After all these years and in spite of intensive counselling, I can still recall certain events from from my college years in the 1970s with a clarity that at times can be almost disturbing. The venue for these adventures was Balls Park College in Hertford, a Jacobean mansion with extensive grounds, which ceased to be a teacher training college in 1978. It stuttered on for a few more years as an annexe of Hatfield Poly, or as they later re-christened it, the University of Hertfordshire. Of course, it wasn't too long before the developers got wind of it and they made an offer that was obviously too good for the council to refuse. More recently, it has become a much used film set, in which to stage various films and television series, including Inspector Morse and Bleak House. When I first sneaked back for a crafty look about twenty years ago, I walked across the car park towards the main student entrance, fully expecting to see the familiar figures stalking the glass fronted corridors. I carried on along the gravel path to the little cottage beside the lake, were I had been lucky enough to spend my third year in residence. It was an eerie feeling, like being hurtled into a timewarp; I stood alone with a feeling of being surrounded by the ghosts of my youth.
I can still clearly remember my first few hours in New Hall, being dropped off by my parents, and hoping that my mother wouldn't say anything embarrassing to me that would let me down in front of my new-found, obviously ultra cool and sophisticated, studenty types. It was an old, three storey townhouse, that had been converted into about twelve bed-sits. The rooms varied in size, with the third year students having single rooms on the top floor and the more lowly oiks crammed three to a room in the others. I felt incredibly honoured, as I had the largest room of all on the ground floor. Better still I had only one person to share it with, with an empty bed being reserved for interviewees. With the parents safely out of the way, I could nervously attempt to mingle with my house mates. The startling thing was that they all looked to be at least thirty years old (although none of them were more than a year older than I was) and were probably criminals. One of the lads from next door seemed obviously younger, but he was also a hippy and spoke like one of the Wurzels.
Most of my fellow incarcerates seemed to be from large towns, which made them all look down on Hertford as a crappy little dump out in the sticks. To me, coming from a small town on the edge of the Fens, it was all rather exciting, and for the first time in my life I even had money to spend. This unusual phenomenon was very quickly remedied by a trip to London to buy the bare essentials, i.e. a new stereo. This was swiftly followed by regular donations to BackTrack records in Hertford, to ensure that the music I annoyed other people with was more obscure, and therefore more credible, than that which assaulted me from every direction. I wonder how many lives have been irreparably ruined by forced exposure to Pawn Hearts by Van Der Graaf Generator?
Marching up to the college with "The Lads" for supper, or tea as we fen folk call it, felt quite exciting, seeing all these strange faces converging on the main gates from all directions. On sitting down in the dining room, my first startling impression was of how well developed the girls seemed to be compared to those in my neck of the woods. I don't think many of us actually made it to the bar that first evening, which probably turned out to be the only time in the entire three years. Instead, we had to unpack our belongings, then furnish our rooms with drop dead cool posters by Roger Dean, or else of girls in tennis skirts, scratching their bums.
The following morning I waited outside the toilet for my turn to shave at the sink. The door opened and out strode Ian Sturton, minus eyeball and with an evil grin on his face. How he must have been looking forward to pulling that stunt on a whole new load of fresh faces. Later on, my room mate , a former head boy from Boston Grammar School, re-appeared after a similar visit, during which he appeared to have severed several main arteries in his face.
Onwards to the main hall to be given an introduction to the college: the Social Sec stood up to announce all the major attractions that had been lined up for our indulgence, one of which, I'd even heard of. Another worthy student gave his little speech about something called Third World First. I hadn't the faintest idea what he was rambling on about, but I kept my mouth shut to hide my ignorance. After that it was the turn of The Christian Fellowship. Now all this was a bit alien to me. I was now a student, I wanted rock and roll, I wanted beer and I wanted sex, whatever that was. I didn't really want to go along with the drugs bit because they were a bit of an alien concept to a small-town boy. All I knew about them was that they were very bad things and made you die in an alleyway, covered in sick.
And so finally, to the college bar. Hoorah! Now I wasn't a seasoned drinker as I had never had enough money to buy a drink in a pub and I always looked too young to get away with it anyway. What I did know from some of my older mates was that Watneys equals very bad, and Ruddles County equals very good. If you couldn't get Ruddles County the next best thing was Abbot Ale. The college bar sold Abbot Ale. Hoorah again. At fourteen pence a pint. Double Hoorah. From that point on my memory became a bit hazy. Perhaps it will all come back to me.