Read Mr Nice: an autobiography for Free Online Page B

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.’
    ‘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 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