Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I was born with a silver screen – on to which, as soon as I was able, I projected silent films in my dad’s garage, in aid of the Spitfire fund during the Blitz.

Many years later there came a time when I was projecting on to that same screen films of my very own. In between, I tried a string of substitute careers and often wonder what might have transpired had one of them really taken off.

The most likely, I guess, was to follow in my dad’s footsteps. He in turn worked for his dad in a boot-and-shoe shop (or a “footwear retailer’s”, as he preferred to call it) in St Mary’s Street, a rough area in Southampton. Mum and I often used to drop in to say hello on one of our frequent shopping sprees. But the sight of dad on his knees, acting servile, failed to inspire.

I was more interested in the shop next door – J. R. Hill Surgical Appliances/Personal Fittings. The mysterious appliances on display set my mind racing, and I was often tempted to question a boy of my age who seemed to be a frequent visitor. However, I was too shy to ask, even when I sat down to a meal with him many years later, by which time I was an avid fan. Yes, it was none other than Benny Hill.

A TV producer had a proposition for us to consider. “How about the pair of you going to Blackpool to do a programme on saucy postcards?”

But Benny had a better idea. “How about you flying the pair of us and a dozen dolly birds down to the Riviera for a saucy weekend?” Benny passed away a short time later – his desire unfulfilled.

“Either go in your father’s business or go into the Air Force,” my mother said to me one day, tired of me hanging about the house. No contest. I joined the Air Force. At the induction centre, a sergeant asked me what career I would like to pursue upon being demobbed.

“Film director,” I said without hesitation.

“Then I’m putting you down as a ‘sparks’,” he said without a hint of irony.

Melksham turned out to be a place where HM forces trained to become electricians, and it was here that I met Bert Woodfield, an able-bodied matelot destined to change my life. We met as co-hosts of the music circle – a weekly event at which we played a selection of the classics, in the soundproof projection room of the camp cinema, while the audience listened in the auditorium to our varied selections.

One day we were playing Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, when, without warning, Bert – a portly fellow in his figure-hugging navy jersey and flapping bell bottoms – jumped into the air, spun around and leapt across the spacious tiled floor like an agile blue baboon.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked in disbelief.

“It’s called ballet,” he replied, taking a breath.

“Teach me!” I exclaimed, entranced. And before a month was up, I was dancing the Swan Queen to his Prince Charming, as the music buffs in the auditorium listened to Tchaikovsky, unaware of the high drama going on a few feet away in the projection room.

I couldn’t wait to tell Dad that I was bound for a calling in ballet. “Isn’t that where the men dress in ladies’ stockings and dance on their toes, Ken?” he asked, aghast.

“They’re called tights, Dad,” I replied defensively.

Here Mum spoke up, trying to be helpful. “You know, Hen [short for Henry] – fishnets.”

“I don’t know what they’re going to say down St Mary’s Street, I’m sure,” Dad said sadly. I really felt for him because, as I mentioned before, they were a rough lot down St Mary’s Street.

And thus began my dancing career, with five years’ scholarship at the International Ballet School under the tutelage of Maestro Nicholas Sergeyev, late régisseur générale of the Imperial Maryinsky Ballet, St Petersburg. And it was after five years of daily classes with the maestro that I finally landed a job in the third Northern touring company of Annie Get Your Gun. Three weeks later we folded.

From dancing to acting is but one short step, which soon led me to a season with the Garrick Players in Newton Poppleford, South Devon, where playing a ghostly suit of armour in When Knights Were Bold during summer storms in the Redoubt Gardens, Teignmouth, was a risk worth taking only for a limited period. I just didn’t want to end my career as a burnt-out lightning conductor.

Around this time, I met a fellow sci-fi freak from Bradford, who convinced me that there was a Big Spaceman in the Sky and that I could benefit by becoming one of his special band of space cadets. I did so. I made a home movie celebrating the event of my conversion called Amelia and the Angel and never looked back – largely because of Huw Wheldon, my guardian angel and mentor on the BBC’s Monitor arts programme. It was the start of my movie career.

Oh, I nearly forgot to mention my eventful career as an officer in the Merchant Navy during the war. Suffice to say, if I hadn’t jumped ship in Liverpool, I might still be “all at sea”.

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