Dateline: July 15th 1972 14:00.
Brunel University Campus, Uxbridge. UK
This is one of only a few remaining photos of the event of me graduating. (But wait - Update. 2 more, see below)
Absolutely, no suit & tie for me! I probably couldn't afford it anyway as typically, I didn't have a suit and never intended to need one at this stage of my career
Mine was a lower second with an honours in Lateral thinking, and distinctions in street smarts. Yes, I did actually wear my cartoon t-shirt when I collected my degree to many smiles and some cheers, applause and photo's.
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This was it, my sole and totally unobtainable goal in life is achieved at age 22
Graduation, July 15th 1972. (My hair was much longer until my girlfriend cut it back by about 6 inches! I never forgave her for that)
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Many years later, when my folks moved out of the 3 bedroom council house, huge quantities of my goods and chattels were summarily tossed.
Like all other old things, most of my photo's etc is whats been found in the detritus of old boxes, hidden in filing cabinets and inaccessible compartment for lifetimes etc. similarly, my recollections.
Sort of living locations 1949 - 1975
In the beginning, was my mum, Edith Gray, early 20's, post war England, A Catholic living with her parents and at least a sister and a brother, in Bedfont, Middlesex UK. Back then, a village right under the flight path of a new airport called Heathrow. Still is I guess, except it's not a village anymore
According to the notes I got from the adoption agency, obviously much later, in 1975 I think, she was a copy typist and started "walking out" as it was known back then with my dad, well, biological dad, in 1948.
Without divine intervention, (which would cause a lot of implications for me), I assume that some when in August of that year, I, your correspondent, was conceived.
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| Dad, Arthur, British Army 1935, Burma |
She being a good (but obviously, not perfect) Catholic, England still being extra hypocritical about Girls being "in trouble" back then, my mum eventually quit her job, and was taken in by the Thomas Coram Foundation for Children, aka pre me. Apparently, they were housed in a hostel until birth, then they left adoption or other directions to the foundation. These guys were and are a charity who's mission statement since the 16th century, to take in "fallen girls". More recently, to help them with late pregnancy and accommodation needs, then find suitable foster parents for these unmentionables.
(They will get all my UK finances when I finally depart this Earth bound existence)
Her parents, sister and brother, (maybe other sibs?), never knew about me, (see next instalment), and she eventually met and married some other guy and had 4 or 5 kids with him. (An old Catholic ritual as I understand it, not much practised today)
Your correspondent was born, May 5th 1949, in Queen Charlotte's hospital in Hammersmith, London, and as far as I know, within 2 weeks I was a bonnie bouncing chubby little tyke in Corams.
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| Mum, (Hilda), probably at Bulford army camp near Salisbury, about 1944 |
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| "Dad" In Mufti. Maybe 1930's? Note stripes (service I believe) |
Apparently being easier to find couples needing non papal babies, for whatever reason (more on this later). Or maybe Corams was an exclusively heretic outfit.
Either way, no doubt we are both condemned to various circles of hell sooner or later.
Apparently, everyone comes into the world with sin. Been there, done that.
Mum (adoptive, Hilda), worked at a "NAAFI", a cafe for the army during the war where she met, the bloke who eventually became, the old man
Unfortunately for mum, during the war, she also met another army guy and had a "relationship" with same I assume.
Needless to say, this didn't go very well, and her first baby entered her life.
I recall her saying, much later just after the old man died, that she had trouble, or could never trust a man again.
Unfortunately, back then, babies to unwed mothers was a fairly common predicament. Back then of course, the results were far more life changing, at all levels.
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| Hey, I was probably a lot better off here than other places I could have ended up in, like a Catholic Unwed Mothers hostel! Thanks mum! (Both of them) |
Apparently, he sent her and baby away. I do remember him from our few trips there when I was very young. He didn't like people. A real arsehole to me, and her. Rot wherever you are you miserable old bastard
Somehow, according to her youngest sister, my aunt Louie, mum kept body, soul and baby together for 2 years (I believe, this is all apocryphal), but sadly, eventually had to give her up for fostering to someone in her village. She still kept up financial support after this.
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| Before, with cat about 1948 |
This was all a bit thick, as Louie was also similarly knocked up later, but she was allowed to stay, and of course, the in situ grand daughter became the star of the show and Granddads treasure in his miserable old age
I think I came along, because she (Hilda), was almost certainly sterilised after her baby, as many women were back then. Possibly not, but later, she told me that they were too old to have any kids (at 35? probably not true), but it worked for me at the gtime
Mum had had to go into service as a skivvy (ie emptying chamber pots and setting the fires etc etc at the local landed gentry's mansion) at 14, early 1930's, even though she could have excelled at school. Then being cheated by some guy and having to give up her daughter. A rough life
I know, nothing especially dreadful during the war years, especially as they survived to tell their kids about it, and I think, eventually to find complete happiness once the kids were educated (not a usual trait for Chaddleworth kids) and both had their own, relatively successful families of their own with several grandkids who were not mistakes
So, at the age of 5 weeks, I was transported, god knows how in 1949, from central London, to a farm labourers cottage (1 room up, one room down, plus a scullery and shared outside bog), of one and several. Arthur George, and Hilda May Smith
The pix of the cottage holds two separate families. Ours was the farther one
No doubt about it, they had both had a pretty rough life. The old man went from school (in Chaddleworth into farm work. At that time with heavy rotating machinery with zero safeguards (I know, at the tender age of 14, I was mere inches awaqy from instant death on a threshing machine) in farming, a farm labourers life expectancy was in the low 30's. Yes, really. He eventually graduated to a higher calling and was in the army most of his early life, and eventually got a bullet (at Dunkirk?) in his knee. Never the brightest, he was a stretcher carrier and "Bugler" but managed to survive.
I recently set about investigating his army life, and, amazingly, a lot of what I remember he told me was an exact match of the official (Wikipedia) version of his regiment, down to the exact days in his army log book for Burma, Dunkirk the taking of Pegasus bridge at truly horrendous casualties. These guys really were cannon fodder with only about half of the (2nd) battalion making it out each time in several intense actions.
So, I have a new found respect for the guy, dim or not, he made it through some incredibly dangerous and famous war actions
The pix of the cottage holds two separate families. Ours was the farther one
No doubt about it, they had both had a pretty rough life. The old man went from school (in Chaddleworth into farm work. At that time with heavy rotating machinery with zero safeguards (I know, at the tender age of 14, I was mere inches awaqy from instant death on a threshing machine) in farming, a farm labourers life expectancy was in the low 30's. Yes, really. He eventually graduated to a higher calling and was in the army most of his early life, and eventually got a bullet (at Dunkirk?) in his knee. Never the brightest, he was a stretcher carrier and "Bugler" but managed to survive.
I recently set about investigating his army life, and, amazingly, a lot of what I remember he told me was an exact match of the official (Wikipedia) version of his regiment, down to the exact days in his army log book for Burma, Dunkirk the taking of Pegasus bridge at truly horrendous casualties. These guys really were cannon fodder with only about half of the (2nd) battalion making it out each time in several intense actions.
So, I have a new found respect for the guy, dim or not, he made it through some incredibly dangerous and famous war actions
After he died in 1995, I found his army book which detailed his travels, companies served in etc. His officer at the time of demobilisation drily noted under character "Has served well as a stretcher bearer. He would be well suited to similar employment in civilian life". Thank god that class is no longer totally in charge
I proceeded to grow in the stable Hardyesque country setting of rural England and everything (yes everything) that goes with it: Chaddleworth. A touch of the Laurie Lee's Cider With Rosie here, but without the Rosie.
