When I told 'Tubby' Lard that the old man had attended the same elementary school as Roy Jenkins (a political high-flier who went on to become Home Secretary) he did not seem to be too impressed. "Big deal!" said 'Tubby'. "Wittgenstein attended the same school in Linz as Hitler, and I attended the same school as you. When you weigh these crossing of life-paths in the balance of eternity, they do not really amount to a can of beans." I could see I had touched a raw nerve with 'Tubby'. "So which Home Secretary did your old man go to school with!"
The life-paths of the old man and Roy Jenkins did not just come near to crossing at Pentwyn Elementary School. They came near to crossing at Oxford as well. At the same time as Roy was carrying books from one end of the university's Bodleian Library to another, a few miles away the old man was carrying nuts and bolts from one end of the Cowley car factory to another.
(By the way here in Twiverton the term "old man" is used as a term of approbation - not disrespect - for one's father).
Roy Jenkins' old man (like the old man's old man) had been coal miners in South Wales. When they were underground they would lift their hands to the roof of the tunnel and imagine they could touch the flowers and grass on the hillside above. The old man's old man had made the timber supports that kept the roof of the coal seam from falling in. Roy Jenkins' old man had made a brief bid for freedom by heading off to the left bank of Paris. When his money ran out he returned to the coal mines and eventually became a union official. He was briefly imprisoned during the 1926 General Strike and ended up being elected a Member of Parliament. Soon the Jenkins family could afford to employ a maid, and Roy was sent off to the elementary school in a silk suit. This was a big mistake as the other boys threw mud at him.
Pontypool public houses were a no-go area for the young Roy Jenkins. On Sundays his family would drive to a market town and have lunch in a smart hotel. This must have been where Roy acquired his liking for claret and the more sensual side of life.
In Twiverton in the nineteen fifties the old man would take me on early afternoon visits to his favourite public houses. I would be sat down on the stairs, have regular supplies of ginger beer, Cheddar Cheese Straws, and - on special days - pickled eggs ferried up to my regal throne. Here in the bosom of the more genteel section of the British working-class you knew you were one of
history's most privileged guests. Roy Jenkins missed out on ginger beer on the stairs of public houses, but the stage of public life provided him with plenty of consolation.

"The ale house is the key to every town" - Walter Benjamin.