Low life
The old school
Jeffrey Bernard
times wonder what all that was about. They say, some do anyhow, that if one can survive a tough school like Pangbourne it's probably pretty soft now that it hasn't a naval connection — and then the Outward Bound, then you can survive anything. That is very little consolation to me.
Incidentally, although I was the only boy at the Outward Bound who knew anything about navigation I failed the course be- cause I got caught smoking. Had it not been for that incident I might now, like some of my contemporaries, be an admir- al, in which event the Falkland Islands war might have taken on a very different complexion.
But, as I say, this business of a tough schooling is something that sometimes puzzles me. Did you know I used to throw the javelin? No? Well I did and in the middle of a snowstorm on the side of that wretched hill at Aberdovey. It made a man of me. So theory has it. What actually made a man of me, of course, was a woman who is now dead and probably wouldn't be if she'd been to the Outward Bound and entertained the lads every evening by boxing four three-minute rounds. All this came back to me last week as I faced a man with some power in Fleet Street across his desk. Too feeble now to pick up a javelin I had for 30 seconds so much adrenalin pumping through my little veins that I was for a moment tempted to put this back- ground to some use by leaning over the aforementioned desk to break his neck. But Scotland Yard have got my finger- prints, although they probably don't stick to necks. I now have to be very careful indeed as to where I leave them. That was from the time I kicked someone's car and got pinched for criminal damage. After they took my 'dabs' they took two mug shots, face on and profile at f8 at 125. When he'd finished I said, 'I'd like two 10in x 8in prints of those,' which was my idea of a joke at the time but it didn't even raise a smile.
But it was in Scotland Yard in 1951, after I'd given myself up after having overstayed 48 hours' leave, that the old school tie served me quite well. The military nick there, where you awaited an escort to take you back to camp, was run by the Scots Guards. As far as I could see they were mostly Glaswegian and a little over six foot. My 'proper' accent seemed to irritate them and they woke me up every hour to scrub my wooden bunk and then duff me up. Was it Pangbourne or false pride that made me sneer back at them? What saves you from pain is anger. But the other day in Fleet Street the anger just made me feel physically sick. There are so many editors who need knocking out but there aren't enough publications to fall back on. Even the ladies need slapping down. They phone up from the features department and ask you out to lunch which turns out to be a sandwich in a wine bar. What's more they turn up wearing black plimsolls and baggy clothes and tell you their marriage isn't working. God save us all.
There was one good thing, though, to go back to the armed Scots Guards escort, that made the English soar in my already high estimation. I was in civilian clothes handcuffed to one of the MPs and we had to walk from the street right through King's Cross to the platform and the awaiting train. Throughout that walk com- plete and utter strangers rushed up to fill my pockets with cigarettes, ten-bob notes and even cakes and sandwiches. They were encouraging but rather rude to my escort. Yes, after those two schools it's all water off a duck's back to me. Except for these bloody editors and 'ideas' ladies.
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