlington

Takings: Lounge £198.96 / Bar £173.12

The locals treat the place with a new found reverence. It's like St Paul's Crypt in the bar and everything is being said at a whisper after the incident last night. Ally was so good. She phoned the police after a certain Ray Davies was attempting to land a punch at me from across the bar. The man was berserk. Ally should not be spending the final months of her pregnancy in what is no more than a refuge for paroled prisoners. We went to Thornaby together to the National Westminster Bank and banked £500. We're supposed to go three times a week. Ally bought rolls for the sandwiches.

Is Diana pregnant? I have been reading the Daily Mail. The Daily Telegraph is a rarity on Teesside.

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Tuesday September 20, 1983

 The Why Not, Hemlington

Takings: Lounge £160.35 / Bar £201.64

Our first touch of Why Not violence. Ally and I only left the bar for ten minutes this afternoon and came back in to find some lads clowning around without their trousers and driving away the few customers supping in the lounge. A furious argument followed, trousers were pulled up, and the offending youths promised never to do such a thing again. Sadly, this evening they appeared pissed and after I asked them to quit the premises, they refused quite violently. I phoned the police. On seeing the constables a certain Billy Bousfield proceeded to smash  all the glasses on his table and was forcibly removed from the pub. In the scuffle one policeman had his helmet stolen. I made a statement and young Bousfield is going to face charges of criminal damage. I then barred four lads from entering the Why Not during my tenure. 

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Monday September 19, 1983

 The Why Not, Hemlington

Takings: Lounge £255.77 / Bar £186.58

A day without incident. Jill and Tim's wedding anniversary. The Yanks are shelling Lebanon. World War III is upon us and here I am selling beer in Middlesbrough to people with tattooed throats. 

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Sunday September 18, 1983

 16th Sunday after Trinity

The Why Not, Hemlington

Takings: Lounge £271.84 /Bar £275.25

I cleaned the lager, mild and cider lines. We only sell one barrel of mild per week. Busy. Ally made sandwiches and put cheese and biscuits on the bar. For some reason this is a tradition on the Sabbath. At closing time (2pm) I phoned Mum. Dad has been fretting about us all weekend. He has tummy trouble at the moment and might be getting an ulcer. He should see a doctor but Dad is always the last person to visit a quack. Ally then phoned F & B at Chillandham Cross. Auntie Joan and Uncle Jim had just left. Afterwards we went upstairs and slept on top of the bed. Ally's bump is growing, spreading and reaching fruition. Sunday evening was peaceful and none of the inmates gave us any trouble. 

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Saturday September 17, 1983

 The Why Not, Hemlington

Takings: Lounge £236.49 /Bar £234.03

I did not leave the bar - day or night - and met all the regular customers civilized and yobbo. They even have tattooed eye-lids in Hemlington. No 'please' or 'thank you' with them either. A ghastly social climber, a former thespian, with an artificial voice box, says I am so alike in stature and mannerisms to his old friend the actor John Alderton. Ally is so brisk. Already the sandwiches are out on the bar ranging from 38p to 45p, and the staff are looking upon her in awe. She is like one of the Cleopatras. The nicest possible Cleopatra. The one without the haircut and the asp. The flat is awful, dirty and empty, and yet already the bedroom looks like home.

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Friday September 16, 1983

 The Why Not, Hemlington

Up at 6:30 and packed the car. Our last Linthorpe breakfast. We went to the Why Not at 9 and on to court with Fogarty and Fran O'Brien at 9:30. I went into the box at the magistrates' court and took the protection order without any problems. Mr O'B was keen to hear all about my interview with Inspector Dale. I think he expected to do battle if need be. I have yet to see the horrible side of Fran O'Brien, and no doubt it will come all too soon. We went back to the Why Not where Ally was with the insipid Anne Fogarty. The fire alarms and burglar alarms sounded off and the whole place was in uproar because nobody could stop the racket. Fogarty, in an act of desperation, smashed a pool cue into the box and brought silence to the place. Eventually the Fogartys went and we were left alone. Ally will make a good manageress. Such a good head on her shoulders and she will not tolerate inefficiency. Some of the barmaids leave a lot to be desired and seem to be as dim as Toc-H lamps. Tip sheets and electric tills puzzle them. So, who would have thought it, eh? To think that on this sixteenth day of September in the Year of Our Lord 1983 that Alison and I would be running a licensed establishment. Indeed a divine offering from above. Praise be to the Lord.

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Thursday September 15, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Hungover. I spent £17 on whisky last night. I was in bed for the duration but Ally was good and took herself off to the shops, and was happy, busy and bright. Eventually I came back to life and we went to Asda at Billingham and spent £39 on tinned tomatoes, &c. I am nervous about the ordeal ahead. I do not want our first foray into relief management to be a bloody disaster with murder and glass fights, &c. Our last night at the Linthorpe. We owe Roy so much. A brisk goodbye. Carol and Rose kissed us, but Mags refused, saying she will not say goodbye to people she'll see again. To bed at 11:30 with no gala or sing-song. Ally didn't want fireworks.

