school, I decided to become really mischievous. This, I hoped, would make me unpopular with the staff and popular with my classmates. 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 Hancock, 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. 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 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
