My night on stage with Pavarotti

In 1967 I was teaching Classics at George Watson's in Edinburgh, and Dick Telfer (the head of music), who helped manage the King's Theatre during the Edinburgh Festival, asked me if I would like to be one of six extras during the opera season.

So was launched a stunning three-week career, featuring a dazzling array of roles as soldier, monk, corpse-bearer, attendant - and much else - in Haydn's Orfeo ed Eurydice (with Joan Sutherland) and Bellini's I Capuleti e I Montecchi (better known as Romeo and Juliet).

The latter included a youthful and undoubtedly imposing, but still relatively lissom, Luciano Pavarotti (right) as the hot-headed Tebaldi.

During rehearsals in freezing venues about the city, while most of the others let rip occasionally, Pavarotti insisted on whispering through the part the whole time.

peter jones was overwhelmed by the tenor’s
extraordinary voice

I had therefore no idea what to expect as he strode on stage for his first aria, me trotting behind as his faithful attendant.

I was standing fairly close to, but behind, him, and as the orchestra wound up to his entrance, he started making these extraordinary panting noises, as if in mid-orgasm, or possibly about to collapse from a heart-attack. I braced myself to save the day and even edged slightly closer, but promptly wished I hadn't.

When he opened up it was like being caught in the middle of a hurricane. Gales of wind and sound seemed to emanate from every orifice. Enveloped by this thunderous racket (one could see it might have sounded quite agreeable a couple of miles away) I remained true to my high calling, clenched my teeth and, head ringing, stood my ground.

For the remaining performances I stood well back.