My view of Wayne has changed, but we still won't be going clubbing

If I poured scorn, four weeks ago, on the rumoured £5m being paid to Wayne Rooney, scoffing at the idea of a 20-year-old doing five books, suggesting he wasn't exactly Mozart or Shakespeare, then I was being patronising and silly as, of course, he is a young man of staggering genius and deserves 50 books, nay, a whole library.

Here's what's helped change my mind. I got this call from HarperCollins, from its head of sports books, a person I'd never met, asking if I'd like to come along to meet Wayne. I was, apparently, on a shortlist of three writers, all of whom were being invited into The Presence.

My first thought was, huh, they don't 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, yeh, I'll be there.

Off I went last Wednesday afternoon. Waiting in the atrium at HarperCollins's mega-impressive Hammersmith HQ, I suddenly wondered if a certain distinguished sports journalist might be on the shortlist. I was jolly rude to him some weeks ago and heard he had 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 some 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 this last was reassuring, just in case anyone resorted to fisticuffs.

Wayne himself was wearing a hoodie, trackie bottoms and trainers. He looked very young - tell us something new, Hunt - about two inches taller than I expected, calm, polite, relaxed, without any 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? When I did Dwight Yorke's biog, he was a nightmare - clever, fluent, but totally uptight, as opposed to Gazza. On my first meeting with Gazza, within an hour I was saying no, no, that's appalling, disgusting, I can't possibly use that in the book. Wayne nodded, appeared to understand and agreed he would co-operate.

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? Yeh, 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/Fergie figure. I'd presumed that at least one of the others on the shortlist would be 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 the Gazza biog. 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. Not Willie Wordsworth, Carlisle's rugged and dour centre half in the 1930s, but William Wordsworth, poet laureate in the 1840s. I remember how, during it, I was effing and blinding, telling myself I'd never again write a life of someone who gets to 80. What a slog that was, so much to read and research. Took three years and I was knackered. On the other hand, writing the life of someone aged only 20 might pose certain, er, 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 start next week. At the World Cup, I'll speak to him every day. Getting the gen. Can't wait.

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