No surprises here folks.
It was farming country, clean, totally rural, complete with village squire, village idiot(s) and a dreadful pub, that I eventually discovered, sold truly dreadful beer, complete with easily recognisable peasant types. At least in the public bar.
I think there were 2 cars and fewer phones in the village, it being pretty poor post war until the early 60's anyway.
Mum occasionally told me about how, when they got to London, they went into the babies room and there was I, bubbling and laughing away.
I guess it was love at first sight. Luckily for a labourers family, Coram was also a fostering outfit, so a monthly support allowance came with your correspondent, plus semi annual check up inspection from a roving supervisor.
During this time, early 1950's, rationing was still a major aspect of society. I had my own ration book, and remember the stamps relating to the various allowances.
I got a special allowance of rose hip syrup and milk
Being in the country, everyone had a plot to grow vegetables, and have chickens. Dad, Arthur, no slouch he, except Saturday nights down at the pub, would always be in the garden year round, which in this cottage was across the road. At our next house, part of the grounds.
From my first knowing consciousness, I was always told I was adopted. This came with some later acquired irony when other kids my age used this against me (and later Sue, my non adopted "sister"). When I told Hilda about these slights, she would laugh in her own special Mum way, as most of these kids were also illegitimate.
The village was near a US wartime base, with the obvious consequences to the local ladies. Good advice mum. Thanks
The Catholic homes for sinners, aka fallen girls etc have recently become the subject of investigations and have developed such an unbelievable reputation, and history, that there's no saying how I could have ended up if mum (Edith) had left me as a catholic. Watching some UK police whodoneits set in the 60's and 70's give me the shivers when the plot revolves around Catholic homes for orphans back in the 50's, or the Nunneries who essentially kidnapped girls, kept them as slaves and sold their babies.
Thanks Edith, I owe ya!
I did actually meet Edith again, although I have no memory of it, when I was in hospital having broken my leg at the age of 4, maybe. She arrived with a man in tow, according to Hilda, which scared her enough to immediately start adoption proceedings, which were duly completed when I was 5.
I do remember being in a hospital in Reading about 25 miles away, a long, long way away from Chaddleworth in 1953. I had a special love for one of the nurses, Nurse Nisbet maybe? and once actually refused to eat because she didn't serve it on her day off. I also was accused of being "naughty" once when I slipped out of bed and managed to open a door that was constantly sticking and most people couldn't open it, but I fiddled with the handle and remember working out the trick of it. Of course, being the 50's, this was not acceptable to adults who were controlling to a fault, except my favourite nurse who explained to everyone that I "wasn't naughty, but helpful".
I think this example of that lone support, was the beginnings of what enabled me to go my own route in life knowing that at least one person would know what I was trying to do, and that person, obviously being smarter than everyone else, was all I would ever need to do things my way
Back to the plot: No longer plain James Gray, now James Arthur Smith. I know.
Somewhen around this date, Sue, another Coram foster kid arrived in the Smith household. I guess the first experience was such a success, and a three bedroom house meant there was a spare room.
There's not a lot that is worth remembering about my junior life there.
Mum, God bless her, had all the smarts, so had written to the council to apply for one of the 10 council houses in the village, which had just become available at that time.
I do remember, or remember the stories, of moving from this cottage to a council house (3 bedrooms no less, outside bog, no bath, no more) when I was 4 or 5, mainly because we moved everything during a torrential downpour, and I seem to recall pushing a UK type Mary Poppins battered pram full of stuff towards the new house up to my knees in flood water.
Could all be wild imagination of course.
School started for me at 4 years old.
I
walked there and back for morning and afternoons on my own of course,
to two rooms, part of the "School house". My mum, adoptive, Hilda, was always
the pusher, saver and fixer in the family, and, again god bless her, got
me into school at this early age, something to do with a May birthday, and school ended in June
I
was always one of the dimmest there. I recall being in tears when,
during a religious lesson about a lost lamb (of God etc etc - Ed), I
thought it was a story of an actual lost baby sheep looking for its mother.
Metaphor for a 5 year old in Chaddleworth was always pushing ones luck.
Luckily, this set me on the path of atheism that has worked so well for
me ever since
I proceeded to grow in the stable Hardyesque country setting of rural England and everything (yes everything) that goes with it: Chaddleworth. A touch of the Laurie Lee's Cider With Rosie here, but without the Rosie.
No surprises here folks.
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| The local (still dreadful) pub, The Ibex, in all it's obvious glory |
It was farming country, clean, totally rural, complete with village squire, village idiot(s) and a dreadful pub, that I eventually discovered, sold truly dreadful beer, complete with easily recognisable peasant types. At least in the public bar.
I think there were 2 cars and fewer phones in the village, it being pretty poor post war until the early 60's anyway.
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| Yes, even I was cute once. On the back "Jimmy 1949" |
Mum occasionally told me about how, when they got to London, they went into the babies room and there was I, bubbling and laughing away.
I guess it was love at first sight. Luckily for a labourers family, Coram was also a fostering outfit, so a monthly support allowance came with your correspondent, plus semi annual check up inspection from a roving supervisor.
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| Happy, post war family. 1949 |
I got a special allowance of rose hip syrup and milk
Being in the country, everyone had a plot to grow vegetables, and have chickens. Dad, Arthur, no slouch he, except Saturday nights down at the pub, would always be in the garden year round, which in this cottage was across the road. At our next house, part of the grounds.
From my first knowing consciousness, I was always told I was adopted. This came with some later acquired irony when other kids my age used this against me (and later Sue, my non adopted "sister"). When I told Hilda about these slights, she would laugh in her own special Mum way, as most of these kids were also illegitimate.
The village was near a US wartime base, with the obvious consequences to the local ladies. Good advice mum. Thanks
The Catholic homes for sinners, aka fallen girls etc have recently become the subject of investigations and have developed such an unbelievable reputation, and history, that there's no saying how I could have ended up if mum (Edith) had left me as a catholic. Watching some UK police whodoneits set in the 60's and 70's give me the shivers when the plot revolves around Catholic homes for orphans back in the 50's, or the Nunneries who essentially kidnapped girls, kept them as slaves and sold their babies.
Thanks Edith, I owe ya!
I did actually meet Edith again, although I have no memory of it, when I was in hospital having broken my leg at the age of 4, maybe. She arrived with a man in tow, according to Hilda, which scared her enough to immediately start adoption proceedings, which were duly completed when I was 5.
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| No idea how they could afford this photo. Your correspondent, about 3 (1952) |
I do remember being in a hospital in Reading about 25 miles away, a long, long way away from Chaddleworth in 1953. I had a special love for one of the nurses, Nurse Nisbet maybe? and once actually refused to eat because she didn't serve it on her day off. I also was accused of being "naughty" once when I slipped out of bed and managed to open a door that was constantly sticking and most people couldn't open it, but I fiddled with the handle and remember working out the trick of it. Of course, being the 50's, this was not acceptable to adults who were controlling to a fault, except my favourite nurse who explained to everyone that I "wasn't naughty, but helpful".
I think this example of that lone support, was the beginnings of what enabled me to go my own route in life knowing that at least one person would know what I was trying to do, and that person, obviously being smarter than everyone else, was all I would ever need to do things my way
Back to the plot: No longer plain James Gray, now James Arthur Smith. I know.
