‘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). Through Wardour Street I accompanied her to St Anne’s Court, and we went into a flat named Lulu. 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.’