Saturday April 28, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Warmer. Summer madness in fact. From opening the doors at 11 we could sense the tension and almost hear it crackling amongst the usually placid natives. Should I go upstairs and find a gum-shield? That is the question. I was on my guard watching silly Joe Cullen, who was snarling like a mad dog at bearded Eddie, the sarcastic creep who usually stands in the lounge. At three they took their argument outside where Joe bopped Eddie and knocked him to the ground. The other brawler is currently on bail awaiting trial for molesting a 12 year-old girl. I went out and got between them once fighting commenced, and 'clotched' the pair of them. Joe had been asking for it for a while. Give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself, &c. I am splattered with blood. To escape this carnage at 3:30 we went off to see Auntie Mabel, who was watching snooker on TV in a darkened room. Samuel wailed throughout. He didn't like auntie's spectacles. Marlene, Frank anbd Debbie came and we had salmon and cucumber sandwiches and pots of tea. No news. The Harwoods were fresh back from Brid. Uncle Peter visited Mabel recently. Back to the Moorhouse for 7. A quiet evening with no visitors. Mabel and Co are coming here at lunch tomorrow.

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Friday April 27, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Warm. This cannot be bad. The pub smells of sun tan oil and we are faced with the sight of pink, newly burned flesh, &c. However, the heatwave is bringing the local nutters out of the trees. I stood at the door like a bouncer turning away the multitude of drunks, who then staggered off in the direction of the Junction.

Lunchtime saw the end of the pathetic London siege, and off went the murderers to a ticker tape welcome in that pin-prick of a country. So, it's all over. They are burying the poor dead WPC tomorrow in Salisbury.

Samuel has found his voice and he sings now like Kiri Te Kanawa.

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Thursday April 26, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Warm. The siege in London continues. Of course these barbaric Libyans will get away Scot-free. A member of the Kennedy family has been found dead from a drug overdose in a seedy hotel room. 'The Kennedy family prepares for yet another burial', says the Daily Telegraph. The Kennedys aren't exactly dropping like flies. The last one to croak was Bobby in '68, and so in fact they are long overdue a bereavement of some sort.

Received a call from MM who says he and Marita are coming this evening with Dave L. This put a spring in my step for the afternoon. I do enjoy visitations. People always seem pleasantly surprised with our little pub. They expect the worst coming to Hunslet. (I am writing this with my son and heir upon my craggy, ageing knees). Sure enough, my visitors rolled up at 8. They arrived simultaneously with a miserable wedding party of ten or twelve. The bride had to sit down for fear of delivering her baby. It was one of those affairs where the bridegroom wore a carnation which was so big it resembled a cauliflower.  Dave L is scatty as ever. Bored again of teaching he now wants a pub. He's even considering taking on the Star & Garter, near the Duncan, on the Headrow in town. His trousers stopped at the knee. We had a busy night which surprised everyone. We didn't harp on too much about the days of yore, which tends to upset Dave. MM and Marita are seeking a new venture. They are bored of selling three piece suites and rolls of Axminster and have considered a sandwich shop in town. Money is to be made in food. Upstairs at 11 for coffee and beefburgers. They are all a little amazed that Ally and I have achieved our aim in life so early.To bed quite knackered after one, or was it two?

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Wednesday April 25, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Hot and sunny. Dray day. 

Ally is tetchy and grumbly and complains she is feeling tired. She does look pale and needs some sort of tonic, if you ask me. People in public house management are denied sleep. Nowhere is sleep discussed in the management contract. Neither is sex. We stayed upstairs in the flat in a quandry of indecision. Eventually we decided that Ally should sleep and I would do 'the ironing'. Samuel wanted to play and we re-enacted scenes from the Battle of Britain. I ran around the room with Samuel held aloft. He was an aeroplane of course. His giggles are exceptional. Ally slept on in our flat, cum laundry. Bessie phoned. They are coming here next Tuesday when Frank is seeing someone in Burnley. But that is our 'Ossett night'. At 8 Frank phoned back to say he's in Kings Lynn on Tuesday and so they will come here on Sunday May 6. Mama phoned too. They are coming here next week. She says she doesn't want Samuel growing up without knowing his grandmama. I am sure we wouldn't let him.

High society news: Earl Jermyn is engaged. The premier baronet of England, Nico Bacon, received an heir on St George's Day, and so did Viscount Melville.

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Tuesday April 24, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Bernie McC.

Another warm, bright day. 70 degrees. Early start. Mick Thompson came at 8:30 with a bacon sandwich tucked under his arm. We have a £25 stock surplus. Thank God. I fail to understand this stocktaking business, but I suppose life has to have its ups and downs. Rob Piper at the Butcher's in Pudsey was £200 down on his last stocktake. Phoned LG who seemed dour. We are to go ahead with a staff meeting and he suggests we order 20 ounce glasses and be ever vigilant for the viper within. Ally worked with Audrey and I sat in the carpark with Samuel, who snoozed in his pram. Ally scampered around Hunslet Moor collecting our beer glasses and tidying up. Bernie McC (pissed) came and peeped in at my son and declared with much laughter that I cannot be the father, but that he is most definitely Ally's son. A long evening. No enthusiasm. Ally and Jane ran things and I stood with 'Mad Peter', a gay cockney, who insists he owns a stud farm in Eire, when in fact he lives on his weekly Giro on Beeston Hill.

