MORNING SERIAL

HE was against the raising of the school-leaving age to sixteen, against the comprehensive system, but defended the miners in the winter of discontent and quoted, with relish, Aneurin Bevan’s attack on the British Medical Association, ‘a small body of raucous-voiced, politically poisoned people!’, an interesting group description that especially appealed to him.

Then, at appropriate times, he would ask rhetorical questions. ‘What would Saint David want of our lads on Saturday? That they keep their cool when the pressure is on, particularly in the early scrummages!’ Saint David, very properly, was not invoked to advise the Welsh Rugby Union, although there was often a thrust at ‘one-day Welshmen’ or ‘the breed who turned up in their dinner jackets on St David’s Day at the Savoy’, though he was later to enjoy such functions.

When he was stuck with deadlines to make, he returned to pirate his unfinished autobiography and the readers of the Western Mail would suddenly find themselves sharing his childhood fantasies which were all the more intriguing when he turned to cricket.

One of the great thrills to me as a boy was to watch Glamorgan play: a greater thrill even was to anticipate the game and play in it. I would always put the Aussies in first, feed them with lots of runs, take the occasional wicket, and then, moment of moments, HE would come in, the Great Man himself.

How I used to hate him! I would attack his off peg, give the ball a lot of air and make it turn towards second and third slip, and I allowed him to thump the occasional one square and through the covers. But at the right psychological moment, I always got him with a straight quick low one and I appealed arrogantly and confidently – and he was out.

Bradman, D., l.b.w. James, C. 23.