Part 2 (1/2)

This was great stuff. Dozens of confused and interested doctors, nurses, and students surrounded my bed and were incredibly kind and considerate to me. They gave me all sorts of dope and all sorts of tests. My temperature was taken several times a day, and, unbelievably, I would sometimes be left alone with a thermometer, so I could engineer another fever. I would also take sneaky looks at enormously bulky files labelled, rather unjustly, 'Not to be Handled by the Patient'. I developed a genuine interest in medicine and an even more genuine interest in nurses. I suppose I must have had erections before, but I certainly hadn't a.s.sociated their onset with leering at women. Now I did, but I still had no idea that these sensations were intimately linked with the survival of the human species.

After a few weeks of s.e.x and drugs, I became bored again. I wanted to go home and play with my Meccano set. I stopped flicking up the thermometer and complained no more. Unfortunately, in those days hospital, like prison today, was much harder to get out of than to get into. My anxiety to leave the hospital bed took away my appet.i.te. Accordingly, I was presenting the specialists with yet another symptom for them to log and ponder over. Eventually, by drinking gallons of Lucozade, my appet.i.te returned, and I was discharged to undergo convalescence. My first scam was over.

In South Wales, there were more pubs than chapels and more coal mines than schools. The local education authority sent me to a school named Garw Grammar School. Garw is the Welsh for rough, presumably referring to the terrain rather than the inhabitants. An old-fas.h.i.+oned co-educational grammar school, it lay at the dead end of a valley which was an eleven-mile, forty-five-minute, fun-filled school bus journey away from my home. Sheep were often to be seen wandering through the schoolyards, and occasionally they would attempt to graze in the cla.s.srooms.

I received an intensive crash-course in the facts of life, which form the first few lessons of the unofficial syllabus of any Welsh grammar school. I was told that a carefully handled erection could produce intense pleasure through e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n and that a well-guided e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n could produce children. The techniques of masturbation were painstakingly explained. In the privacy of my bedroom, I tried. I really did. Over and over again. I tried very hard indeed. Nothing. This was terrible. I didn't mind not having kids. I just wanted to come, like everybody else, and my inability to do so plagued and depressed me. I had yet to realise that if one had to fail at anything, one would choose failing to become a w.a.n.ker.

I had stopped sc.r.a.pping and fighting, partly because I had lost the knack, i.e., I was getting beaten, and partly because I couldn't stand physical contact with boys. The nurses had spoiled me. G.o.d bless them.

Mutual masturbation in the sports and physical training lessons was not unknown, and the idea of being coerced to partic.i.p.ate and admit my shortcoming (and demonstrate my no-coming) terrified me. Relying on my increased medical knowledge and, once again, flicking the mercury thermometer, I developed a mysterious illness and was excused from all school physical activities. This rendered me a wimp (though the word then and there was sissy) in the eyes of my peers. My ability to do well in school examinations made me into a swot, which in some ways was worse. My life was not going the way I wanted it to: girls ignored me and boys made fun of me. Some radical changes were necessary.

Elvis Presley clearly suffered from none of these problems. I watched his movies and listened to his records endlessly. I read everything about him. I copied his hairstyle, tried to look like him, and attempted to sound and move like him. I failed. But I was getting there, or so I thought. After all, I was slim, tall, dark-haired, and thick-lipped; and by standing up straight I could even lose my round shoulders and pot-belly. Also, since the age of six, I had been taking twice-weekly piano lessons at a neighbour's home. To my parents' dismay, I now stopped practising Fur Elise Fur Elise and the 'Moonlight' Sonata in the early morning and directed my talents towards giving note-perfect renditions of and the 'Moonlight' Sonata in the early morning and directed my talents towards giving note-perfect renditions of Teddy Bear Teddy Bear and and Blue Suede Shoes Blue Suede Shoes to an imaginary audience. to an imaginary audience.

At school, I decided to become really mischievous. This, I hoped, would make me unpopular with the staff and popular with my cla.s.smates. To a large extent it did, but my lack of physical toughness continued to bestow upon me an aura of wimpishness, and I was subject to occasional bullying. I didn't yet have sufficient pluck to pull out my Elvis card. What I needed was a bodyguard.

There were no organised extra-curricular activities at the Garw Grammar School because most of the pupils lived in scattered and fairly isolated mining communities. Each village had its own social life and its own youth, only a few of whom attended a grammar school the other end of the valley. Each village also had its tough kid. Kenfig Hill's was Albert Hanc.o.c.k, an extremely wild and strong James Dean look-alike, a few years my senior. I used to see him around, but I was scared stiff of him. So were most people when they were sober. It was impossible to conceive of a better bodyguard. How on earth could I befriend him? It was easier than I thought. I supplied cigarettes and asked him to show me how to inhale. I made myself available to run errands for him. I 'lent' him money. A long-lasting alliance began to develop. My schoolfriends were too intimidated to taunt me further: Albert's fierce reputation was known for miles around. When I was fourteen, Albert took me to a pub to sample my first pint. There was an old piano in the bar. With alcoholic courage, I strolled over and accompanied myself singing Blue Suede Shoes Blue Suede Shoes. The clientele loved it. The good times had begun.

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 s.e.xual 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 pa.s.sed all ten subjects with very high grades. My parents were delighted. The grounding was lifted. Astonis.h.i.+ngly, 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 Blue Suede Shoes, and That's All Right Mama 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 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. 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 Hanc.o.c.k.

I played a little slower.

'I've told you once to stop that racket,' snarled Hamilton.

'b.u.g.g.e.r '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, Hanc.o.c.k,' 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 b.a.l.l.s of Fire Great b.a.l.l.s 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 Glamorgan Gazette alongside Albert Hanc.o.c.k's latest vandalous exploit. I would certainly be grounded, maybe worse. alongside Albert Hanc.o.c.k'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 Hanc.o.c.k 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 prost.i.tutes everywhere. I had never seen either before. I saw the clubs and bars I had read about in the Melody Maker Melody Maker and the and the New Musical Express New Musical Express: the Two I's, the Marquee, the Flamingo, and Ronnie Scott's. Then the s.e.xiest 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 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 s.h.i.+llings. 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' pa.s.senger-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 Scholars.h.i.+p 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 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. 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 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 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 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 Anatomy of Britain, and, again at the advice of my headmaster, was struggling with Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea The Old Man and the Sea. At that point, the only works of cla.s.sical or contemporary literature that I'd read, unless one counts those of Leslie Charteris and Edgar Wallace, were Oliver Twist Oliver Twist and and Julius Caesar Julius Caesar, both of which had been included in my 'O' level English literature syllabus, and Lady Chatterley's Lover 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. 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.