Long before Tony Blair's memoir was published, it was the subject of ridicule and moral outrage. There was the title, for a start. The messianic The Journey subtly morphed into A Journey, implying a first tentative step to self-effacement ("Perhaps," Blair must have thought, “I am not the centre of the known universe"). Then later there was the donation. Blair's decision to give the £4.6m advance and all royalties from sales to the Royal British Legion was met with derision: "blood money", guilt and tax relief (from charitable giving) were all cited as explanations for his generosity. But let's not forget that the £5m or so he is sacrificing is a manageable sum next to the six houses, hedge-fund jobs and lecture fees that he has been busily accruing since leaving office.

But who would want to be Blair? That is the question. It's a life spent on aeroplanes, surrounded by bodyguards, in a surreal atmosphere of adulation (from your paid-up cronies) and loathing (from much of the public you once served). His achievements have been overshadowed by war; his defining feature now, it seems, is his tan. Quite a journey, then.