There are moments in a boy’s adolescence when he catches a glimpse of the man he will become. Faced with adversity, is he the brave sort – or the sort who runs away and lets others suffer? Aged 13, on a school trip to Portsmouth, I discovered I was the latter.
Tom insisted he’d found the bottles on a street, which made him sound considerably weirder than he was
It was my first year at Bradfield College, a boarding school in Berkshire. About a hundred of us new boys packed on a coach. I vaguely recall the hooligan energy of too many young males in a small space: over-excited heads popping up to shout swear words in the direction of the staff at the front, then ducking down to avoid censure. Boys laughing, fiddling with plastic ashtrays on seats, showing off their Walkmans and Discmans, sharing headphones playing their edgiest music. It was 1993, long before smartphones.

Britain’s best politics newsletters
You get two free articles each week when you sign up to The Spectator’s emails.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in