The good times ended about a year later when my father discovered the diary in which I had foolishly recorded the cigarettes I’d smoked, the beer I’d drunk, and my sexual adventures. He grounded me. I could go to school, but nowhere else. He insisted I cut off my Teddy Boy hairstyle. (Fortunately, Presley had just had his hair cut for the United States Army, so I used this punishment to some advantage.)
My ‘O’ levels were six months away. There was nothing to do but study for them, which I did with surprising obsession and tenacity. I passed all ten subjects with very high grades. My parents were delighted. The grounding was lifted. Astonishingly, Albert was also over the moon about my results: his best friend was a combination of Elvis and Einstein. The good times began again.
My new-found freedom coincided with the opening in Kenfig Hill of Van’s Teen and Twenty Club. Visiting bands would play at least once a week, and more often than not, I was invited to sing a few numbers. I had a very small repertoire (What’d I Say, Blue Suede Shoes, and That’s All Right Mama), but it always went down well. Life became almost routine. Weekdays at school were devoted to the study of my ‘A’ level subjects of Physics, Chemistry, and Mathematics. Week nights from 5.30 p.m. to 9.30 p.m. were similarly devoted. All the rest of my waking time was spent drinking in pubs, dancing and singing in Van’s, and taking out girls.
Early one spring evening, at the request of several Chubby Checker imitators, I was trying to play Let’s Twist Again on the piano in the lounge bar of The Royal Oak, Station Road, Kenfig Hill. The already fading light was suddenly further darkened by the arrival of five large local policemen who had come to check the age of the pub’s customers. The landlord, Arthur Hughes, was never very good at guessing ages. I was not yet eighteen. I was breaking the law. One of the policemen I recognised as PC Hamilton, a huge Englishman who had recently taken up residence in the village. He lived a stone’s throw from my house. Hamilton walked up to me.
‘Stop that racket right now.’
‘Carry on playing, Howard. It’s not illegal. It should be, mind,’ said Albert Hancock.
I played a little slower.
‘I’ve told you once to stop that racket,’ snarled Hamilton.
‘Bugger ’im, Howard. He can’t stop you playing. Fancy doing the twist, Hamilton, and get some of that fat off?’
The pub cackled with laughter at Albert’s audacious wit.
‘Watch it, Hancock,’ warned Hamilton. ‘I’ve got a Black Maria outside just waiting for you.’
‘Well, bring her in, Hamilton. There’s no colour bar here.’
To the accompaniment of more laughter, I started to play the first few bars of Jerry Lee Lewis’s Great Balls of Fire. I played loud and fast. Hamilton grabbed my shoulder.
‘How old are you, son?’
‘Eighteen,’ I lied confidently. I had been drinking in pubs for over three years, and no one had ever questioned my age. To add some insolence, I grabbed my pint of bitter and drank some of it. I was already too drunk.
‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Why do you want to know? If I’m eighteen, I can drink here whatever my name is.’
‘Come outside, son.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do as I say.’
I carried on playing until Hamilton dragged me outside. He took out his notebook and pencil, Dixon of Dock Green style.
‘Now, give me your name, son.’
‘David James.’
To my knowledge, there was no such person.
‘I thought I heard your friends call you Howard.’
‘No. My name’s David.’
‘Where do you live, son? I know I’ve seen you around somewhere.’
‘25, Pwllygath Street.’
There was such an address, but I had no idea who lived there.
‘Where do you work, son?’
‘I’m still in school.’
‘I thought you looked young, son. Well, I’ll just check on this information you’ve given me. I’ll find you if it’s wrong. Goodnight, son.’
I went back inside and got bought loads of drinks.
It wasn’t until I got up the next morning that I realised how stupid I had been. Hamilton would quickly find out that there was no David James at 25, Pwllygath Street, and I was as likely as not to run into Hamilton the next time I ventured out of the house. I began to get worried. I was going to get caught and be charged with drinking under age and giving the police false information. There would be a court case. It would be written up in the Glamorgan Gazette alongside Albert Hancock’s latest vandalous exploit. I would certainly be grounded, maybe worse.
