Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 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-fashioned 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. 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 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 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' 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 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 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.

'h.e.l.lo. 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 partic.i.p.ated 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 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 a.s.signed a small, drab room on the ground floor, overlooking St Giles' and vulnerable to inspection by pa.s.sers-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 a.s.sociation. 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 doc.u.mentary 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.

Although I had little, possibly nothing, in common with my fellow Physics students (excepting, of course, Julian Peto), there was certainly no feeling of animosity towards me. Other Physics freshmen were courteous towards me and seemed now to be able to comprehend my heavy Welsh lilt. I gradually met Balliol students outside of the Natural Science faculty and formed the opinion that arts undergraduates, particularly historians and philosophers, were a far more interesting and non-conforming bunch than scientists. Some of them even had long hair and wore jeans. I developed a nodding acquaintance with them.

My s.e.xual adventures were confined to females not attached to the university. I a.s.sumed that university girls were not the type to go to bed with me or anyone else. This ridiculous a.s.sumption was the result of my Welsh coalfield upbringing, where there was no overlap whatsoever between girls who studied and girls who would 'do it'. The ones that 'did it' would invariably be girls who had left school as soon as they could, and they would tend to work in Woolworth's, betting shops, or factories. Consequently, my first s.e.xual liaisons in Oxford were initiated in the Cornmarket Woolworth's store and the odd street encounter. Most of the latter seemed to be with foreign students attending nursing and secretarial colleges. The illusion of British blue-stocking celibacy became further entrenched.

Halfway through my first term a notice appeared in the Porter's Lodge at Balliol College announcing: 'The following gentlemen will read essays to the Master on ... The subject will be "The Population Problem".' My name then followed along with six others whose surnames also began with L, M, or N. I was not aware there was a population problem. About a week's notice was given, and I was very nervous. I hurriedly withdrew some books from the college library, and shamelessly copied huge chunks. Someone informed me that Sir David Lindsay Keir, Master of Balliol, used these essay readings to determine how well freshmen could hold their sherry. This gave me some comfort.

Fortunately, I was not one of the three gentlemen chosen to read an essay. I drank an enormous amount of sherry and had a long conversation with Sir David about the origins of the Welsh language and its grammatical peculiarities. He was of the belief that Welsh was a purely Celtic language with grammatical features akin to those of Gaelic and Breton. I, on the other hand, steadfastly maintained that the aboriginal Welsh was pre-Celtic with unique grammatical oddities such as the regulated mutations of the beginnings of nouns. A few weeks later, he told me that I might have been right. Sir David had not, up to the time of our conversation, been aware of the admittedly disputed fact that America had been discovered in AD AD 1170 by Prince Madoc ab Owain Gwynnedd, whose followers bequeathed elements of the Welsh language to the Padoucas Indians. Keeping my sherry gla.s.s full, Sir David listened with polite interest to my detailed account of this esoteric history. 1170 by Prince Madoc ab Owain Gwynnedd, whose followers bequeathed elements of the Welsh language to the Padoucas Indians. Keeping my sherry gla.s.s full, Sir David listened with polite interest to my detailed account of this esoteric history.

Also present at this essay reading (or, in my case, non-essay reading) were freshmen John Minford and Hamilton McMillan, each of whom had a very significant effect on my life. John Minford was immediately convinced that I was a talented actor and persuaded me to join the Balliol Dramatic Society. Hamilton McMillan, years later, was convinced that I would make a talented espionage agent and persuaded me to work for MI6. It is strange to think that had my surname not begun with M, I would have suffered neither the glare of stage lights nor the attention of the world's media.

To entice me into partic.i.p.ating in Balliol Dramatic Society activities, John Minford asked if I would be prepared to play the part of First Yob in the Balliol College/Lady Margaret Hall Christmas pantomime, The Sleeping Beauty The Sleeping Beauty. It was a small part, which consisted of uttering a few appropriate, timely obscenities and lying around looking either vaguely menacing or perversely seductive. I agreed on condition that Julian Peto be persuaded to play the part of Second Yob.

My membership of the Balliol Dramatic Society led to my befriending other members, and I soon became adopted into a group of largely second-year Balliol undergraduates, often referred to as 'The Establishment'. These included Rick Lambert, the current editor of the Financial Times Financial Times, and Chris Patten, currently Governor of Hong Kong. They were all heavy drinkers and very entertaining. 'The Establishment' also formed the core of the Victorian Society, and I was invited to become a member. It was a strange society, to say the least, but again the main requirement was to down large amounts of drink, this time port, which I had never tried. Each member was obliged to sing a Victorian song to the audience of other members, and further obliged to sing different Victorian songs at subsequent meetings. The officers of the society permitted me to sing the same song on each occasion. The song was a Welsh hymn, Wele Cawsom Y Mesiah Wele Cawsom Y Mesiah, sung to the tune of Bread of Heaven Bread of Heaven.

