If the world is divided between those who celebrate their birthday in a flamboyant manner and those who don’t, then John Marsden unquestionably belongs in the first camp. At least, he did before his much-publicised fall from public grace. Marsden begins his autobiography with a detailed account of his fiftieth birthday. A full year earlier, he began mailing monthly teaser invitations to his guests. The first read, in capitals: ‘An important invitation. You have been invited to one of the most important events of 1992.’ Each month, more information dribbled out, until the day itself, when a ‘rich smattering of state cabinet ministers; Liberal, Labor and Democrat politicians; lawyers, judges, civic leaders and business heavyweights all made the sunset pilgrimage to a hillside on the edge of town along a darkened stretch of the road.’ The reader gets the message: this birthday boy was one hell of a mover and shaker, a player, a friend of the rich and powerful, and, as the Grange Hermitage flowed freely, one damn fine host; a man at the height of his powers.

Eleven years and 400 pages later, Marsden is a broken man, fighting depression and cancer, deserted by many of his influential acquaintances, his finances depleted, lonely and love-lorn, his reputation barely intact after a bruising and protracted defamation case against Channel Seven. How did it come to this?