21. oxford balls
When I came back for this final year, college sport wasn't a priority.
I stopped playing rugby at school. Soon as I arrived at Oxford in late '73, I knew I wouldn't be taking it up again - even before I sat next to a rugby player in the Worcester pavilion. They're a different species
One of the breed was Charles Kent, who went on to play centre for England. At college, he had it all. Physique and blond good looks, a ditto girlfriend, the best room on the grounds, talent at other sports.
I was captain of the tennis second team. I did play for the firsts once, against the university champions. Meanwhile the seconds played some social matches, which is how I got together with the blonde from my italian class. She was in the university tennis squad.
In a second-team league fixture, Charlie Kent turned up. Just for something to do, I suspect. After seeing him play doubles, I asked if he'd like to be number one in singles, taking my place. Alright, he says modestly. If you think so. He won easily, serving like Sampras. I think he could've played tennis for Oxford.
In early '77, I watched him play rugby on TV. I was in Kensington with Robin and his dad when CP Kent, still at Worcester College, scored a crash-ball try on his England debut. A month later, I was there in person when he played against France, the only match I ever saw at Twickenham (couldn't be arsed with the Oxford-Cambridge games).
Me and Robin are behind one of the goals, sitting on benches on the grass with half of fucking France behind us. The french team knew about Kent by then, so they tackled him early - and England lost 4-3 because Alastair Hignell, another multi-sport talent, missed kicks I could've converted with my heel (I kicked goals for the school team). He was at Cambridge, too, so you had to groan at him.
When he put the last one wide, I stood up, turned round to the massed ranks of jeering french, and used english words they probably recognised. Robin's laughing when he tells me to sit down, I'll get us lynched. Fuck that, if he'd kicked one more penalty we'd be fucking champions. Instead France became the first country to win the Grand Slam with an unchanged team. They didn't concede a try in their four matches. I can still see them scoring the one at Twickenham.
Alastair Hignell, who also played county cricket, died after a long case of MS. Dr Charles Kent was 51 when he collapsed while horse riding on Dartmoor. I'd have liked a fraction of their talent at sport.
*
In my first couple of terms, I played right-back for the Worcester 2nd XI, but I didn't like it, so I forced a move in year two and did alright up front. Linked well with an affable character called Bill Miller who studied PPE, which means something different at college.
He was a classic 'doesn't look like a footballer' - a slim mild crusty guy with a beard - but a natural finisher. And I was a useful sidekick, dragging defenders around and scoring goals I can still picture, one with a 'Gerd Müller' chest-down and touch-volley, another with a thundering shot still talked about years later.
Then suddenly the team was taken over by a gang of hockey players, and I was out. The new captain picked himself at left-back, where he made me look good in that position. I had no way of changing this, so I did what I do sometimes: made some noise and enemies.
The hockey junta reached the Second XI cup final without me. Luckily they lost, or I'd have had nowhere to go in my head. The day was made complete by the opposition supporters' chant for the Worcester captain: 'Garden gnome! Garden gnome!' Perfect image for a bearded cunt.
One thing and another, I didn't expect to play any organised football in '76-77. But Blond Steve, who was in the first team by then, mentioned me to the second-eleven captain (the gnome was long gone). He described me as skilful, which surprised me, and a bit tasty in the tackle, which didn't.
I get invited to a practice game. Following that, I'm in for the season. And it was a glorious one. After the crap with the hockey players, I enjoyed every game to the full.
That included the university five-a-side competition. I missed a penalty in our opening match - but it was in the last seconds, and I'd scored from a free kick half the length of the gym, putting us 3-0 up on the way to winning 3-2. We lost in the next round - mainly because Worcester College entered two sides in the first-team tournament, which I never understood. We were very much the second five (Steve was in the firsts), and there was a seconds cup. I honestly think we might've won it.
Outdoors, I wasn't going to play full-back any more, so I stayed wide right in midfield - because I wasn't needed up front.
Most of our goals came from a posh geezer called Rupert. He scored even more than Bill Miller though he was a very different kind of player. Whipcord and quick, and he put himself about. He even scored with a diving header, very rare in student football. He never passed to you, the greedy git, but you didn't want him to. He hit hat-tricks in consecutive games and his total for the season must've been astronomical. I made a number of those goals.
One in particular I was really pleased with. The best touch I ever took in football, a moment of class though I say so myself.
It's a tight match away from home, and we concede a corner. Normally, being tall, I go back for those. But this time I'm thinking fuck it, it's already rush hour over there, we need someone upfield.
When the ball's cleared up to me, I'm just inside my own half. Still facing my own goal, without looking behind me, I back-heel the ball.
I know Rupert will chase it, and sure enough he runs on and scores. We win the game and get promoted at the end of the season, one of my best memories of a great year. Enjoying a sport again, it keeps your spirits high without you saying so in words. I stayed fit, too - jogging as well as football - though not as much as Steve, who played more and ate less!
I got pats on the back for that back-heel - but not from Rupert! Years later, I bumped into him at the Photographers' Gallery where Robin's mum worked - and he didn't remember me. Nor did the first-team captain years later. Shows how memorable I was at football.
But some of my team mates were there for our band's greatest gig. In the front row, too.