Monday November 14, 1983

 The Birthday of the Prince of Wales

The Why Not, Hemlington

A dark start to the day at 7am. We stayed abed listening to BBC Radio 4. It is the Prince of Wales's birthday. He is 35. Ally gasped when I said that when Diana is 60 the prince will be 72. I went downstairs and scrubbed the cellar, re-hung the curtains, 'bottled up' - all this for less than £80 a week. I must be a madman. We had breakfast at 10. Creamy porridge, eggs for Ally, but I abstained. It is ten years ago today since Ally scaled Pen-y-Ghent with Martyn Cole. Ten years ago today I was squat in front of a smouldering TV watching Princess Anne marry the young army captain. The cleaner, Gail, asked me for a £2 sub and I refused. If bar staff cannot have subs then why should the cleaners? Sunshine, but cold. When Miss Smarty Pants came in at 12 we went off to Thornaby and banked the takings. In Woolco we were nauseated by the sight of Christmas decorations and we shopped to the piped music of 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. Too early for this sort of thing don't you think? Back at the Why Not Ally made a chicken stew and dumplings. Felt sleepy and sprawled on the bed after dinner listening to the news. Cruise missiles arrived at Greenham Common today. A jolly good thing too. At 9:40 I was in the lounge downstairs talking with Lol Wilson about the Clissold pub in Muswell Hill when Ally phoned down for me to go up. Upstairs we have a bullet hole through the kitchen window which cracked the double glazed panel. Ally was on her way to the kitchen at the time of the gunshot. I shudder to think what could have happened. I am quite convinced that many people in our society are unfit to live. Cocoa in bed at midnight.

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Sunday November 13, 1983

 24th Sunday after Trinity

Remembrance Sunday

Ally is sweet. We switched on the TV whilst having breakfast and her eyes filled with tears at the sight of the ex-servicemen parading past the Cenotaph in Whitehall. The Prince of Wales laid the Queen's wreath because she is Kenya at the Sagana Lodge where she had learned she had succeeded to the throne in 1952. It is exactly 50 years to the day since the last Prince of Wales deputised for the sovereign. Horrible afternoon. The beer pumps stopped flowing and I couldn't locate the fault. I managed to stay calm. The rabble had to drink bottled beer and thereby cleared some of the old, slow-selling stock. The two hours at lunch flew. I spent much of the time in the cellar trying to sort the problem. I thought it wise not to tell Ally of the crisis. She was oblivious upstairs. At 3 I joined my wife for a roast chicken. Afterwards we sat in bed. She marvels at my ability to do three things at once, i.e. talk to her, read the Daily Telegraph and at the same time watch the 1950s epic 'Alexander the Great' starring a 19 year-old Richard Burton. Slept then until 6pm. Quiet night. The maniac female Joyce tore down the curtains in the back bar. I blame our very strong Cider Reserve. To bed.

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Saturday November 12, 1983

 Why Not, Hemlington

Yarm.

Ally sat upstairs while I laboured below with the blind barmaid Margaret McMahon. She is a despicable shit. She is a woman unworthy of being a mother. Busy. We haven't had the mad axeman Clayton in yet but some of his henchmen are here. One is a dwarf in a flat cap who looks like he wouldn't say boo to a goose, but I suppose that's his principal weapon. He has tiny eyes like a pig, which glint over the top of his pint glass. At 3:30 Ally phoned Frank to see if her car insurance has expired. He says not. Bessie was more cheerful. We drove to Yarm and bought a 'moses basket' and stand for £54. It is decorated with 'broderie anglaise' white material and looks very Victorian. It really brings it home to us that a baby is on the way. We carried our new purchase to the car. We spent an hour and £10 buying absolutely nothing in a large store including bottles of the male contraceptive pill (a joke thing, sweets really) for Graham, Peter & John for Christmas. Back at the Why Not a woman phoned to ask when we are leaving. I told her I do not know. A couple arrived with strong London accents who say they are the new masters here having just been appointed by Fran O'Brien. (David) Tyne saw them in London and liked. I showed them over the place. They had been here on Tuesday, incognito, when the electrician was fixing the glass washer. I remember seeing a well-dressed couple who aroused my suspicions. We had a brawl between two youths late on. To bed. We lay talking for ages.

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Friday November 11, 1983

 Veteran's Day, USA - Remembrance Day, Canada

The Why Not Hemlington

Hagler v. Duran.

