If it all ends tomorrow – life that is, and I really hope it doesn’t – on my deathbed I’ll have a clear conscience. I’ve given it my very best shot to make a go of it as a writer, I have not sold an employer short, certainly since I grew up and I am always honest, honest to the point where someone I was working with dropped a penny in my car and I fretted about it until I was able to return it to him. You might think this is very sad. Maybe it is. But it’s me.

I give everything my best shot. When I was a trade union official, it was my life. When I ran football club, it too was my life. When I go to work, there is rarely anything left in the tank (like today). When I was involved trying to improve Bristol Rovers, it was my life. It might look like I do things by half, but I never do.

I did it all my way, with the assistance of family, friends, therapists and anti-depressants. I’m still standing, older and slower than ever. I’ve still got the desire to ‘make it’ as a writer, if not the ability, and everyone who pays me for the rest of my working life gets the best version of me. It might not be good enough in the grand scheme of things. It’s all I have.

I can’t do a full week’s work anymore. Half a week is all I can manage and even then I have nothing left in the tank to write. There’s the frustration. And there’s the reality.