For a man who was supposed to have a shot memory, Alan Bond has a remarkable power of recall. In the mid­1990s, facing fraud charges concerning his dealings in Manet’s painting La Promenade, he – or rather, his barristers – successfully argued in court that a series of minor strokes had left him with brain damage and a memory so defective he couldn’t possibly be expected to answer prosecution questions. Those Australians who reckoned all along that he faked the forgetfulness, the shuffling gait, and the vacant stare at the television cameras outside court will doubtless be confirmed in their view that he’s a shameless liar.

The healing passage of time, and plenty of R and R at his posh London penthouse or swanky English country estate, have, it appears, miraculously restored his faculties to full capacity. Enough, anyhow, to allow him to pursue a business career as a corporate consultant and strategist in the United Kingdom and Europe. Enough to write an autobiography wherein he recalls, in forensic detail, the deals that made him a billionaire. And enough to make a spirited and highly readable contribution to that venal genre of business writing we’ll label ‘penny-porn’.