Ally has joined the Halifax Building Society, we both have, and a bank book came in the post confirming that we have invested a grand total of £26 with that auspicious banking organisation. Ally will make me a rich man yet. Thank God for good wives. When barmaid Sue came in at 11 we went to Thornaby to bank £500 and we bought big cream cakes, crumpets, and fruit loaves. We will be as big a house sides, before long. We hurried back to eat our purchases and swill tea whilst the dubious barmaid toiled below (that is if one actually 'toils' with only three customers). I am tired and developed a headache. At 3:30 we went out to an antique shop in Linthorpe and bought a tea pot and a sugar basin with an image of Hardraw Falls at Hawes, on the front. They cost £10 and we thought they'd make a good present for Mum and Dad, living only a few miles from Hawes. It's silly buying Mum perfume for Christmas because she uses so much that by the New Year it's gone. Ronnie Bedford came in the bar this afternoon and threatened that before we leave here he will 'smash my head in'. Such friendly, warm people. We had lasagne which didn't go down too well. I slept on the bed for ten minutues and then went downstairs for the night. Quiet. The mob in the bar is obsessed with boxing and a fight between Marvin Hagler and Roberto Duran is to be screened at 10:30. Using my grey cells I dismantled the TV set before opening and hid it telling the pugilistic throng that it was broken. That put paid to them asking for a 'stoppy-back' at closing to watch two sensless apes knocking the fuck out of each other for money. Boxing really should be outlawed.  Blood sports? Why worry about slaughtering foxes when we are busy killing each other?

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Thursday November 10, 1983

 Why Not, Hemlington

Sluggish. A struggle to get out of bed at 8:30 and I went down with a wrinkled brow and firm set jaw. Not many people have a firm set jaw in Hemlington. The dwarf-like man from Tavern Automatics had me helping him to carry out a useless video game. Appropriately enough, it was coffin shaped. The cleaners know that Tim is going to take over next week. I think that perhaps they have a bigger and better spy network that Yuri Andropov. More fog. Ally went to Marton, where she says the people seem normal. Even the shopkeepers in Hemlington are sadistic perverts. Ally often comes home with tales of woe from the local supermarket, often witnessing flying vegetables and canned peaches. Perhaps the insanity is due to something in the water supply? The BBC really should do a 'Panorama' on the violence here. Our last Thursday at the Why Not. No incidents and the night passed peacefully. Ally of course didn't stray from her boudoir where she lay in some discomfort as her tummy rippled, bulged like a vibrating blancmange. Possum has arranged to see Sister Matthews next Thursday afternoon and has made an appointment for me to see our dentist on Friday. Some teeth ache and I think I need a few fillings.

Wednesday November 9, 1983

 The Why Not, Hemlington

The Why Not.

Fog inside and out. The broken fans, which in happier times filtered the cigarette smoke, give the place an eerie atmosphere and this afternoon was like the opening scene of 'Macbeth'. The witches appeared in the shape of Jan Simpson and the hag, Pat. The latter has a laugh like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz and professes to have the ability to read tea leaves. I supplied her with none. I do not mess with superstitious nonsense. By 3pm the place was like a brothel with Jan like a saloon girl in a western, movie sitting astride old Maurice, the Scottish jew. Ally, thank God, was out at the shops, buying pork chops and posting letters. We sent a birthday card to Tim, and letters to Lynn, Sue, Auntie Mabel and Edna & Nellie. By 3:30 it was dark. I am fagged out. We ate pork chops and lay on the bed. The bump is low and Ally lay vibrating. What an active child we have. Smoke screen again tonight.I was on my own in the bar at 8:30 when in walked Roy, Marie and Mags who stayed for an hour. While they were here a fight kicked off in the back bar which resulted in blood stained dominoes. Then two policemen came in to tell me that the arch-criminal Peter Clayton is our of prison on bail but barred from visiting Middlesbrough. This is all we need in our final week. Roy laughed at the way I handle things. I think he's astounded that I have done so well here and not suffered defeat. They went of in the smog at 9:20. They would like us to stay with them next Thursday, but of course we want to go home. A letter arrived today confirming we are to go to the Red Lion in Bradford on Nov 28 for two weeks. Our penultimate Wednesday is over.

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Tuesday November 8, 1983

 Election Day, USA

The Why Not, Hemlington

Ally was up early and off to Acklam for money. We expected the stocktaker at 10:30 but he was late because of a delay at the Red Lion in Stockton-on-Tees. No, not Red Lion, it's the Green Dragon. Our stocktake is £20 up, and so we are in the clear. F.O'B phoned just as Ally returned and he said he we can leave here on Thursday Nov 17, and that poor Tim is going to relieve me. Ally leapt for joy. She was soon on the phone to Ken Gilbertson and arranged nine days holiday from Nov 17 and Ken says he will inform Chris Wills when to take his holiday from the Red Lion. Everything is arranged around us. Ally says Ken sounded excited about our baby. What a homely little brewery we work for. The draymen unfortunately do not convey that impression. They say Oliver Smith is tighter than a duck's arse in water even though he is a millionaire many times over. But that is how they become millionaires in the first place, isn't it? The draymen advise me to take employment with John Smith's or Tetley's who look after their employees. Ally despises disloyalty and cannot understand why such people (the draymen) continue working for them. We phoned Martyr Worthy and Horton. The Christmas arrangements were discussed. Graham and Gill are spending the festive season on the Isle of Wight. Mum had nothing astounding to say.