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Wednesday September 14, 1983

Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Rudd's Arms.

Our much needed day off. We stayed in bed only until 9. Mags was startled to see me padding round in the kitchen. The insurance cover note arrived and we walked up to Forshaw's at 12:30 to collect Mandy metro. She was gleaming on the forecourt. We couldn't collect her immediately and we went to the Master Cooper and had lunch with the reprobate Timothy. He wants out of the business. A fat man from Accrington came to inspect the place and went off to the Why Not afterwards. Ally didn't like this. She wants a long stint at the tiny Hemlington madhouse. We went to buy something pink and woolly for young Sanderson and then went to collect our automobile at 3:30. Back at the Linthorpe we went up to lay on the bed, like you do, and discussed our plans for the night. We went out at 6:30. The car lights failed to work and we drove, Ally in a rage, to Dutton Forshaw's, and a man connected several wires. He was very close to death. We went then to Rudd's Arms at Marton, a Beefeater, and sat giggling at a table. T-bone steaks again. No, Ally had a rump. Not as good as the Beefeater at Chandler's Ford, but a good nosh for £14. Pouring rain. Back to the crowded Linnie at 9:30, and we sat in the snug with Paul Grainger and Jake and his girlfriend Emma. Ally was tired and decided not to to go out to the Speakeasy to celebrate Rose's 24th birthday. I was given permission to attend and we did much kissing for the night of separation. I went down to bar and had a strawberry mivvi cocktail (£3.49) then switched to large whiskies with dry ginger. In a taxi with Roy and Maca to the Speakeasy, a smoke filled brothel if ever I saw one. With Rose, Ian (her Hells Angel lover), Mags, Marie, Eric, Roy, Jon-Paul, Ron Perry, JT, Carol, &c. We went on to the 53 Club, a gay spot where young men sat groping, and heavily tattooed women, toothless at that, sat swigging other peoples brandy. We danced and clowned around. It was one of those nights when everyone went quite daft. We ended by singing the 23rd psalm, all in full voice, much to the consternation of the manager, who was the salesman who had sold us our chairs. Back at the Linnie. Marie to bed. I went to bed at 4:30 or 5. Not hideously stoned, but pleasantly.

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Tuesday September 13, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Roy took us to a smelly sale room where we bought two very tatty armchairs (Parker Knoll) and a ghastly table to use as an office desk. The rounded, gipsy-like salesman, a galloping homosexual, ia a former proprietor of the Wellington. There was a heap of dog excretia on the saleroom floor. I speculated it might be a piece of contemporary art. Anyway, it must help to keep flies out of the kitchen. The car insurance didn't arrive and so the little mini metro cannot be ours until tomorrow. Frank has got us a 30 day cover note. We went to see Inspector Dale at Hemlington, who did his best to terrify us about the Why Not, and thinks I am inexperienced and completely unsuitable. However, the police will not oppose my application for a license. Baby names: Roy and Marie think like we do. William was not fashionable in 1966, but is back up there now thanks to HRH. They like Oliver and Samuel too. The pregnant barmaid Janice or Janet is going to call her child Anthony or Carol. Ugh. Back from the sale room we went to bed. Mum phoned at 4:30 to say that Karen gave birth to a daughter at 3pm. The baby is to be Hayley Lauren as in Mills and Bacall. Hilda, when speaking to Mum, was in a highly emotional state. Tony is away in London busily steel erecting. Steve so wanted a daughter. The Sandersons are all male and the Gadsbys all female.

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Monday September 12, 1983

 Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

To the vault. Ally did all the tills at 10:30pm and then spent a couple of hours in the office after closing because tomorrow Roy is going to show her the cellars. Should be fun. A throng of policemen filled the bar after time. One was celebrating the birth of his second son (Iain) a brother for Craig. Some people have absolutely no imagination when it comes to names. A big, bearded bloke with a face like Capt Webb on the match boxes reassured me about the Why Not. A local there by the name of Peter Clayton is in custody after attempting to murder a friend, and so we won't be bothered by him. Mr Nicolson, a pleasant Scot who is an insurance investigator, was also propping up the bar. He drinks Glenfiddich. He thinks I'm Roy's son. Roy was pissed on massive gins and bitter lemon. The bottle of Chivas Regal came out and I went to join Ally after two large glasses. She was tired after her late night count.

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Sunday September 11, 1983

 15th Sunday after Trinity

Linthorpe Hotel, Middlesbrough

Sat with Marie and did no session in the bar. Looked at books and pages of figures. At 12 Roy took us to the Why Not? where we spent two hours with the hideous Fogartys. Complete snobs. He is moving to a country club at Farnham, Surrey, and beside himself with excitement that he is to employ a retired wing commander to do his 'bottling up'. Fogarty is a small bearded man, with very bad breath, who seemed to be frightened to death. A small monkey. Ally detested him from th start.  They have an Irish Wolf Hound called Seamus.

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