Somewhen around this date, Sue, another Coram foster kid arrived in the Smith household. I guess the first experience was such a success, and a three bedroom house meant there was a spare room.
There's not a lot that is worth remembering about my junior life there.
Mum, God bless her, had all the smarts, so had written to the council to apply for one of the 10 council houses in the village, which had just become available at that time.
I do remember, or remember the stories, of moving from this cottage to a council house (3 bedrooms no less, outside bog, no bath, no more) when I was 4 or 5, mainly because we moved everything during a torrential downpour, and I seem to recall pushing a UK type Mary Poppins battered pram full of stuff towards the new house up to my knees in flood water.
Could all be wild imagination of course.
School started for me at 4 years old.
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| Can you believe these pants? |
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| Even I find this jacket disgusting Check out the haircut, ouch! |
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| Note Brylcreemed hair a staple until I was about 18 |
About this time, Mum, God bless her (again!), bought 6 encyclopedias from door to door salesmen on a dark wet night (I remember that!). They cost an absolute fortune for a labourers family, but the costs were paid over a year or two. All the neighbours actually laughed at my mum for being so stupid as to pay so much for such rubbish, or maybe to actually invest anything in their kids.
Hah! The laugh was on them. Just about all of the neighbours kids were pretty much unhappily married parents by 18, and/ or became convicted sex offenders later in life
I consumed these encyclopedias and even before my 11+ (see below), I was answering questions from the back of the books that even mum couldn't work out.
It might be instructive in a purely sociological vein, to explain the village at this juncture.
Chaddleworth was a village, much like many others in UK, or maybe England, that hadn't really changed much in 800 years.
There was the church, up on the hill, the associated land owners next to the church, and the peasantry, loosely based around a triangle of roads. Up to about the end of the second world war, there may have been about 100 souls in the village. Somewhen around the 1930's/ 1940's some council (ie local government subsidised) housing was set up, and in the early 50's, a large council estate was erected to house many of the displaced workers from the environs, some I believe that had been living in bomb shelters for years.
So, we had moved to one of 10 council houses from the old farmers tythe cottage.
The neighbours were a bit mixed. From #1 - 10. Some, I can't quite remember but lets do what I can:
- Kitty, a friend of the family, genteel old lady with cats. I think there was some kind of family ties here
- No idea
- A lower middle class couple with an older kid, I think
- The "Goatleys" our immediate neighbour and source of friends (there were 5/ 7 I believe) and I now believe to have been pretty heave domestic violence environment. This became more obvious once he slapped me down because I talked back to him. He was a big fat firefighter. One of the kids (Alan) was given a 5 year sentence for raping his partners 8 year old daughter, another, (Brian), my often mate, had to marry his girlfriend at 18.
- Yours truly, working class poor as church mice etc etc with at least one caring and two non violent parents
- Milly Mills, single mother of John, my cousin, the result of a union with an American stationed at the local RAF Welford base. Also home to my Grandma who was totally bonkers and literally lived in her bedroom until she died well after I left the family home.
- The Dennis': This family were well known in the village as the epicentre for robberies suspects and middling
violence and occasional beastiality in the neighbourhood.
Police arrived at the house quite regularly and one, "Perk" served at least one term at Her Majesty's correctional institutions - A single mother of Ann. The result of another union with an American stationed at the local RAF Welford base. She who laughed at me because I was adopted
- No idea
- A lower middle class couple with an older kid, I think
The "older kid" bit is because of the sudden demographics of the baby boom. I was in the first intake to go to the newest Secondary modern around, so my mates were basically my age or younger as the older (definitely more criminal types), went to another school on another bus
Across the road were 2 well to do families, directly across the road was a family that actually had a telephone that was used for emergencies, maybe one every year or two, and to their north, a Mr. Hall, a retired teacher from way up north who occasionally helped me with moving on in the education/ sociological aspects of life. On his property was the remains of a stable/ barn which is where my dad (Arthur) was born
Other locals were a retired middle age couple next to Kitty's with their own plot of land and a cottage, a few others up Norris Lane, one being Peggy and Arthur Smith, probably another relation, and at the end Queeny and George (maybe) a brother and sister who had never moved out of the parental cottage. Their son Eric was much older than me and lived someway away.
All Smiths (and there were many more in the village) were relation of one sort or another.
I think that's even more than enough for you, gentle reader to get the gist of the local environment. Probable nothing unusual for an English village C 1950. Note no Miss Marple here
As far as education went, in UK up until the 1980's (?), you were graded as possible educational material, or hewers and carriers at about 10 or 11. This examination of your potential future worth to society, and to yourself actually, was called the "11+" Eleven Plus to those not up to UK lingo, and from this moment on, you had made it onto the first rung of the ladder, or quite literally, are and always will be a failure. This exam winnowed out the 80% of the population that wouldn't benefit from academic pursuits
This, I and 2 others out of about 20 pupils took (as I said, not Eton), 1 passed, we other 2 failed.
It was official, I did not make it into the upper intellectual echelon brackets after all. I am already a failure at 10.
I was even downgraded after 2 weeks at my new secondary modern (The Downs School, Compton), to a "B" stream, nothing politically correct about Secondary Moderns folks. classes A, B, C and "Remove" - now they were the dimmest. However, the urge to learn and explore was never far away for me.
The level of expected academic achievement at the school was best highlighted in "Rural Studies" (ie, gardening - Ed), where everyone in that class spent the entire period digging a 3 feet deep trench in the huge school garden, then filling it in from the other side. This was the practical for 3 years
Thankfully for me, the Maths teacher at this school, a Mr. Mordue, (who I eventually tracked down and thanked personally and profusely - see below) insisted that Maths was different, and kids could be good at Maths and dim (guess who) at the rest. He convinced the head master to have an open option for maths. This one I did manage to stay in the "A" stream, so I could learn somewhat more demanding stuff
I became good at studying and hence, at passing exams, and after 3 years in the dumb class (see above, there was even a dumber class, and an idiots stream), came first (yes there was such tallying back then) in 6 subjects. I was duly, eventually promoted to the "A" stream and then also found I came first in subjects at this level too. Go figure.
I did pretty good in the "A" stream, so was happy to pursue enlightenment at this level, and on into a 5th year, until I was 16. Most of the non "A" stream left at age 14 to till the soil or nurse their babies.
Even though nowadays, and for a long time previously, I crap on TV watchers, I did a pretty good viewing schedule. I always got my homework done, but without exception, while watching the box
During our teens, finding cash for personal use, as the folks never had any spare, the local part time employment pretty much consisted of "beating". Walking in a line over fields and through woods making the rabbits run, and the farmed birds fly up for the toffs shooting parties. It provided a few bob a week in my early teens.
When I was a 15 year old, my dad got me a job at a local pig farm. Saturdays, cleaning out the weeks supply of pig shit in the sties, and general labouring. A bit of extra cash there being no paper rounds or anything remunerative around the village outside of Newbury, about 8 miles away. It was about 15 minutes away, and I came home for lunch. I stank so much.
Maybe that's why I didn't have a girlfriend until I was 20. Hmmmmm
Mum was always able to stash enough cash away for us to have a weeks holiday, usually in Sheerness with her middle sister Lucy. This involved an 8AM bus from Chaddleworth to Newbury, a train to Paddington, across on the underground to Victoria, then out to Sheerness. It took about 10 hours to navigate.
Bingo was my passion, and I played until my money ran out. I once needed 17 wins to get an electric drill. It took about a week.