The pantomime went well, and a cast party was held. I made a disgusting exhibition of myself by attempting to imitate Elvis Presley while the main vocalist of Oxford University's most ill.u.s.trious rock group, The Blue Monk and His Dirty Habits, was taking a break. As a consequence of this, I began my first affair with a university undergraduate, the rivetingly glamorous Lynn Barber of St Anne's College. No more Woolworth's girls for a while.

The room next door to me was far more s.p.a.cious and attractive than mine. I would sometimes spend time there, often accompanied by Harold Macmillan's grandson, Joshua Macmillan, who was a very close friend of the occupant. For some reason, the room became vacant, and I took it over.

My new quarters considerably enhanced my potential for entertaining guests. A few days after I moved in, Joshua visited and warned me that I would be likely to get lots of visitors in the middle of the night, particularly at weekends. The reason for this was that the bars of the window were removable, thereby giving an extraordinarily easy access to the street. The secret was known by a dozen or so friends of Joshua, and they would like to continue to make use of the facility. The removable bars also dramatically facilitated my nocturnal entries and exits as well as those of my friends, all of whom soon shared the secret. My room became a popular late-night venue. Interruptions at 4 a.m. by others seeking access were occasionally inconvenient, but they gave rise to the broadening of my circle of adventurous Balliol students and loose women.

At the beginning of each term, returning students would have to sit 'collections', examinations designed to test the previous term's progress. The examination papers were very likely to be lying around one of the physics tutors' college rooms. A preview of the papers would solve the problem of how to make a satisfactory showing at the examination. This, of course, would require clandestinely entering the tutors' rooms and searching through their desks. A couple of days before the beginning of my second term, I made a tour of inspection of the exterior of the rooms of Dr P. G. H. Sandars and Dr D. M. Brink. They were locked, but Dr Sandars' room was on the ground floor. The following night, at about 3 a.m., I crept across the deserted college grounds, opened the window, and, armed with a torch purchased that afternoon, proceeded to search Dr Sandars' desk. After about half an hour, I gave up. There were no collection papers to be seen. Prowling around was relatively safe, so I had a look at Dr Brink's room. This, too, was on the ground floor, but the window was inaccessible and tightly shut. I wandered around trying to figure out a way of getting into Dr Brink's room, in which I was convinced the elusive collection papers would be found. It then came to mind that Wally, the venal night porter, kept in the Porter's Lodge what appeared to be a full set of duplicate keys. I strolled across the quad to my room, got out of my window into St Giles', walked to the Porter's Lodge, and asked Wally to let me in. Once inside I told him that I had locked myself out of my room with the key still inside. He asked for my room number, and I gave him Dr Brink's. He handed me the key to Dr Brink's room and asked me to return it to him when I had retrieved my original. I proceeded to Dr Brink's room, opened the door, immediately found a stack of collection papers, took one, and returned the key, together with another half-crown tip, to a very grateful Wally. I pa.s.sed the collection examination with flying colours.

Balliol undergraduates often spoke of a character named Denys Irving, who had been rusticated from Oxford and had sensibly spent his period of banishment from the city walls visiting exotic parts of the world. He had recently returned from his voyages of discovery and was about to visit, presumably illegally, his friends at Oxford. I was invited to meet him. Denys had brought with him some marijuana in the form of kif from Morocco. Up to that point I had heard the odd whisper of drugs being taken at the university and was aware that marijuana was popular with British West Indian communities, jazz enthusiasts, American beatniks, and the modern intellectual wave of Angry Young Men. I had no idea of marijuana's effects, however, and, with a great deal of enthusiastic interest, I accepted the joint that Denys offered and took my first few puffs. The effects were surprisingly mild but quite long-lasting. After just a couple of minutes, I started having a sensation akin to b.u.t.terflies in the stomach but without the customary feelings of trepidation. This led to a desire to laugh followed by my interpreting most of the conversation as amusing enough for me to do so. I then became acutely aware of the music that was being played, James Brown's Please Please Please Please Please Please, and of the aesthetic qualities of my immediate environment. Each of these experiences was completely new to me and highly enjoyable. My next sensation was of the slowing-down of time. Finally I became hungry, as did everyone else, and invaded the premises of what later became the Sorbonne French restaurant, but was then the Moti Mahal, in a street appropriately named The High. This was my first experience of Indian food, and I became addicted to it for life.

After endless bhajis, kurmas, pilaos, doopiazas, and other curries, the effects of the marijuana gradually wore off, and I invited the entire group to come back to my room, where we smoked numerous joints and listened to doo-wop music on my rather antiquated tape recorder. One by one, we pa.s.sed out.

