CALL me Hamilton... Guy Hamilton.

Everybody else does.

There is a lot to be said for a university education.

It prepares you for all sorts of things, not just in the academic sense.

But for those who don't go through the doors of one of these great establishments, there is an enduring rivalry with those who do.

Take the 30th anniversary reunion for members of a Daily Mirror Group journalism training scheme in Plymouth at the weekend.

In the main it was a gathering of the class of 1979, but they generously allowed one or two of us slightly older hands in to enjoy the festivities.

Many things happened in the late 70s. Disco music dominated the airwaves, Liverpool dominated the top of the Football League and Mrs Thatcher came to power.

But it wasn't all bad.

We, for instance, were fortunate enough to gain places on a prestigious newspaper training scheme.

Each year six university graduates got the nod, along with four school-leavers from all over the country, making up a class of 10 unfortunates to be compressed into a Portakabin in a car park in Plymouth.

And before the makers of Portakabin buildings fire off a letter to the editor pointing out their trading name rights and the fact that not all portable buildings are Portakabins, this one most certainly was.

In summer, when we arrived, it was baking hot. In winter, when we sat in there and practised our law and shorthand, it was finger-numbingly cold.

On the very first day the graduates arrived with all their worldly knowledge, their sophisticated smoking habits, their trendy wardrobes, colourful scarves and their international hairstyles.

We school leavers edged nervously into the classroom clutching our new pencil cases and lunch boxes and wondering just what this first day away from the bosom of our homes would be like.

But it was only about six months before the graduates starting talking to us, and we ended up getting on quite well.

So you might expect that after 30 years, the rancour would have evaporated and the old divisions between graduate and school-leaver would have been banished.

No chance.

It started with the organisation of the event itself, in which someone even suggested arm-wrestling to decide the venue, until we ran a mental audit of the likely teams and realised the graduates could call on the services of a certain Scottish female reporter who would probably snap our arms off at the elbow and toss them aside with contempt.

The build-up used Facebook, Blogspot, Spotify and various other internet media to let everyone know where to be and when, and give them a bit of appropriate period music to listen to while they planned their weekend.

But the graduates had no idea, no idea at all. "Facebook?" they said, tugging nervously at the ends of their stripy scarves and holding their expensive iPhones up to the light to see if they could work out which buttons to press.

"Isn't that something the young people use?"

Never mind, old timers.

It was a chance for everyone to take a look at some old haunts in and around Plymouth. The Drake Circus complex was new to most of them and threw a few off the scent.

Several graduates were left ambling around in circles without a clue where to go until we whistled up a passing sheepdog to bring them safely back into the right place.

We nominated a Cornishman to escort everyone around, which was a bold move.

"This used to be a car park. This used to be a cinema. This used to be a pub. No, Diamond Lil's isn't there any more," he said, charging ahead of the group and firing off facts like a demented tour guide.

Inevitably we ended up on both nights down on the Barbican.

This is the area of Plymouth down by the fishing quays, where the nightclubs line the waterfront and the narrow cobbled streets are home to myriad pubs and nightspots.

It's where Plymouth comes out to play.

Having eaten well, we ventured out in search of music and dancing, as you do on these occasions.

The Cornishman had asked the waitress, clearly a young person of local origin, if she could recommend any hot nightspots for us.

She laughed nervously, looked around at the greying fifty-something crowd before her, made an excuse and left the room, possibly to hand in her notice.

It was well past midnight, but the area was still packed with Plymouth's finest, all out for a good time.

At the first club we were told by someone coming out that there was no point in coming in. The dance floor was packed tight and there was little chance of getting to the bar.

Around the corner we found another nightspot where, in order to cross the velvet rope and gain admission, we had to hand over five of your puny Earth pounds each.

We fought our way through the crowds of young revellers on to the terrace, where many of those of an older demographic were taking the night air and staying well clear of the heaving, sweaty masses on the dance floor.

Despite being the second weekend of October it was a balmy night and not a ripple stirred the surface of the water between us and Cap'n Jasper's fine eaterie on the opposite quay.

Upstairs our Cornish guide was throwing shapes on the dancefloor. I put my cider down for a moment and went upstairs to join him in an effort to fly the flag for Devon, but the music was not conducive to my particular brand of dad-dancing, so I didn't last more than a couple of tunes.

At least I gave it a go.

Back down on the terrace we were surrounded by young Plymothians wearing little more than tattoos and smiles. And the girls weren't much better.

Conversations went on long into the night, most of them shouted, but it was great to go back over old times and recall a few scrapes and escapades long since forgotten.

Firm friends from 30 years ago remained firm friends now, and we parted with the usual promises not to leave it quite so long before having the next gathering.

And just when I thought everything was going so well, I discovered I was not the man I thought I was.

It turned out one of my old colleagues had been referring to me all weekend as Guy Hamilton…

I WON'T hear a word against Andy Williams.

One or two people of my acquaintance have already acquired their tickets for the Glastonbury Festival next year.

And they weren't too happy to read that the 81-year-old American singer had been invited to perform.

Not rock and roll enough, maybe?

But I won't hear a word against him.

At Plymouth Pavilions a year or so ago he was in tremendous form throughout a long show in which the great songs just kept on coming.

Plus, the audience make-up meant that the Caerphilly Kid and I were comfortably the first into the bar at the interval without having to break into a run.