Although my father disapproved of smoking, drinking, and gambling, he always forgave any of my transgressions if I told him the truth. I confessed to him the events of the previous night. He went to see Hamilton and told him what a good boy and clever student I was. Hamilton expressed scepticism, citing Albert Hancock as an unlikely source of good influence. Somehow or other, my father won the day. Hamilton agreed not to pursue the matter any further.
My father delivered me a serious lecture. I learned a few things: I, like most people, behaved stupidly when drunk, policemen could cause problems, my father was a good man, and criminal charges could be dropped.
King’s College, University of London, had invited me to be interviewed for a place to read Physics. I looked forward to the trip, the first one I had ever undertaken alone. Physics was still coming easily to me, and the interview presented me with no worries. My mind was more concerned with visiting Soho, a place Albert had discussed at length with me on several occasions.
After a four-hour train journey terminating at Paddington, I bought a tourist map, caught a tube to the Strand, and dealt with my interview at King’s College. The questions had proved to be straightforward. I worked out which underground stations were close to Soho Square and killed time so as to arrive there by nightfall. I walked down Frith Street and Greek Street. I couldn’t believe it. The place really was like Albert had said. There were strip-clubs and prostitutes everywhere. I had never seen either before. I saw the clubs and bars I had read about in the Melody Maker and the New Musical Express: the Two I’s, the Marquee, the Flamingo, and Ronnie Scott’s. Then the sexiest girl I had ever seen asked if I wanted to spend some time with her. I explained I didn’t have much money. She said not to worry. I told her my name was Deke Rivers (the name of the character Elvis played in Loving You). She was called Lulu. Through Wardour Street I accompanied her to St Anne’s Court, and we went into a flat. I gave her everything I had – two pounds and eight shillings. She gave me just a little bit of what she had, but it was more than enough. I walked to Hyde Park, then to Paddington. After a couple of hours’ passenger-spotting, I caught the two o’clock ‘milk train’ back to Bridgend. I had lots to tell my friends.
King’s College accepted me on the understanding I would get good enough ‘A’ levels. I’d make sure I’d get them. I couldn’t wait to get back to Soho. I got Grade A in each subject. Herbert John Davies, headmaster of Garw Grammar School, had other ideas. It was an overwhelming surprise when he took me aside one day and said that he wanted me to sit the Oxford University Entrance Scholarship Examination. It had been at least eight years since anyone from the Garw Grammar School had attempted to get into Oxford. He had been successful and was, in fact, the headmaster’s son, John Davies, who read Physics at Balliol College. The headmaster suggested that I try to do precisely that. I had not actually heard of Balliol. The headmaster suggested that I read Anthony Sampson’s Anatomy of Britain in order both to learn something of Balliol and to increase my general knowledge. The section dealing with Balliol was very impressive and intimidating. The list of Balliol men included far too many Prime Ministers, Kings, and eminent academics to warrant my even conceiving of being admitted. Still, what was there to lose? If I failed I could always get a place at King’s College, London, and go to see Lulu.
Sometime during the autumn of 1963 I sat two examination
papers sent from Oxford to the grammar school. One was on physics, which was no problem, and another was a general paper, which was virtually incomprehensible. One of the questions was: ‘Is a copy of The Times more useful than a Thucydides or a Gibbon?’ I had heard of neither Thucydides nor Gibbon and had never seen a copy of The Times. This question remained unanswered, as did most of them. In answer to one of the questions, I did attempt to write some justification of why pop singers earned more than hospital ward sisters, based on the fact that pop singers had no minimum wage guarantee, but I doubt if it was convincing.