I do remember one specific instant regarding the old mad (aka "dad", but more irreverent, "Batman" as in batman to officers and the gentry) at Sheerness
Across the road were 2 well to do families, directly across the road was a family that actually had a telephone that was used for emergencies, maybe one every year or two, and to their north, a Mr. Hall, a retired teacher from way up north who occasionally helped me with moving on in the education/ sociological aspects of life. On his property was the remains of a stable/ barn which is where my dad (Arthur) was born
Other locals were a retired middle age couple next to Kitty's with their own plot of land and a cottage, a few others up Norris Lane, one being Peggy and Arthur Smith, probably another relation, and at the end Queeny and George (maybe) a brother and sister who had never moved out of the parental cottage. Their son Eric was much older than me and lived someway away.
All Smiths (and there were many more in the village) were relation of one sort or another.
I think that's even more than enough for you, gentle reader to get the gist of the local environment. Probable nothing unusual for an English village C 1950. Note no Miss Marple here
As far as education went, in UK up until the 1980's (?), you were graded as possible educational material, or hewers and carriers at about 10 or 11. This examination of your potential future worth to society, and to yourself actually, was called the "11+" Eleven Plus to those not up to UK lingo, and from this moment on, you had made it onto the first rung of the ladder, or quite literally, are and always will be a failure. This exam winnowed out the 80% of the population that wouldn't benefit from academic pursuits
This, I and 2 others out of about 20 pupils took (as I said, not Eton), 1 passed, we other 2 failed.
It was official, I did not make it into the upper intellectual echelon brackets after all. I am already a failure at 10.
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| A family day at Welford, dads workplace, a somewhat top secret US Air Force base for munitions |
I was even downgraded after 2 weeks at my new secondary modern (The Downs School, Compton), to a "B" stream, nothing politically correct about Secondary Moderns folks. classes A, B, C and "Remove" - now they were the dimmest. However, the urge to learn and explore was never far away for me.
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| Trafalgar Square with Downs School types, about 1965. |
Thankfully for me, the Maths teacher at this school, a Mr. Mordue, (who I eventually tracked down and thanked personally and profusely - see below) insisted that Maths was different, and kids could be good at Maths and dim (guess who) at the rest. He convinced the head master to have an open option for maths. This one I did manage to stay in the "A" stream, so I could learn somewhat more demanding stuff
I became good at studying and hence, at passing exams, and after 3 years in the dumb class (see above, there was even a dumber class, and an idiots stream), came first (yes there was such tallying back then) in 6 subjects. I was duly, eventually promoted to the "A" stream and then also found I came first in subjects at this level too. Go figure.
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| Downs School, 5th Form. Some slightly brighter cream of the dimwits |
I did pretty good in the "A" stream, so was happy to pursue enlightenment at this level, and on into a 5th year, until I was 16. Most of the non "A" stream left at age 14 to till the soil or nurse their babies.
Even though nowadays, and for a long time previously, I crap on TV watchers, I did a pretty good viewing schedule. I always got my homework done, but without exception, while watching the box
During our teens, finding cash for personal use, as the folks never had any spare, the local part time employment pretty much consisted of "beating". Walking in a line over fields and through woods making the rabbits run, and the farmed birds fly up for the toffs shooting parties. It provided a few bob a week in my early teens.
When I was a 15 year old, my dad got me a job at a local pig farm. Saturdays, cleaning out the weeks supply of pig shit in the sties, and general labouring. A bit of extra cash there being no paper rounds or anything remunerative around the village outside of Newbury, about 8 miles away. It was about 15 minutes away, and I came home for lunch. I stank so much.
Maybe that's why I didn't have a girlfriend until I was 20. Hmmmmm
Mum was always able to stash enough cash away for us to have a weeks holiday, usually in Sheerness with her middle sister Lucy. This involved an 8AM bus from Chaddleworth to Newbury, a train to Paddington, across on the underground to Victoria, then out to Sheerness. It took about 10 hours to navigate.
Bingo was my passion, and I played until my money ran out. I once needed 17 wins to get an electric drill. It took about a week.
I do remember one specific instant regarding the old mad (aka "dad", but more irreverent, "Batman" as in batman to officers and the gentry) at Sheerness
I was trying to learn to swim, so may have been, maybe 12. I had got into the sea which was not only coldm, but choppy and very uninviting. I clung to the seaweed and barnacle encrusted concrete breakwater for dear life, panicking. The old man, being drunk and very helpful proceeded to prise my fingertips off of the slippery concrete. Lets just say that I didn't learn to swim that day. Or died
I also remember my uncle Arther who's house we were staying at. He was a regimental sergeant major in the army so knew a few things about human (squaddy) psychology
He took some of his kids, the twins, Brenda, Kather and me and Sue out to walk the promenade.
I couldn't believe my luck! Whenever I asked for another ice cream (WHAT a luxury in the 50's!) he bought me one. I must have had at least 10 before I threw them all up. Maybe that's why I'm never too fussed about sweet stuff to this day.....
Occasionally we would go to a caravan park, or later, even a holiday camp complete with in house entertainments
In UK in the 60's, most dim wits left school at 15 and started (or continued) on their pursuits of making other 15 year olds pregnant.
Not me. Learning was everything.
I guess about this time, I realised that I needed a direction for my personality, so I started searching for a life coach.
Mum was great for her patience, equanimity and quiet organisation and just plain sense. This was a fantastic start. The old man, well, not really. Lovely guy in the English yokel kind of mold, but I wanted some role model I could aspire to and, at the age of 14, found my perfect character:
Tom the cabin boy in Captain Pugwash, a TV cartoon character about the crew and misadventures of a bungling band of pirates on the Black Pig. He became my hero. Tom was the only guy on the pirate ship who knew what was going on. The captain was a complete nincompoop and the crew were bumbling dim wits who got involved in so many catastrophes. Tom, of course always worked behind the scenes and by the end of the show, had managed to fix everything.
Each little episode always ended with the same line: "And Tom the cabin boy smiled, and said ........ Nothing"
OK, OK, I had some direction for my role in life, so it may not have translated perfectly to me personally
Mum, once again, wanted me to stay at school and learn, as she always regretted having been forced into service at 14 to help pay for her family. (see comments earlier about Grandad). I was happy to grab as much learning as I could. It was such fun, but tell that to kids these days and they won't believe you.
I think it
was this year when the Science class did experiments with wires, magnets
and currents. I was amazed that a wire carrying an electrical current
would move in a predictable way in a magnetic field. And of course, a
moving wire in a magnetic field can produce a current. But you know all
of this.
Me, I Couldn't get enough of this tech. Still can't actually
So, I ended up at 16 with a somewhat half decent qualifications, (for a dimwit that is), and, acing the interview with my own Smith brand of humour and style, a job as an apprentice electrician at the SEB, Southern Electricity Board, in Newbury, a 40 minute bus ride away.
This apprenticeship was for 5 years after which I would be a fully qualified electrician. The contract required my dad to sign the agreement (see later).
Incredibly luckily, alhamdulillah, back then, apprenticeships also had a substantial educational component which you could make as academic as you were capable of.
For me, this involved a "thick sandwich" educational part - 1 week at college, 2 weeks on the job as apprentice. I don't think they make this mistake anymore these days. It was specifically set up so that "student" apprentices, those destined for greater things than wiring lights, could keep up their educational reach. I don't think any other craft electrical apprentice ever made it into these higher academic courses.
