Sunday April 29, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

Low Sunday

Cooler today. Cousin Jill is 22. 

We held a staff meeting at 11. A congenial affair with coffee and biscuits.Samuel attended and watched the proceedings from his mother's arms. We had to give everyone the hard word about the stock problem, and scrapped the staff 10 minute break at closing and ironed out one or two minor irritations. I'm sure they all thought it was a waste of time, but Ally and I felt as though something useful had come out of it.

Tony & Geoff.

Auntie Mabel, Marlene, F, Mark & Debbie came at 1 and sat outside with Ally and Samuel. Mabel pushed Samuel in his pram through the tulips of Hunslet Moor and he wailed in his high pitched voice throughout whenever she glanced at him. His pet lip came up and tears welled in his eyes at the very sight of her. Most odd, because she is such a sweet, old thing. At 2:30 we all went in to the tap room where Frank and the kids played pool. They stayed until almost 5 o'clock.

Tonight comes Jill, Tim, Hilda, Tony, Geoff Elmer and his spouse, Margaret. They stood until after 12.

-=-
 

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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.

-=-

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?

-=-

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.

-=-

Tuesday April 17, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds

PC Yvonne Fletcher.

A WPC called Yvonne Fletcher has been shot dead in London by some thugs from inside the Libyan embassy who now, presumably, have diplomatic immunity under the Vienna Convention. How disgusting. Send in the SAS, Maggie. Who cares about Libya anyway? Nothing more than a rat-infested pin-prick, a blob, somewhere in Africa. Surely, the severance of our relations with Libya will not affect us one tiny bit. And as for Colonel Gadaffi? He is on a par with Arthur Scargill. The PM is in Portugal but no doubt keeping an ear to the phone. The Home Secretary is dining with Her Majesty at Windsor. We dined here, bloody furious at the invasion of our streets by the (expletive withheld) fanatics disguised as diplomats.

Bessie's sister Joan has sent us a 'new baby' card, a little late, and a Mothercare suit. Samuel looks so grown up in it. He does beam brilliantly. He sleeps so well and then when he awakes he doesn't wail but waits patiently for someone to notice him.

-=-

Monday April 16, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c.

Ally was tired out today. I came upstairs at one point and found her sleeping on the couch like a beautiful doll, with Samuel asleep across her lap, his smooth white legs hanging like sausages. 

The brewery.

I phoned Rob Piper at the Butchers and scrounged a lift to Cadtaster (sic). He came at 5 and sat in the car blowing the horn. We drove to the brewery talking about staff and stocks. He has it all sewn up. He does no work and yet has the same staff hours as me. Where am I going wrong? We saw Fran O'Brien in the car park. He is a creeping bastard. We all went into the dull Regency-style room, where LG interviewed us last year, and we sat around a large table covered in a green cloth. Like a billiard table without the holes. About a dozen of us. I was sat between Don Whitfield, and a man with spectacles called Littlejohn-Scott, from the Hansom Cab where he says the clientel are 'heathens'. He looked like Dr Crippen or the murderer Christie. Colin Black is in love with Colin Black. He is about 3ft 6ins tall and suffers from the Napoleon syndrome. LG was his usual self. Dear Donna went through the minutes of the last liaison  committee meeting. Nobody ever says a word. We have eight new beers to sell from next month. David Tyne bought us all a drink in the pub next door and Rob and I left after ten minutes. LG took me on one side and told me that he has put a letter to me in the post re our stocktakes, and I inmmediately thought to myself: 'Aye aye, it's the bloody chop'. What a queer old business this is. It's worse than ancient Rome. Back to the Moorhouse. Ally was coping nicely. Maureen says I look pissed. After two halves of Sam Smith's bitter? Not bloody likely.

-=-

Sunday April 15, 1984

 Palm Sunday / Full Moon

Moorhouse Inn, Leeds, &c

Tommy Cooper: dead.

Tommy Cooper dropped down dead on the TV at 8:40pm. I suppose that is how he would have wanted to go. The audience roared with laughter as he went and thought he was clowning around. Poor man. 

It was a good afternoon in the pub. Ally didn't come down and roasted a joint of beef. It was deliciously pink. We ate at 3 and watched Badminton on the TV. 'Horsy' Badminton, not shuttlecock Badminton. Lucinda Green won (again). The Sovereign was sat with the new Duke of Beaufort. Read the Sunday papers, &c.

Palm Sunday, eh? Looking at some of my customers, as I did tonight, one would think they are getting crucified next week too. My God. Miserable buggers.