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Monday November 7, 1983

 Overcast. I called Ally 'darling' at breakfast and she squirmed and said it sounded insincere. We have a letter from Lynn. The usual chatty, scatty letter. I won't quote from it. No doubt you'll see it in the archives. Lunchtime saw the arrival of Fran O'Brien. He lives in a world of his own. He didn't commit about anything and he went away leaving us none the wiser. He was very irritating when he went down to inspect the cellars and advised me to swab them occasionally. At the time we were ankle deep in clean, hot water. Bloody fool. He inspected Ally's bump and says he agrees with Les Gledhill that we're having a girl. Ally phoned Ken Gilbertson at the brewery who says we have nine days holiday to take before the new year. We will take them after we leave here. The sight of F.O'B had the pub buzzing. The rabble assume that we are leaving this week, and someone asks whether the 'nice man' from York is taking over. A mob barred out by me went on a coach trip to the 'Top Hat' at Spennymoor and wrecked that place too. It was a case for police dogs, and all that.

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Sunday November 6, 1983

 23rd Sunday after Trinity

The Why Not, Hemlington

Up early slightly hungover. I didn't tell Ally of my condition. She thoroughly disapproved of my drinking last night, and so I went about my business with 'Roy wouldn't get pissed' ringing in my ears. We had a joint of beef but little else and so I walked to Stainton and bought potatoes and tinned carrots. A brisk walk. I do miss the open air and really appreciated the walk with a rolled copy of the Sunday Telegraph under my arm. Ally was making porridge in an old yellow dressing gown like an obese canary. Her demeanor improved at the sight of food. We ate pink roast beef and Yorkshire puddings at 3. Bliss. Watched TV and read the paper. I'm always intrigued by President Kennedy and read of his private life. JFK was a sex maniac, evidently. Watched Jane Eyre. Bad. Work tonight. Tubby was kicking ferociously and got to the top and bottom of the bump at the same time. It's very low down too. 

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Saturday November 5, 1983

 Sunshine and fun. We went out as soon it was decently possible leaving the revolting Margaret McMahon and went to Yarm to look at the shops. Looking at tiny 'moses' baskets for Tubby. I cannot quite believe it all. We went into the Black Bull looking for food but they did none and so we settled for fish and chips which we ate in the street. We went back to the Why Not for 2. It is a smoke filled den of misery, desolation and despair. Margaret was scurrying between bars and no doubt they have all been stealing the beer whilst we were away. Ally went upstairs and I went into the bar. Margaret's spectacles get thicker. At 6 o'clock a couple came in from York where they work for Bass to inspect. She was called Daphne and I forget his name. They bought me lots of beer, and spent three hours with us. We went all out to sell the place and think they might have fallen for it. I cringed when Daphne spoke of making steak dinners and serving a la carte seafood platters in the lounge. Hopeless. They left at 9 and Ally went up to bed. It was all too much for her. She hated Daphne. The new incumbents of the Master Cooper came in for a quick one. She is the theatrical character who was here the night Chukka was barred out. I'm pissed. Fireworks in the lounge. Shandy shagged Dave the baker and Geoff Meaney. To bed.

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Friday November 4, 1983

 New Moon

Why Not, Hemlington

I got up expecting a quiet morning, which I suppose is always a fatal thing to do. I was soaking in the bath as Ally made breakfast when the phone rang. It was Fran O'Brien who told me that my protection order has expired and that I should go to court today and renew it. Mrs Lea is on her way to us with the necessary papers. Panic. We rushed around round scalded hens. Ally is no good when hurried. Little Donna (Lea) arrived and she took me to Middlesbrough Court collecting Tim from the Master Cooper on the way. He was in a similar predicament. F.O'B had phoned again in a panic telling us not to sell any ale until the (protection) order is renewed, and so Ally went gleefully around the pub ejecting the OAPs from the lounge. 

We had a long wait in the magistrates' court watching skinheads being led around in chains. I'd have them all flogged were I on the bench. Donna Lea, oblivious to everything, sat reading Agatha Christie's 'Mystery of the Blue Train'. We were in and out of court room 6 and had our protection orders by 1:30 or 2. Tim looked like a vagrant, his clothes full of holes. The bespectacled magistrate frowned as Tim took the oath. He expects he'll be coming to the Why Not after our departure and looked very glum. Who wouldn't? Mrs Lea drove me home and had a glass of wine in the deserted lounge. The pub slowly filled with people asking why we are so very late. We showed a dull and obviously disturbed couple over the place and they went away never to be seen again. Uneventful evening. We have an hilarious letter from Sarah Collis. I can just picture her writing it. We sat in bed sniggering at her vitriolic onslaughts. The poor old YP is losing it's good people. Sarah says Stephanie is now at the Daily Mail in London, commuting from Leathley!

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