Another anomaly with this apprenticeship, was that it also offered a "thin" sandwich course for craft apprentices. Every Friday was a craft day also at the same college, but a practical course apparently so these students could identify the differences between hammers and nails. Now this Friday practical course did have some hum dinger dim wits attending
So the maths of my working environment was, 5 days theory, + 2 days practical every 15 days, September - July. Collect full pay packet weekly
Pass all exams, repeat until smart enough to say thanks but no thanks and head to university.
I loved the practical electrical apprentice part, installing all manner of electrical wiring in homes, offices and industrial sites. Within about 18 months, I became fully competent and thus was the electrical guy for the village, hence started earning pretty decent cash on the side.
However, I knew instinctively, that the college part was my ticket out of Chaddleworth.
I worked really hard at the academics, and as a matter of survival, developed the ability to capture a page of say circuitry or mathematics in my head, and reproduce it exactly for the exams. Multiply this by 5 subjects for 3 years. Actual understanding, except for Electrical theory was optional until maybe 2nd year Uni.
Also, again luckily, the college I went to had some fantastic teachers, especially in Electrical, Physics (eventually) and Maths.
For some reason, at this time, I started running around the fields with the dog as some form of training. I guess I wanted to get fitter? Maybe to disprove one of my PE teachers who noted in my report that "he tries but will never be capable of anything
remotely competitive". Hmmmmmm.
When it came to revising, the last 6 weeks before the exams would find me in my beat up car looking out over some of the vales and gentle hills of my youth. From 6PM, after work of course, till dark
In March, of 1968, my third and final year at college, the principle called all of the students in the final year of "O2", the "Ordinary National Certificate second year) together, and said "I want all of you to apply for University". We were all a bit nonplussed. Really? us? Yes. All of you
I do admit, that some Sunday afternoons prior to this, while doing my homework, I had watched some funny movie on TV, typically, about Public School types, having a fantastic laugh as students at Oxford, which was just up the road.
Why not?
In UK in the 60's, most dim wits left school at 15 and started (or continued) on their pursuits of making other 15 year olds pregnant.
Not me. Learning was everything.
I guess about this time, I realised that I needed a direction for my personality, so I started searching for a life coach.
Mum was great for her patience, equanimity and quiet organisation and just plain sense. This was a fantastic start. The old man, well, not really. Lovely guy in the English yokel kind of mold, but I wanted some role model I could aspire to and, at the age of 14, found my perfect character:
Tom the cabin boy in Captain Pugwash, a TV cartoon character about the crew and misadventures of a bungling band of pirates on the Black Pig. He became my hero. Tom was the only guy on the pirate ship who knew what was going on. The captain was a complete nincompoop and the crew were bumbling dim wits who got involved in so many catastrophes. Tom, of course always worked behind the scenes and by the end of the show, had managed to fix everything.
Each little episode always ended with the same line: "And Tom the cabin boy smiled, and said ........ Nothing"
OK, OK, I had some direction for my role in life, so it may not have translated perfectly to me personally
Mum, once again, wanted me to stay at school and learn, as she always regretted having been forced into service at 14 to help pay for her family. (see comments earlier about Grandad). I was happy to grab as much learning as I could. It was such fun, but tell that to kids these days and they won't believe you.
 |
| A school trip to Switzerland, 1965 |
 | |
| Looking out for chicks at Butlins holiday camp Minehead with Dap. About 1966. Didn't find any |
Me, I Couldn't get enough of this tech. Still can't actually
So, I ended up at 16 with a somewhat half decent qualifications, (for a dimwit that is), and, acing the interview with my own Smith brand of humour and style, a job as an apprentice electrician at the SEB, Southern Electricity Board, in Newbury, a 40 minute bus ride away.
This apprenticeship was for 5 years after which I would be a fully qualified electrician. The contract required my dad to sign the agreement (see later).
Incredibly luckily, alhamdulillah, back then, apprenticeships also had a substantial educational component which you could make as academic as you were capable of.
For me, this involved a "thick sandwich" educational part - 1 week at college, 2 weeks on the job as apprentice. I don't think they make this mistake anymore these days. It was specifically set up so that "student" apprentices, those destined for greater things than wiring lights, could keep up their educational reach. I don't think any other craft electrical apprentice ever made it into these higher academic courses.
Another anomaly with this apprenticeship, was that it also offered a "thin" sandwich course for craft apprentices. Every Friday was a craft day also at the same college, but a practical course apparently so these students could identify the differences between hammers and nails. Now this Friday practical course did have some hum dinger dim wits attending
 |
| The old man "Batman" having a blast, maybe 1963 |
 |
| Mum, strutting her stuff, holiday camp, maybe 1970's |
Pass all exams, repeat until smart enough to say thanks but no thanks and head to university.
I loved the practical electrical apprentice part, installing all manner of electrical wiring in homes, offices and industrial sites. Within about 18 months, I became fully competent and thus was the electrical guy for the village, hence started earning pretty decent cash on the side.
However, I knew instinctively, that the college part was my ticket out of Chaddleworth.
 |
| You can just see part of "Hippy" in electrical tape My Morris 10, C Summer of love 1967 |
I worked really hard at the academics, and as a matter of survival, developed the ability to capture a page of say circuitry or mathematics in my head, and reproduce it exactly for the exams. Multiply this by 5 subjects for 3 years. Actual understanding, except for Electrical theory was optional until maybe 2nd year Uni.
Also, again luckily, the college I went to had some fantastic teachers, especially in Electrical, Physics (eventually) and Maths.
 |
| "Blacky"? I think I called him BatDog. 1967 Note artistic interpretation of bathtub |
remotely competitive". Hmmmmmm.
When it came to revising, the last 6 weeks before the exams would find me in my beat up car looking out over some of the vales and gentle hills of my youth. From 6PM, after work of course, till dark
In March, of 1968, my third and final year at college, the principle called all of the students in the final year of "O2", the "Ordinary National Certificate second year) together, and said "I want all of you to apply for University". We were all a bit nonplussed. Really? us? Yes. All of you
I do admit, that some Sunday afternoons prior to this, while doing my homework, I had watched some funny movie on TV, typically, about Public School types, having a fantastic laugh as students at Oxford, which was just up the road.
Why not?
Back then, even though I was 18, you still needed a parent or guardian to sign your application for, well, everything.
I remember this permission process distinctly, even now, 50 years later. Not for any long term disabling or angst ridden reasons. I had filled out the form, and Dad had to sign as mum also wasn't qualified as an adult either I guess.
We were in the kitchen. When my mum had got across to the old man (as mentioned, he was not exactly a rocket scientist, or even the smartest dude in the village - more later), what I was trying to apply for. He had a really good laugh at my idea, and thought it was very funny that I should be so "above my station" (that's local village parlance, familiar to Brits from a working class background in the 1950's and 60's from all over UK), he did a fine line in ridicule. Eventually he signed and forgot about it.
Anyone who knows me will smile as this is exactly the sort of thing that drives me way beyond any of my innate abilities.
As it happened, later, I shared a flat with a University mate, Jerry, a public school boy type in my second year at Uni, and I told him this story as I thought it was funny. He was astounded and said that I must have been very upset by this obvious lack of support.
Up to that point, I'd never even thought about it as anything other amusing and exactly what I'd expected, and, no, it had absolutely zero negative effect on me. Exactly the opposite in fact. It did obviously give me a quick cheap anecdote now and then about my struggles as a paid up member of a student from the working classes.