-=-

Saturday April 14, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Sunshine. Dawn rise and a 'full-English breakfast' en masse around the table. Katie splattered breakfast cereal everywhere. They went off at about 11, the girls waving regally from the car. Ally went into the tap room and stood drinking with old Archie. I went to find Samuel and played with him for an hour or so. What a doddle it all is.

Oh, yes. LG came in yesterday and immediately switched off the till in the back bar saying someone  had been tampering with it. He said I would have to sack all the bar staff if the stocks remain in the doldrums. He left saying he would come back today, but he didn't materialise. I have a letter from the brewery asking me to attend a meeting on Monday. No doubt I'll see his Lordship at that gathering of managed house elite.

No sign of John tonight. When is he paying me a birthday visit? Quiet tonight. No visitors. And so, dear reader, to bed.

-=-

Friday April 13, 1984

 

Dave & Lynn.

Moorhouse Inn

Friday the Thirteenth. Busy as usual. Awaiting the arrival of the Bakers. They came at 7. Ally worked from 5:30pm whilst I bathed Samuel and when he drifted off to sleep I changed and listened to a few records. Lynn came up and reported the pub was packed and we went down to find the place busy and Ally working flat out. She has a slender, waspish waist looking divine in a peppermint Laura Ashley number.

We dined with the Bakers upstairs while the barmaids battled below. Lynn and Dave are putting an extension on Thorpefields. The erection will stick out from the back of the dining room. They do this sort of thing on Tranmere. We went down to the lounge at 9 and had a few swift ones. Ally was drinking 'Nourishing Strong Stout'. Some ruffians came in but left after only one pint. We sat until after 2am supping Mandarine Napoleon brandy and various assorted liqueurs. They were very chatty. Lynn was thrilled when we asked her to be Samuel's godmother. David was touched at this because I think he is quietly devout. We gave them a guided tour of the cellars and went up to bed after coffee and Nat King Cole.

-=-

Thursday April 12, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

I played Hercule Poirot tonight and stood at the bar in the tap room mixing with the Hunslet folk and observing the staff. Talked to Kevin, a mechanic, who went on and on about the metro. As you know, cars do nothing for me. Karen and Margaret were working. ______. To bed with Noel Coward (diaries) but I cannot get past 1955. Diaries reveal so much.

-=-

Wednesday April 11, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Samuel was awake at 5 and fed and he squealed again at 6:30 and I got up and changed his soggy clothes. He beams with such a glow. Mick Thompson, the stocktaker, was here at 8 and he gave us a £55 defecit. Ridiculous is this. It's a case of think of a number and halve it, or do I mean double it? This Thompson person might be competent but he's only about 16 (or at least he only looks like a teen). Ally refuses to worry because she says it's all just guess work. I agree with her. Ally tried to phone LG but got nowhere. These people must hide behind the furniture at Tadcaster. 

After lunch we escaped to Club Street and Ally went over the carpet with a vacuum cleaner and I went out to buy some fish and chips and sniggered at the vociferous fish fryer who was lambasting Nigel Lawson. A letter in the Daily Telegraph says Caligula, in ancient Rome, introduced VAT on takeaway food.

Back to the pub for 8:30 and installed the stereo in the flat. Ally played a Bob Marley LP and jigged around. The sound was exquisite after weeks of the dismal thud of the juke box below. To our beds late after listening to Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and Grace Jones, &c. We shared a pint of Guinness.

-=-

Tuesday April 10, 1984

 Moorhouse Inn

Overcast. Up at 7 for a bowl of Weetabix with my piglets. Breakfast TV trundles interminably on. I went down to clear the beer lines ~ a process which went on until 10. Hung around waiting for the dray which didn't come until about 1. I fear I have ordered too much of everything. Clutching my Mandarine Napoleon as if it's the last bottle on earth. Ally, in a fine bossy mood asked Audrey to wash the shelves which she did with a long, unsmiling face. A bearded pain in the neck was stood in the bar irritating me, but we do have some good little characters. We ate ploughman's lunches. Saw the TV at lunch. The Badminton Horse Trials with HM clad in a headscarf and mac in a ploughed field. Good old Lord Lane has quashed the Tisdall girl's appeal, and rightly so. String 'em up, Maggie, that's what I say. 

Knackered. The Piries came over from Ossett, with a team, and we beat them at everything. She is a surly, Australian cow bag. It was a busy tap room because of this soiree, and many regulars abstained including dear Edna Wibley (?) I mean Wilby and old consumptive John. Ally was furious with the Piries who were ignorant to a fault. Jane coped. _______.

Saw the Princess of Wales on the late news at the state banquet for the Emir of Bahrein. She waddled into the Waterloo Chamber looking like a giant sloth.

-=-