Preparing for the preliminary interview at Balliol was a nerve-racking experience. My hair was extremely long, larded with Brylcreem, and combed in a Teddy Boy style with a quiff over my forehead. My parents insisted it be cut, and I reluctantly complied. I had, at last, finished reading Anatomy of Britain, and, again at the advice of my headmaster, was struggling with Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. At that point, the only works of classical or contemporary literature that I’d read, unless one counts those of Leslie Charteris and Edgar Wallace, were Oliver Twist and Julius Caesar, both of which had been included in my ‘O’ level English literature syllabus, and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which had not. In physics I had not read anything outside the ‘S’ level curriculum and was dreading being asked about relativity or quantum mechanics, which to this day I cannot fully understand.
The Old Man and the Sea was abandoned when the Bridgend to Oxford train reached Cardiff, and I settled down in the buffet carriage to drink numerous cans of beer. We had to change trains at Didcot. I sat opposite a man holding a pair of handcuffs, and I saw Oxford’s dreaming spires for the first time.
A couple of hours later I was in Balliol College waiting outside the interview room. Also waiting was another interviewee. I put out my hand.
‘Hello. My name’s Howard.’
He looked puzzled and put his hand in mine as if he expected me to kiss it.
‘Which school are you from?’ he asked.
‘Garw.’
‘What?’
‘Garw.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Between Cardiff and Swansea. Not far from Bridgend.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand you.’
‘Glamorgan,’ I answered.
‘Oh, Wales!’ he said disdainfully.
‘Which school are you from?’ I asked.
‘Eton,’ he said, looking down at the floor.
‘Where’s that?’ I couldn’t resist asking.
‘The school! Eton. The school!’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it, but where is it?’
‘Windsor.’
The Etonian was the first to be interviewed, and I pressed my ear against the doorframe to hear his long, articulate recital of various sporting accomplishments. I felt apprehensive. Despite being a keen rugby fan, I had not participated in any physical exercise or sports since I was twelve years old, when I was mistakenly picked to play as a second-row forward for the school ‘B’ team. Any confidence I had in handling this interview disappeared.
After about twenty minutes the door opened, the Etonian exited, and the doorframe was filled with the imposing figure of the Ancient Greek historian Russell Meiggs. He had magnificent shoulder-length greying hair, and I now regretted acquiescing in my parents’ insistence on my visiting the barber before I left Wales. Russell Meiggs made me feel completely at ease, and we talked at length about Welsh coal mines, the national rugby team, and the Eisteddford. I made him laugh on a number of occasions, and the interview was over in no time. The physics interview was a much more sombre affair, and I quickly realised that I could not joke my way through this one. Luckily, the questions were all based on the ‘A’ level curriculum. Overnight accommodation had been secured at a bed-and-breakfast in Walton Street, where I had deposited my suitcase after arriving at Oxford railway station. My straight suit was hurriedly exchanged for my Teddy Boy outfit, and I dashed into the nearest public house to drink myself stupid.
A couple of months later, I was again summoned to Balliol. This time the reason was to sit a number of Entrance Scholarship examinations. These were spread over a period of a few days, and we were expected to reside in the College. I had explained in full detail to my parents the nature of Russell Meiggs’s hairstyle, but to no avail: the mandatory haircut was again imposed.
On arrival at Balliol, I joined the other candidates, who were gathered in the Junior Common Room. The Etonian was nowhere to be seen. I felt shy and inhibited. Each attempt I made at conversation was greeted with mocking laughter aimed at my Welsh accent. Eventually, I talked to another grammar school boy, who was from Southampton. He too intended to read Physics and also seemed to feel as out of place as I did. His name was Julian Peto, and he has remained absolutely my best friend to this day. We dutifully attended the Examination Schools every morning and afternoon and, equally dutifully, got completely drunk every evening. A few more interviews were somehow managed, and I returned home without making any further friendships and certainly not expecting to visit Oxford again.
