I'd never met Wayne, but I was asked if I'd like to come along to meet him. I was apparently on a shortlist of three writers, all of whom were being invited into The Presence.

My first thought was huh, don't they know who I am, at my age and stature, I am long past taking part in a beauty parade, the very cheek. Then my second thought was yeah, I'll be there.

Waiting in the atrium at HarperCollins' mega-impressive Hammersmith HQ, I suddenly wondered if a certain distinguished sports journalist might also be on the shortlist. I had been jolly rude to him, some weeks previously, and heard he'd vowed to duff me up.

I sat around for some time as Wayne was signing the actual contract that afternoon, then doing a 'walkabout', meeting certain chosen HarperCollins staff.

Eventually, I was called into the boardroom. There was Wayne's agent Paul, an elegant woman I was told was his brand manager, another person in a suit introduced as his PR consultant, plus his own personal bodyguard.

The presence of so many advisors, plus presumably lawyers and accountants in the background, made me think fondly of doing The Glory Game, over thirty years earlier. None of the Spurs stars even had an agent, let alone a brand manager. I dealt with the players directly, face to face, and did the book without having a contract, either with any of the players or the club. Today, a star footballer is not only a brand in his own right but a multi-million-pound industry.

Wayne himself was wearing a hoodie, trackie bottoms and trainers. He looked very young and about two inches taller than I expected, but was polite, relaxed, without a hint of arrogance.

I decided to ask him three questions. Why did he want to do the book? If he'd said for the money, or my agent thinks it's a good idea, I would have been worried. 'So much has been written about me,' he replied. 'I just want to tell my own side of it now . . .'

Would he open up, reveal himself? I was thinking of course of the trouble I'd had with Dwight Yorke. Wayne nodded, appeared to understand and agreed he would cooperate.

I told him how much time I would need, how I would work, and asked about archives - had his mam or dad kept his local cuttings, his school reports, the first letters from Everton and other personal memorabilia? Yeah, they had, he said.

I managed to work in that I did not expect to be his buddy, going clubbing with him, but that he should look upon me as a Bobby Robson/Alex Ferguson figure. I'd presumed that at least one of the others on the shortlist was probably much younger than me, so I wanted to pre-empt any ageist thoughts. I am, after all, old enough to be his grandad.

There is a well-known photo of Wayne on the beach on his hols, deep in concentration, as he reads Gazza: My Story. In hardback. Big spender. Paul, his agent, said they did think about sending in a bill for advertising.

I didn't mention my Wordsworth biog, as he might somehow have missed it. During the writing of it, I remember how I was moaning and groaning, telling myself I'd never again write a life of someone who gets to eighty. What a slog that was, so much to read and research. Took three years and I was exhausted. On the other hand, writing the life of someone aged only twenty might pose certain other challenges.

On the bus home, I thought, Well, if I don't get the gig, I have met him. Seems a nice lad. Two days later, the call came. I started the book the following week, looking forward especially to the World Cup and speaking to him every day to get all the inside gen.

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