Mum told me years later that she told him (after he signed) that he shouldn't have laughed at me. She always looked out for me did mum
Luckily for me, the subjects I loved, maths and physics, are exactly the basics of electrical engineering which is the subject I apply for. I really didn't have any other options, but I never needed any.
And so it was, I get multiple "Distinctions" (over 80) in my exams, all of them actually.
I also sat my one and only GCE exam, English, and passed.
See proof.
Anyone who knows me will smile as this is exactly the sort of thing that drives me way beyond any of my innate abilities.
As it happened, later, I shared a flat with a University mate, Jerry, a public school boy type in my second year at Uni, and I told him this story as I thought it was funny. He was astounded and said that I must have been very upset by this obvious lack of support.
Up to that point, I'd never even thought about it as anything other amusing and exactly what I'd expected, and, no, it had absolutely zero negative effect on me. Exactly the opposite in fact. It did obviously give me a quick cheap anecdote now and then about my struggles as a paid up member of a student from the working classes.
Mum told me years later that she told him (after he signed) that he shouldn't have laughed at me. She always looked out for me did mum
Luckily for me, the subjects I loved, maths and physics, are exactly the basics of electrical engineering which is the subject I apply for. I really didn't have any other options, but I never needed any.
 |
| My one and only GCE. In English can you believe? |
And so it was, I get multiple "Distinctions" (over 80) in my exams, all of them actually.
I also sat my one and only GCE exam, English, and passed.
See proof.
So, thanks to a certain Mr. Harold Wilson, recently reelected Labour Prime minister, all my fees and tuition AND, engineered I believe by the headmaster at my Secondary Modern school, a living grant to attend a new technology University: Brunel, a "Sandwich" University. Academic study 6 months, go into industry for 6 months. Repeat 3 times. A 4 year course with practical experience thrown in.
Everything paid for plus an almost living income with pay during the usually financially fraught summers for students.
Most students to this place are sponsored, which means that they have an employer for all the 4 years they attend University.
Not me, for obvious reasons. I'm (this will sound familiar) totally on the fly. Make it up as you go along, and the world can be yours
Now Dim Wit needs to get his act together.
The end game at my employer was that having got my grades, courtesy of my employer (thanks SEB!), and found my University, I needed the said old man again, not being an adult until you are 21 back in the day, to also reneg on my apprenticeship. It appears that this was a first for these guys.
So, we (the old man & I), met in the managers office the Friday before I start at Uni, the huge apprenticeship agreement was presented, Dad sign the releases and the managers lacky literally tore up the agreement right there and then.
Point taken, there's no going back from here folks. Bridge burnt. Great! Lets go
I guess, like many (most?) families in UK in the 50's, the family unit was simply a holding unit for daily life. There was never any verbal expressions of "love". I'm not sure if that made me, or indeed, half plus of the UK, and probably much of the rest of the world, "deprived". I never really questioned or thought/ worried about it. I think the physical and verbal demonstrations of "love" are more of a modern aspect. Probably due to the excess of spare time and parental needs to show their sprog that they are indeed precious. Certainly in the UK 50's, simply being there to have a family unit was several orders of magnitude greater than most felt was possible even a few years earlier.
The sociological aspects of working class UK were still what they had been for hundreds of years. If you are not landed gentry or Church, you are a peasant, with all the rights and privileges so bestowed upon your person. ie You ar nothing of any importance unless there is a war, then you are also, a nothing
Thank god for the Beatles and the totally new serge in individuals based on talent of the 60's, Harold Wilson being one of the greats to me
 |
| The secrets of my success: Me, Bill Evans and John Mordue. Thanks again guys The Swan, East Ilsley, February 3rd 2012. I gave them both potted plants as a metaphor (see below) |
The pressure is on.
So far so good. Everything depended on me being capable.
The very first thing I do, quite consciously, is to get rid of my accent. (Moi dear). From the very first day, I practiced middle class English accent. Not quite BBC, but something closer to public school than 19 years in Chaddleworth.
After about 6 weeks, I came back to Chaddleworth. This new version lingua franca, was obvious to several of my mentors, including Mr Hall across the road who commented on it when I went to visit back in the village. I had cut the umbilical, the past was the past, and just like the rest of my life, it's up to me how I tailor the immediate environment into something usable for me. I no longer had a publicly accessible "Chaddleworth past", I was free form and able to direct my future. I had become, not a chameleon who changes colour, but someone who was very happy to adapt and adopt to a new environment and become part of the new environment.
Something that is required to be more successful than the run of the mill peasant. Just fill me in on the rules, I'll take it from here.
During this trip back, probably with a pile of student laundry, I went to my local pub, and was totally convinced that everyone should go to University just for the experience. So far it had not met my ideas of an Oxbridge Public School boys idyll, but, give it time
There I was, I had a deep rooted need to know how and why things worked, and here, people were more than happy to tell you everything they knew. Not only was it Nirvana, but I got a stipend to do it
So much for that. Back in the 60's at University, college for that matter, everything was based on your final year end examination. Nothing else counted for anything. I knew several students who got through these final exams simply by cramming for a few days before each exam, memorising everything.
I of course, failed my first year, I got less than the pass mark of 8%, in Mechanics, yes really, and totally screwed up Maths.
I knew I was for the chop, but Brunel offered failures a chance to rewrite the exams, this time completing all of the questions in their own time and handing them in by a certain date before returning in September.
I had organised a 6 months of work locally and shared a flat with Gerry "H" Harris in Uxbridge. "H" had trouble believing that he had passed anything, I think he was trying to make a statement to his father, but I never asked, or maybe not even worked that out till later.
So, there I am. Desperate to stay in academic pursuits, but about to be kicked out.
I often think that this was where my street smarts really began. I was desperate, and had absolutely ZERO chance of doing this on my own. Come on, failing an 8% pass mark.
Again Al Hamdolillah, a guy I was working with for the industrial part (six months Uni, 6 months industry), had come first in Mechanics, and the guy my flatmate Gerry was working with, had come first in Maths.
They did not even accept a beer or three for rewriting these papers for me.(Thanks guys). They both thought it was a good idea to revise last years stuff in the middle of summer. I have no idea what it was that I was copying with my own hand, I had failed after all, but come September, 1969, I'm in the second year, and with the new studies, and security, and "personal growth" and etc etc.....
Others that didn't fake it, - there were lots of them, maybe 35%, mostly those who had never had to organise their study habits, and spent most of their time in the bar or playing bridge, faded into the past
They did not even accept a beer or three for rewriting these papers for me.(Thanks guys). They both thought it was a good idea to revise last years stuff in the middle of summer. I have no idea what it was that I was copying with my own hand, I had failed after all, but come September, 1969, I'm in the second year, and with the new studies, and security, and "personal growth" and etc etc.....
Others that didn't fake it, - there were lots of them, maybe 35%, mostly those who had never had to organise their study habits, and spent most of their time in the bar or playing bridge, faded into the past
Second year, 1969/ 1970, I totally aced the course. I mean totally! The only "A" I didn't get was in Maths, my favourite subject, as there were two parts to the final exam, Pure Maths and Statistics. You needed to do at least one question from either. I only did 4 from maths and only got a B.
Good enough.
A lecturer told me about half way through the year, that I was in the top 5 that year and guaranteed to pass.
I even have time and energy and inclination to have a girlfriend. Jill. I certainly wouldn't have splurged my studying and endless searching for answers time if I wasn't totally in control of, well, everything. Anyway, girlfriends are an essential topic in life, if not for answers.