Sometime during the first half of December 1963, a letter from Balliol arrived at my home in Wales. I gave it to my father to open. The expression of delight on his face conveyed the letter’s contents. Contrary to numerous reports which later appeared in newspapers during the 1970s and 1980s, I had not been awarded a Scholarship. I had, however, been granted a place.
The news that I had been successful in my attempt to enter Oxford University swept through Kenfig Hill. Balliol College had just won University Challenge, which increased the awe and respect that I was accorded. I couldn’t walk down the street without being congratulated by everyone I met. I was made Head Prefect of the school. My success went completely to my head, and I have been living off it to some extent ever since. The rest of the year was spent basking in the glory of my surprising achievements. I kept my eyes open for mentions of Balliol in the media but saw only one article. It described the new Balliol fad of smoking marijuana, about which I then knew nothing, and the concern of the Master of Balliol, Sir David Lindsay Keir, about its propensity for encouraging idleness.
Before attending Balliol as a freshman, I had to acquire various items that had been suggested in lists sent by college tutors and officials. These included a cabin trunk, college scarf, books, and gown (short). Accompanied by two very proud parents, I spent a few days in Oxford purchasing these articles. We visited Balliol College, of course, but it was deserted and lifeless apart from the odd American tourist staring, with unconcealed disappointment, at the gardens. All our purchases were neatly packed into the cabin trunk except the college scarf, which I retained to improve my chances while hitch-hiking through Europe.
In early October 1964, I began life as a Balliol undergraduate. I was assigned a small, drab room on the ground floor, overlooking St Giles’ and vulnerable to inspection by passers-by. The traffic noise was the worst that I had ever encountered in sleeping quarters, and the window provided me with the first, though unfortunately by no means the last, opportunity of looking at the outside world through bars. An elderly gentleman wearing a white jacket knocked on the door, opened it, walked in, and said, ‘I be your scout, George.’
I had not been forewarned of the existence of scouts and had no idea what function this kindly gentleman served. My first thought was that he was something to do with sports activities. George and I spent a long time talking to each other, and he explained that his duties included making my bed, cleaning my room, and washing my dishes. I found this information totally astonishing. Up to that point, I had never eaten at a restaurant with waiter service, had never had my bag carried by a porter, and had never stayed at a hotel.
Dining in Hall was quite frightening. I had no idea what to talk about and was very concerned about exhibiting bad table manners. I felt very out of place and quite miserable, but Julian Peto, who had been admitted to Balliol as a Scholar, would always pull me out of it.
A
Freshman’s Fair was held at the Town Hall. Julian and I attended to see what was on offer. None of the various societies and clubs appealed to us. Three pretty girls approached and invited us to join the Oxford University Conservative Association. Julian, a member of CND, and a sincere socialist born to humanist parents, walked off in disgust while I lingered, overcome by feminine charm. To prolong this enjoyable encounter, I agreed to become a member and parted with a few shillings for the privilege of doing so. My parents, on later hearing of this treachery, were absolutely livid. I did not attend any of the Party’s meetings and never again set eyes upon those three beautiful ladies. The only possible repercussion of this impulsive foolishness was the probability of its documentary record being favourably regarded by those ultimately responsible for recruiting me as an agent for MI6, the British Secret Service.
I wandered along to the Oxford Union. Having attended a dance at Swansea University Union some months earlier, I presumed that if there was any action, rock music, alcoholic frivolity, promiscuity etc., it would be found at the Union. I paid approximately eleven pounds for a life membership and have not been there since. My life membership card, however, remained in my wallet until confiscated by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration in July 1988.
The Physics tutorials that I was obliged to attend were surprisingly relaxed affairs, and I managed to keep my head above water. I abandoned university lectures when I realised that they were not in any way compulsory. Physics students, however, were expected to spend inordinately lengthy periods of time at the Clarendon Laboratories, performing a seemingly interminable series of mindless experiments with pendulums, lenses, and resistors. I loathed this part of the course and dreaded the time spent there. Soon, I abandoned that too.