First a confession. As a dyed-in-the-wool journalist I used to loathe PR people. Much later when my career morphed into media training I mellowed a little because a lot of my work came via PR firms. But in the end, what would you rather do: expose Thalidomide or open a store using a giant haggis? That said, Tony Tighe is - or was - a supreme PR operator and his achievements are stellar. He is rightly proud of them and some of his associated "non-exec director" forays, including working on the museum of his beloved football club Everton. I was around in the North West when he was in his pomp and the book joined up a lot of loose dots for me. The morality of the profession, for me, is still questionable. Tighe, for example, admits he trousered an extra £10k when a client wrongly paid his invoice twice in an accounting error. And on another occasion, he ended up pinching an account (worth a fortune) from a friend who brought him in to help for 20% commission. "Phil never spoke to me again," writes Tighe. No sh*t Sherlock. The book is an easy read but it is a bit of an auto-hagiography. It benefits from Tighe's undoubtedly incredible memory, especially for expensive meals and staff who stitched him up. PR people will lap it up and anyone around in the media in Manchester and Cheshire over the last four decades will find it very entertaining. Tighe does love an exclamation mark, though.