1970 was the absolute peak of my intellectual achievements, and I loved every minute of it
There was also the Rag week, some when in February 1970 maybe? That was fun too.
 |
| 2nd year: I'm in the hat. Rag Week: What a blast! Float conceived and designed by yours truly, and everything in my life is magnificent. |
At Uni, we, being geeks, had to do actual practical labs from which we were supposed to gain maximum insights. In summary, in engineering, we had at least one lab, in some form of electrical practical every week or two. These, due to the huge equipment involved, rotated through the year.
These labs rotated so students all did one of many every week
The theory was, that you and partners if any, did the lab, took measurements, wrote them up and formed conclusions, almost free form. Not for me!
The loophole was that students did their work, left the write ups in publicly accessible pigeon holes on one floor of the engineering complex, for the lecturers to collect at some point, mark, and then return at some, UNSPECIFIED future date, to these same pigeon holes. None of the parties actually kept track of where these books were at any given time
Don't get ahead of me.
Obviously, for the consummate cheat with few scruples, this is a gold mine. My first really effective one. My street smarts probably got cemented into my DNA with this very wheeze,
Apart from the very first lab that I had to do without alternate input, I nonchalantly wandered around the pigeon holes pretending if anyone was watching to look for mine while actually looking for this weeks lab, see what had been marked and returned to students, and noticing who had the best marks for the relevant lab, I would lift one or two for the night, make up my own results from the graphs made by other students, a kind of reverse engineering I'd guess, and draw the very conclusions the lecturers wanted which they kindly noted at the end of every completed lab. They did actually tell the owners of the lab books what they needed to achieve so life became quite easy, plus, I got all the details of what we were supposed to "discover" as a bonus.
Of course, I'd get great marks without even needing to do the labs.
Repeat.
One of my friends from that time, David, still tells his kids and now, grand kids, that I used to steal his lab books and copy his results, possibly, but I was totally equal opportunity when it came to intellectual theft, I only ever stole the best available. If these were his, then he's right
Uni, especially that year, 69/ 70 was so awe inspiring. Personally and intellectually, this was the year I officially became insufferable, secure in the knowledge that I really had become pretty damn smart. AND, far more to the point, I did belong here. None of this working class idea that I'm a fraud. That's solely for losers!
It was the Uni year of excess, musically, all the top groups came to Brunel. Not being too well funded, I went to every Friday gig as a bouncer, so I got to watch every major 65 - 70 group, and during the week, many minor ones, for free. Unbelievable year for class acts. Luckily, there was never any problem, so I still have all my teeth.
It was also the year when Edward de Bono gave a (free) lunch time lecture to anyone interested in "Lateral Thinking". Yet another Gob smacking concept to become, as it turned out, a major part of my future. Thinking creatively, and, more to the point, thinking without limits, had a truly life changing effect on me. Yes kids, DO try this at home. It takes a lot of effort to wrench your brain in any new direction, so simply try it as an exercise. The earlier you try it, the less likely you are to be trapped in the stasis of predetermined directions of thinking.
De Bono has lots of starter options for the enquiring mind. It's SO totally worth it in a 1970's kind of way.
It was also early in my glorious 2nd year that I had the theoretical insight in an electrical class about energy measurement, viz, the second most basic equation in electrical engineering: W=IV, or Watts = Volts x Amps.
During one of my insightful intellectual ponderations, I reasoned thus:
For power, the stuff that electricity metres measure, you need both amounts to be finite (it's not exactly Calculus, but it was certainly inspired by the concept of "in the limit".
Therefore, you must have both volts and amps to register Power.
Therefore, if you have zero volts, any current will necessarily result in "zero" power as anything times zero, must also be zero.
As I had worked at the practical end of electrics as in installing meters to measure energy usage back in my SEB working days, I knew that typically, meter folk never sealed the neutral block outside of the meter
Therefore, if you take the metres neutrals out of the block and isolate the meter from any other side of the circuit, then connect them to eliminate the actual meter, no voltage is registered across the meter
Therefore, as W = I x V, or W = 0 x 240 = 0, no "Power" is registered through the meter, ergo, no energy is recorded. Ergo, I had a lot of cheap heating during my student years.
Therefore, my apartment remained at a cosy temperature throughout the winter for a very economical input
Mind over matter indeed
Hey kids, you don't need to be bright or intelligent, just
have an incredible, even insatiable drive to learn and the energy to make it happen and the rest is EASY!
A really good friend of mine, Windser, often came up from Chaddleworth for weekends, and we played nouveau intellectuals without end, without boredom, constantly trying to outdo each other with literate and philosophical reference.
Wonderful
Somewhen during this year of intellectual, physical and social excesses, I found myself suddenly addressing about 200 new students, For some reason, I stammered and stuttered my way through whatever I was trying to say, and felt totally stupid and incompetent. That's it! I thought, I need to address this, and so, my pursuit of public speaking began.
During the spring of 1970, I noticed an advertisement in a national paper about a seismic company in Kent. I applied for a summer job, and much to my surprise, got it. So, all summer, I was on the North Sea or the Yorkshire Moors and Dales doing oil and gas prospecting. This was radically different from soldering transistors in an office, plus, I was earning far more even than my tutor.
Some of these experiences are pretty wild, bringing in the seismic tube on the back of the vessel (a converted trawler) in a force 8 without a harness for Gods sake! off the wilder end of the Hebrides, running for cover a hundred nautical miles off of the North of Scotland in a force 9 - 10.
There was also a month or two in the beautiful Yorkshire moors during a break in contracts on the North Sea.
I was given the job of lugging a roll of wire - about 60 LBS around a the survey site, sometimes over 3 miles. I died on the very first day and told the boss that night that I couldn't handle it. Next day I was given the task of driving the water truck around. The other guy, another student was man enough to handle it. He didn't get to drive a truck for 6 weeks
Bonus! All this and the moors as a backdrop.
Back on the boat, this time in Hartlepool of all places, most of the crew had gone home while the head office found more work for us. This was my first experience of the still highly illegal (soto voce), w e e d, luckily, the guy, Ian I think, who rolled my first joint for me, also had the good sense to have great music to accompany it.
The Doors "Strange Days" has always been a true marvel of spaced out synaptic delight ever since......
I returned to Brunel in September 1970, no longer totally convinced of my place in Electrical Engineering. I passed the year easily enough, but with ever lessening conviction.
I started to follow up on my search for public speaking facilitation and became class rep, etc and started organising the Electrical Engineering socials. With me in charge, they became very popular, but I missed a very important guiding committee meeting once, and all the politics came down on me and I lost the plot. Ho Hum......
Some when during the summer of 1971, I chanced upon Marg at an Imperial College dance, maybe in June I'd guess as the term ended in July. What did I care? I'd beaten Chaddleworth, and probably felt that this was well overdue. At 22 I was still a virgin for gods sake
Of course, I'd get great marks without even needing to do the labs.
Repeat.
One of my friends from that time, David, still tells his kids and now, grand kids, that I used to steal his lab books and copy his results, possibly, but I was totally equal opportunity when it came to intellectual theft, I only ever stole the best available. If these were his, then he's right
Uni, especially that year, 69/ 70 was so awe inspiring. Personally and intellectually, this was the year I officially became insufferable, secure in the knowledge that I really had become pretty damn smart. AND, far more to the point, I did belong here. None of this working class idea that I'm a fraud. That's solely for losers!
