CND, RCP, SWSO

The day has gone by innocuously enough; Lee atoned for the last night by rolling up at one and we went into Watermouth with Barry. An unpleasant Saturday afternoon near Christmas, the town awash with people. Around the Attlee Square clock tower a large group of students had gathered in the road and were singing in aid of peace. Crowds of people thronged around them—contempt and amusement from some—the traffic tailing back in several directions. All the University SWSO crowd were there: ‘dog-faced’ Mickey with the mohican, Martin Hegarty, Guy’s friend Felicity . . .

Lee and Barry and I were full of scorn for them—as if ANYONE will listen; it’s like preaching peace and morality to a psychopath with a machine gun. Sitting in the street is useless. When Heseltine had his face splashed with red paint on a recent visit to Manchester University, the CND bureaucracy predictably condemned the act as “intolerant.” CND will go on singing and linking hands until the fateful Day itself, all their undoubted commitment and sincerity smashed to pieces against the brick wall of the State. And I suppose on this point, I agree with the RCP.

I was spending money “like a man with no arms” as the saying goes, and somehow I’ve got through a little under £40 in two days. I’m now £150 overdrawn. I wrote to Mum and Dad about the year abroad, and in my letter I hope I made my position clear. I also wrote a typical sort of letter to Claire.

Michael P. had stayed at Lee’s halls watching a Jimmy Cagney film and was summoned by a telephone call. We met him in an amusement arcade near the seafront. I’ve only met him once before, a brief moment at Easterby Art College when I paid a visit with Grant last Easter. He had long hair down to his shoulders back then, but now wears it slicked back with a parting down the middle, ‘twenties fashion. He’s thin and small and looked quaint in a black tuxedo jacket, grey waistcoat and white shirt and bowtie. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does it’s with a heavy Easterby accent that’s music to my ears.

We walked home.

Anchor

Lindsey, Guy, Barry, Stu and Mo and I met up at the Anchor last night and ended up in the dark pretentiousness of the Sanctuary beneath the Helios Hotel. Stu and I got absolutely drenched as we had opted to walk the few hundred yards from the pub while the others caught a cab. Mo rode home on the bus and we struggled on although the heavens had opened & the roads were awash.

Afterwards, we had a cup of tea at Guy’s place on Sutton Road and met one of his flat-mates, Felicity. She and Barry got embroiled in a political discussion; she supports Labour and CND, and she sounded no less committed than Barry, if the less realistic. Guy interspersed the debate with inane drunken comments, and Stu and I took up a position loosely aligned with Barry.

Everything fragmented and took a pleasingly ridiculous turn and the room was soon filled with laughter. We went to bed at four and slept on the carpet in the large living room.

I woke up cold and uncomfortable late in the morning. We lay like slugs in our blankets and sleeping bags watching the TV, until the appearance of Felicity’s Mum and Dad roused us to action. We left, accompanied by Guy, and got something to eat at a fast food place near the sea front. The sea was brown and ferocious, great lines of breakers roaring in one after the other against the beach. The wind was so fierce that we had difficulty standing at times, and I can’t ever remember being in winds as strong.

After getting home we descended en masse on Holmes Avenue laundrette and I slipped into one of my black paranoiac moods, getting irritated by everyone. We got back after dark: John and Del sat watching TV. They’ve been looking for a place to live, but still haven’t found anywhere, and both Barry and I are getting a bit pissed off by their continued presence here. They seem to take this place for granted simply because Barry lives here, forgetting that Pete and I do too. Neither of them ever contribute towards food or washing up, and leave their dirty pots and pans about until someone else (usually Mo) clears them away. Trevor’s constant talk of sex and how good he is with girls is a drag too, even though I suspect most of it is self-parody.