The next morning was George's day off. He was replaced by a scout who did not share his liberal att.i.tude to carryings-on in college rooms and, on seeing the battlefield that was my room, promptly threatened to report it to the Dean. My newly found friends decided to headquarter themselves in my room for the day. Further friends of theirs from all over Oxford were invited to join the gathering. Someone turned up with a record player and a box of records. Others turned up with different types of marijuana and hashish. Loud Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan music blared, and cannabis smoke poured out into St Giles' and into the Elizabethan section of Balliol's back quad. During the early evening, Denys Irving returned to London, and the 'happening' slowly faded out.

The next day, Joshua Macmillan died from respiratory obstruction, resulting from an overdose of Valium and alcohol. I saw his body being carried down the stairs. It was the first human corpse I had ever seen. Joshua's death was tragic in every respect. Although people speculated that it might have been suicide, this was entirely inconsistent with his recent behaviour. He had taken a cure for heroin in Switzerland and claimed not to be using it any more. He also maintained that he only ever took barbiturates or alcohol when there was no marijuana to be found. Joshua and I were by no means close friends; we were simply acquaintances. His death, however, had a profound effect on me and forced me to carefully examine my att.i.tudes to drug-taking.

Shortly after Joshua's death, my pigeon-hole contained a summons to see the Dean, Francis Leader McCarthy Willis Bund, as soon as possible. He came straight to the point. As a result of Joshua's death, there would be inquiries by the police and Proctors (university police) regarding drug-taking in the University, with particular emphasis on Balliol. The Dean was making his own preliminary investigation and he had good reason (information from George's stand-in) to start this investigation by asking me some questions. Did I take drugs? Who else did? Where were they taken? I explained that I had smoked marijuana a couple of times but that I was not prepared to give him names of others who might have also done so. The Dean seemed greatly relieved at my refusal to name others, and I've not forgotten the look on his face, which has since carried me through all sorts of unpleasant interrogations. He finished the meeting by asking me to have a quiet word with anyone I knew who did smoke marijuana, begging them not to do so on the college premises.

The following weekend, the Sunday Times Sunday Times review section featured an article headlined 'Confessions of an Oxford Drug Addict', which was mainly an interview with a close friend of Joshua's. A number of articles with similar themes appeared in other newspapers as a result of the University having been invaded by journalists wishing to write a story following up the death of Harold Macmillan's grandson. The most unlikely students were bending over backwards to confess to some reporter their flirtation with Oxford's drug culture. Marijuana smokers were popping up all over the place, and it was considered fairly unfashionable not to be one. Having fortuitously penetrated the drug culture a couple of days prior to the national expose, I was accorded the status of one of its pioneers. I did absolutely nothing to dispel this misconception. It was, therefore, no surprise to anyone else, but slightly surprising to me, that I was issued with a summons to appear before the Proctors 'in connection with a confidential matter'. I immediately sought the advice of the Dean, who was now getting very concerned at all the unwelcome attention Balliol was attracting. We spent quite a long time together in his room, and I must have given him my life story. During our conversation, I developed the beginnings of an enormous liking and respect for him, and it seemed that he had a fatherly type of affection for me. He spoke quite a lot about his life, taking care to mention his former position as Junior Proctor, and how Proctors generally were a bad lot. He advised me to behave with them in precisely the same way as I had done with him when first questioned. review section featured an article headlined 'Confessions of an Oxford Drug Addict', which was mainly an interview with a close friend of Joshua's. A number of articles with similar themes appeared in other newspapers as a result of the University having been invaded by journalists wishing to write a story following up the death of Harold Macmillan's grandson. The most unlikely students were bending over backwards to confess to some reporter their flirtation with Oxford's drug culture. Marijuana smokers were popping up all over the place, and it was considered fairly unfashionable not to be one. Having fortuitously penetrated the drug culture a couple of days prior to the national expose, I was accorded the status of one of its pioneers. I did absolutely nothing to dispel this misconception. It was, therefore, no surprise to anyone else, but slightly surprising to me, that I was issued with a summons to appear before the Proctors 'in connection with a confidential matter'. I immediately sought the advice of the Dean, who was now getting very concerned at all the unwelcome attention Balliol was attracting. We spent quite a long time together in his room, and I must have given him my life story. During our conversation, I developed the beginnings of an enormous liking and respect for him, and it seemed that he had a fatherly type of affection for me. He spoke quite a lot about his life, taking care to mention his former position as Junior Proctor, and how Proctors generally were a bad lot. He advised me to behave with them in precisely the same way as I had done with him when first questioned.

I turned up to see the Proctors. The Senior Proctor was David Yardley, a stern, police-interrogator type of individual. I refused to answer all questions on the grounds that it was against my ethical code to incriminate other people. I was dismissed with a 'You'll hear from us later.'

I walked out of the building, and the Dean was waiting outside. He asked, 'Did you stand up to that d.a.m.nable pair?'