Hostel-Maxi

I set off to Grant's before one. It was a superbly warm and sunny day, and I took along Charles Mingus for him to hear and, after we'd listened to this for a while, we decided to go into Easterby. We got a lift from his Dad, and on the way I listened to them discussing a recent gig by his band Movable Mutant Consultant, or MMC as he prefers.

We sauntered down to Praxis and I bought Lenin’s April Theses and Peter Kropotkin and his Federalist Ideas. Praxis is full of books I’ve never seen anywhere else; the three volume Deutscher biography of Trotsky; most of his and Lenin’s writings; Bukharin, Gramsci, Milliband etc. . . . But they’re all so expensive and I’m so destitute! I also bought The Socialist Standard and we left (good pun, eh?) to visit a second hand clothes shop up near the Polytechnic, and then on to Smith’s and HMV. We walked back to Grant's.

Sandwiches and tea on our return and Grant poured forth on his hatred of image seeking, artificiality, mundanity and, above all it seems, apathy. Apathy rules! We finally seem to be getting things worked out about this holiday; I saw the list (which his Mum has doubtless drawn up) and we’ll be visiting eight hostels in all at a cost of £26.25; it's £44.65 if we include an evening meal at each. I’m really looking forward to it, and Mum’s agreed to pay for my travel and accommodation. I left at about eight and walked home through the woods, the sun turning from searing orange to a dull scarlet as it sank. It was really hot and reminded me once more of summer, even more so with the sprouting leaves.

Tense

I set off for Jeremy’s at ten or so and walked all the way, up Haley Hill Road to his house. His Mum was in but left shortly after to go lambing near Burnley; I talked to her a bit, and she was nice. She's from Southampton. Jeremy’s older brother was there as well, and I like him too. He went to work at one and Jeremy and I were left to our own devices. We wandered up to the tennis courts, which were closed, and so spent the rest of the afternoon typing a thing up about Duncan, supposedly from the Libraries Dept of Easterby Council about “personnel selection techniques”; quite funny.

In the evening we switched on the Beeb's Shuttle coverage; amazing film of the Orbiter approach through an Air Force telescope, a white speck that grew into a triangular blur and eventually a white and gleaming space ship; perfect. One last bank and it touched down, Young counting down the feet. I was really pleased. Jeremy bought us fish and chips and I walked home at nine-fifteen. Tense house when I got back, general aggro and short tempers.

Horizon

Dreams galore once more, with predictable subject matter, featuring a certain person who lives not a million miles away. I got up just after eight-thirty and Dad gave me a lift into Easterby. I bought four papers for their Shuttle coverage, which was predictably repetitive, and then trekked over to the Library to take back my books. I took out five books: Revolutionary Silhouettes by Lunacharsky; Theories of Revolution: An Introduction by Cohan; Year One of the Russian Revolution by Victor Serge; Miller’s A View From the Bridge (because of its critical notes) and finally, a book for Dad on Lord Raglan and the Crimean War.  After lamenting my moneyless circumstances in HMV, I read Cohan’s book for a while when I got back.

I waited eagerly for teatime and Shuttle news, and sure enough, there was a view of the blue, cloud-speckled earth through the Shuttle windows. More film on the late evening news, Young with spec’s on reading checklists, talking with Bush, and both men doing the obligatory acrobatics. The interior of “Columbia” looked like a cross between Skylab and an airliner cockpit. I watched Horizon (about Saturn) and the Argentinian Grand Prix and came to bed.

I read and heard news about Brixton and the riots throughout the day; on reflection, my thoughts are pretty unfair and narrow-minded regarding the "over-reaction" of people who live with high unemployment in a rundown area, suffering constant police activity, and with little hope in sight. What gets me really though is reading shitty comments from Eldon Griffiths blaming the violence on “Marxist agitators” who follow Lenin’s maxim of smashing the police “to bits." This is a very un-Leninist phrase to me.

Flames

When Andrew and I got up, Mum and Dad had already gone on a hike, so Andrew made us both an omelet and chips and we settled down in front of the box to wait for the Shuttle launch at one. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, the Shuttle gleaming white on pad 39A, and Kieran Prendiville explaining that the mood had changed from Friday's carnival to one of expectant seriousness. Around a million people were there, all tense and praying.

The minutes passed, and Launch Control began to announce the passage of every 15 seconds or so. . . . The tension was incredible; both Andrew and I could feel it. Michael Rodd said he had his fingers crossed; so did I. Then, a few seconds before launch, the engines sparked into life, blasting yellow, blue, and were lost behind billowing clouds of smoke and steam. When the solid rocket boosters lit up a huge pall of steam billowed across from the stack, and within seconds the three-pronged Shuttle climbed into the sky. Even via the television, the noise was incredible, and as it blasted upwards the whole stack rotated and we could see the Orbiter sitting  there on the big external tank; an incredible bit of coverage. I felt absolutely jubilant. Superb! Ace!! Brilliant!!! I never thought I’d ever see it blasting skywards on top of its yellow plumes of flame. At three-forty-five the BBC gave its first Shuttle update, with the first film from space that showed half-a-dozen tiles missing from both engine pods. Not serious but still a bit worrying. Both crew in good shape. When Mum and Dad got back they were predictably uninterested, although Mum did know quite a bit about it, unlike Dad, who didn’t even know that it was manned!

In the evening we watched a production of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible which was really good. Jeremy rang at nine and I arranged to go down to his house on Tuesday at eleven. There's been a second night of rioting in Brixton; the area looks as if it’s been blitzed.

Dream

I had yet another vivid dream; I’ve been having loads just lately. By the time I got downstairs everything was quiet. Dad was at work and Mum was doing the washing.

Andrew and I set off for the match at two and found Robert waiting for us down in the Shed. The crowd was pretty crummy and so, for much of the game, the tomb-like atmosphere was only broken by the shouts from the players. Holmeshaw, in red shirts and black shorts, looked the sharper side early on and duly took the lead but shortly, much to my relief, Newlands equalised after a hectic goal line scramble. Immediately after, McArdle headed the ball home from a corner to make it 2-1. Really good! The referee was pathetic as usual and seemed to rely on the strength of the appeals from the players for his decisions, doing so on a majority basis. Just before half-time he awarded Holmeshaw a penalty and they whammed it into the roof of the net to pull it back. Good entertainment and well worth 75p! Just after the restart, Athletic went behind from a deflected shot, only for Newlands to grab Athletic's third right at the death; he broke clear and shot past the advancing keeper from near the edge of the area. It was a pretty exciting game. As well as the goals, Holmeshaw hit the upright and Newlands almost lobbed their keeper. Best match I’ve seen since in ages.

I rounded off a pretty good day watching television all evening.