In his book Smith describes one of his first jobs, at the docks in Salford as a shipping clerk. 'I was 16,' he writes. 'People were great; I was working with dockers and shipping agencies.' Ships berthed from around the world and it was a 'free and easy' time.

You already sensed it would end happily though. And it didn't, with new management appointed. 'Things were changing. Three-day week, candles on your desk ... One day there's no boats from Nigeria. All of a sudden it's machine parts from Germany. We're part of the Common Market now, so the dockers were mooning about, all miserable, blaming I don't know who.' He goes on:

'I remember having a distinct feeling that this was all going to collapse around me. One minute I'm in the office doing imports and exports, going to work in my shirt and pants, normal-like, the next there's these tw*ts there in Rod Stewart suits, running the f**king company.

'But they had this old accountant there, about 70. I'll never forget him: Trevor. He was like Rumpole. Smoked a pipe. He'd been in the Royal Navy, and he was always telling me: "Get out, Mark, get out now. You're too intelligent for this job."

'He used to follow me to the toilet, asking me why I was still there. He was looking after me.'

With accountants normally blamed for all sorts of corporate ills (particularly, I have to say, in the entertainment, sport and media industries) it was touching to read one, Trevor, being held up as a beacon. Especially by one such as Smith, who notoriously has so little time for so many.