When, as a snivel-nosed provincial reporter, I arrived at the Sunday Pictorial (now the Sunday Mirror) the news editor gave me a lengthy briefing, a huge unlit cigar rolled around his mouth:

‘This not the Croydon Advertiser Tom’, he advised. ‘I don’t want reporters. I want operators. When you do the big story for me, you don’t cover the story you inhabit it. You wear it like a coat; it becomes your entire life. Forget your marriage, holidays, private time, weekends off… You become the chauffeur, the buyer of drinks and dinners and bunches of roses. Then, slowly you become the dry shoulder, helpful adviser, the trusted confidante. Soon you know more about the story than all the protagonists combined. They begin to trust, rely and eventually depend on you. If the story requires you to do your duty as a man please disguise the cost of the condoms on your expenses. I’ll give you all the time, all the money and I’ll cover for you to your wife.  Just make sure that you come back with the splash – or you’re out.’ I know, I know, but it was 1956.

I worked with Bashir for several years at BBC Panorama. Martin could take off your trousers without touching your belt. He was, by the most hideous standards of Fleet Street, the true Master

Yet it now emerges that I was but a parish newsletter reporter compared to Martin Bashir, of the notorious Princess Diana interview. I worked with Bashir for several years at BBC Panorama. Martin could take off your trousers without touching your belt. He was, by the most hideous standards of Fleet Street, the true Master.

This week, a new book by Andy Webb, a former BBC television........

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