Mr Nice. Говард Маркс
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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 Eisteddfod. 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.
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 sexual adventures were confined to females not attached to the university. I assumed that university girls