It was the Uni year of excess, musically, all the top groups came to Brunel. Not being too well funded, I went to every Friday gig as a bouncer, so I got to watch every major 65 - 70 group, and during the week, many minor ones, for free. Unbelievable year for class acts. Luckily, there was never any problem, so I still have all my teeth.
It was also the year when Edward de Bono gave a (free) lunch time lecture to anyone interested in "Lateral Thinking". Yet another Gob smacking concept to become, as it turned out, a major part of my future. Thinking creatively, and, more to the point, thinking without limits, had a truly life changing effect on me. Yes kids, DO try this at home. It takes a lot of effort to wrench your brain in any new direction, so simply try it as an exercise. The earlier you try it, the less likely you are to be trapped in the stasis of predetermined directions of thinking.
De Bono has lots of starter options for the enquiring mind. It's SO totally worth it in a 1970's kind of way.
It was also early in my glorious 2nd year that I had the theoretical insight in an electrical class about energy measurement, viz, the second most basic equation in electrical engineering: W=IV, or Watts = Volts x Amps.
During one of my insightful intellectual ponderations, I reasoned thus:
For power, the stuff that electricity metres measure, you need both amounts to be finite (it's not exactly Calculus, but it was certainly inspired by the concept of "in the limit".
Therefore, you must have both volts and amps to register Power.
Therefore, if you have zero volts, any current will necessarily result in "zero" power as anything times zero, must also be zero.
As I had worked at the practical end of electrics as in installing meters to measure energy usage back in my SEB working days, I knew that typically, meter folk never sealed the neutral block outside of the meter
Therefore, if you take the metres neutrals out of the block and isolate the meter from any other side of the circuit, then connect them to eliminate the actual meter, no voltage is registered across the meter
Therefore, as W = I x V, or W = 0 x 240 = 0, no "Power" is registered through the meter, ergo, no energy is recorded. Ergo, I had a lot of cheap heating during my student years.
Therefore, my apartment remained at a cosy temperature throughout the winter for a very economical input
Mind over matter indeed
A really good friend of mine, Windser, often came up from Chaddleworth for weekends, and we played nouveau intellectuals without end, without boredom, constantly trying to outdo each other with literate and philosophical reference.
Wonderful
Somewhen during this year of intellectual, physical and social excesses, I found myself suddenly addressing about 200 new students, For some reason, I stammered and stuttered my way through whatever I was trying to say, and felt totally stupid and incompetent. That's it! I thought, I need to address this, and so, my pursuit of public speaking began.
During the spring of 1970, I noticed an advertisement in a national paper about a seismic company in Kent. I applied for a summer job, and much to my surprise, got it. So, all summer, I was on the North Sea or the Yorkshire Moors and Dales doing oil and gas prospecting. This was radically different from soldering transistors in an office, plus, I was earning far more even than my tutor.
Some of these experiences are pretty wild, bringing in the seismic tube on the back of the vessel (a converted trawler) in a force 8 without a harness for Gods sake! off the wilder end of the Hebrides, running for cover a hundred nautical miles off of the North of Scotland in a force 9 - 10.
There was also a month or two in the beautiful Yorkshire moors during a break in contracts on the North Sea.
I was given the job of lugging a roll of wire - about 60 LBS around a the survey site, sometimes over 3 miles. I died on the very first day and told the boss that night that I couldn't handle it. Next day I was given the task of driving the water truck around. The other guy, another student was man enough to handle it. He didn't get to drive a truck for 6 weeks
Bonus! All this and the moors as a backdrop.
Back on the boat, this time in Hartlepool of all places, most of the crew had gone home while the head office found more work for us. This was my first experience of the still highly illegal (soto voce), w e e d, luckily, the guy, Ian I think, who rolled my first joint for me, also had the good sense to have great music to accompany it.
The Doors "Strange Days" has always been a true marvel of spaced out synaptic delight ever since......
I returned to Brunel in September 1970, no longer totally convinced of my place in Electrical Engineering. I passed the year easily enough, but with ever lessening conviction.
I started to follow up on my search for public speaking facilitation and became class rep, etc and started organising the Electrical Engineering socials. With me in charge, they became very popular, but I missed a very important guiding committee meeting once, and all the politics came down on me and I lost the plot. Ho Hum......
Some when during the summer of 1971, I chanced upon Marg at an Imperial College dance, maybe in June I'd guess as the term ended in July. What did I care? I'd beaten Chaddleworth, and probably felt that this was well overdue. At 22 I was still a virgin for gods sake
Not my first girlfriend, but finally, several months after meeting (a recurring theme for me), one dark and stormy night, I was no longer a virgin. All this at the tender age of 22 when some of my ladies to be, had already had kids, or semblances there of.
We got on pretty well, in a London bedsit, kind of way and certainly grew very close.
We were together until 1974. (More later)
Probably, one of the most significant insights of my life, but certainly the first life changing incident up to this point, was during my final year, spring of 1972 when I was having a real writers (and thinkers) block with my final thesis. I had less than 2 weeks before the final was due and I was getting nowhere.
Taking a very short break on a Sunday morning (no traffic on the streets), Marg & I were driving toward Ealing High street for something.
I stopped at a pedestrian crossing for 2 young ladies, probably in their teens or early 20's. They had just pressed the button on the pedestrian Zebra crossing for the flashing warning lights. I waited as they crossed.
We got on pretty well, in a London bedsit, kind of way and certainly grew very close.
We were together until 1974. (More later)
Probably, one of the most significant insights of my life, but certainly the first life changing incident up to this point, was during my final year, spring of 1972 when I was having a real writers (and thinkers) block with my final thesis. I had less than 2 weeks before the final was due and I was getting nowhere.
Taking a very short break on a Sunday morning (no traffic on the streets), Marg & I were driving toward Ealing High street for something.
I stopped at a pedestrian crossing for 2 young ladies, probably in their teens or early 20's. They had just pressed the button on the pedestrian Zebra crossing for the flashing warning lights. I waited as they crossed.
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| Graduation, July 15th 1972 Me and another Smith, Steve He got a First. I got a 2.2 Oh well, who's counting anyway? |
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Graduation, July 15th 1972, at age 23 (My hair was much longer until my girlfriend cut it back by about 6 inches! I never forgave her for that)
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They had set out to cross the road, and had achieved it.
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Gautham, Steve, his girlfriend (?) and yours truly
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I suddenly realised that to some people, just getting across the road is something that is a fantastic achievement.
This insight, literally, changed my life. There are many, many more achievements out there. Everything simply depends on your outlook and expectations
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| Me, the centre of attention at the strawberries and cream post fest. Our village has a graduate one might say Here are several characters of my youth. Behind me, Sue, my almost sister In front of me, Gerry "H" Harris who only ever wanted to piss his dad off by failing He did, spectacularly. His comment, "I got 8 marks in that exam, I've no idea where from" And Windser, my intellectual stimulant of choice. He moved to Chaddleworth after I left. Did we ever fix all the worlds problems. Typically under a haze of dope smoke |
Don't forget, failure at the tender age of 10 in post war UK, certified you as irrelevant to anything except farm work, hole digging or baby making.
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| No idea who owns these legs, but then me, Paula, Trav (her boyfriend), John Bass who quit mechanics and became a doctor, and Steve Cleary, complete with pen in pocket, here in front of lecture block |
She was extremely proud of this moment
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| The end result of Bills gift. From little seeds etc etc |
So what do you do when you have achieved both your life's am bition, and the impossible on your first attempt?
Repeat of course.
I am now ready to take on the world. Is it ready for me?
From your now officially insufferable correspondent