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Monday April 23, 1984

Bank Holiday in the UK

St George's Day

Harry, England and St George, &c. Will HM fill the Garter vacancies? The Duke of Beaufort croaked, but who else? The Earl of Westmorland will collect the KG one day, and I had hopes for Johnny Spencer but they have faded. They'd never tolerate Raine in St George's Chapel. Perhaps she should send the star and garter to Colonel Gadaffi, and place nitrogycerin in the case?

The Libyan embassy siege continues. It was a hot, steaming day. Samuel's first bank holiday Monday. We took him outside in his pram and Archie played at Nanny Barnes. Quite touching that men who are childless seem obsessed with them. A quiet afternoon. Few customers. They are all in Blackpool or Brid.

Moping all night with nothing to do. Maureen worked. Michael Brown phoned and suggested we do a pub crawl in Holbeck on Wednesday. Ally wasn't too happy about this and so I'll cancel, nay postpone, this. I find Michael Brown excellent company but prefer Ally's on my only day off of the week. I was a fool to say I'd go.

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Sunday April 22, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Easter Day

Easter day and not an Easter egg to be seen anywhere.Poor, little deprived Samuel. Ah well, he knows nothing about such things this year. I created a gigantic breakfast and then Sue and Pete went out with Christopher and Samuel in to the park. The blossom tree near the pub is in full blossom and one wouldn't believe we are stuck in the middle of Leeds. Susan waddled away with the pram. She has the Wilson ladies 'bandy legs' and from the rear she is very reminiscent of my aunt, Eleanor Myers. Pete still doesn't have an ounce of fat on him and looks very John Cleese-ish. We took them home at 2:30. Peter having spent some time at the bar with Frank & Bernie McCarron. We drove to John's. He wasn't in. On to Lynn's to look at the foundations forn the new erection. Blenheim in the early stagers must have resembled this. The Bakers went on to see Audrey, who remains bed-bound still. Back to John's. He has the children. We showed them our wedding video cassette which followed 'Star Wars' and preceded 'The Wind in the Willows'. JPH is fatter. He and Catherine are very polite children.

Moorhouse: Jane is 26 today. Very busy at 10:30. Ally slept from 8:30.

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Saturday April 21, 1984

 Birthday of Queen Elizabeth II

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Hot & Sunny. Her Majesty the Queen is 58 years old today. God Bless you, Ma'am. I ate my 'full-English' breakfast singing 'Happy Birthday dear Queen' which amused Christopher. 'Happy Birthday to You' is his favourite tune and Dad sings it with gusto everytime they visit Horton.

We dragged out the outside tables, umbrellas, &c. Sat in the carpark sunning ourselves and slurping. A summers day in April cannot be bad. Joe Cullen came over and told me of his sexploits with the nubile June. He is still copulating in the back seat of cars, in hedgerows and other rural settings, ~ and he's 40 years old.

Chicken salad and afternoon naps. John sauntered in at 9pm with Christopher Ratcliffe. After ten minutes they escaped to the Blooming Rose for Tetley's ale. We were so dead in the bar here. We went upstairs at closing and caught the end of a Woody Allen film. Hilarious. 

And, so to bed.

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Friday April 20, 1984

 Good Friday

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

In days of old I complained , nay played hell, about the archaic licensing laws on this Holy day. Not now.

It was a quiet afternoon. A dead loss in fact. Bright and sunny though and at 2:30 we drove over to Guiseley and collected Sue, Peter and Christopher. She had a rabbit casserole and Yorkshire puddings on the table. She is big (pregnant big) but not like two years ago and is set in her mind that she is having a girl. I do hope so. Another troublesome lad would be hopeless. Christopher is becoming Peter's double. We had a few drinks with the Nasons but didn't go daft and at some reasonable hour we went upstairs for coffee. Poor Susie is like a whale. Undecided about names. They like the name James, hate Benjamin, and Samantha is high on the list.

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Thursday April 19, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Maundy Thursday.

Very busy. Easter fever. Conversation with Susie. They are coming for Easter. The poor girl never goes out. They haven't had a holiday since their honeymoon in '80 and Christopher must be very trying. Spoke to our mums. Mine is busy with Easter walkers, and Ally's is worried about Frank who has another stone in a kidney. The man eats too much. 

Samuel is 14 weeks old. Frantic tonight. Tap room packed. Must be Giro night. The old man whose dog barks when I call 'time' at closing stormed out complaining about my beer. Sod him.

Had a glimpse of the Sovereign on the news. She was with Torvill & Dean - of all people. Does Her Majesty have a soft spot for these sickly ice-skating types?

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Wednesday April 18, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds 11

The siege (at the Libyan embassy) goes on and the Home Secretary has left his dinner with the Queen at Windsor to conduct the whole business personally in St James's Square. Bomb Tripoli, that's what I advise. 

Our so-called day off. We stayed here to do the lunches but only took about thirty bob in two hours which is hopeless. To Club Street, dear Club Street. The place looked very well and the garden a mass of spring flowers. I went to have a haircut and spent £5. Not my usual 'hair stylist' because he doesn't open on Wednesdays. I came back at 5:15 to find Ally at Mary's. I joined them for coffee and biscuits. It's a relief to learn that nobody has dropped dead on the street since Charles Eyden. Mary had us gripped with the further adventures of .Nutty Norman', the Club St lunatic. The man is permanently in his pyjamas. 

Back to Leeds. Watched TV. Danny La Rue on 'This Is Your Life'. A plethora of homosexuality filled the studio. They were all out in force. We sat together ~ the three of us. Ally went down at 11 to help rid the pub of the boozy clientel and came back in a rage. Some members of staff will have to go. Bed.

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