It really is appalling. Here we have a story that should shame us all - the story of a brilliant, decent man who wished only to give of himself, for the good of the country, who was brought down by the spite, insinuation and betrayal of much lesser men. Amoral journalists, grandstanding policemen, political enemies, the prime minister, those sort of people. Brought down by that cash for peerages stuff, of which Lord Levy, always obliging, has now been kind enough to tell us the true story - as you can see from the title of his wonderful book.

Michael was the chief fundraiser for the Labour party, and through his persuasive brilliance was able to raise £15m for Tony Blair's election fund in 1997 - and then more and more every year, always from decent (ie extremely rich) people who wished for nothing but the warm feeling that they had contributed. Certainly not because somewhere along the way Michael had insinuated that they'd be in line for a knighthood, or something. He would never do that - and the “evidence”, if you can call it that, against him is terribly thin, isn't it? A Sunday Times reporter, posing as a potential sponsor of Labour's “city academies”, was told by one fundraiser that he could expect “an OBE, a CBE or a knighthood” from Downing Street. And the biotech entrepreneur Sir Christopher Evans noted in his diary that, having donated £100,000 to Labour, Levy had asked him if he wanted a “K” or a “Big P”. So, totally equivocal stuff like that. Why on earth did anyone take it seriously?

The cynical among you may be asking why these people gave so much money if there was nothing in it for them. Well, the answer is that Levy is absolutely brilliant at asking people for money. He does it in a certain way. You or I might say to a friend “give us a tenner, mate”, and, most of the time, fail. But Levy does something magical every time and the money is suddenly forthcoming. I don't know what it is he does (out of modesty he doesn't tell us); all I know is that it is magical.

But - and here's the point - he is not only brilliant at getting money out of people. In this unflinchingly candid book, Levy reveals that he is incredibly brilliant at almost everything else, too. He was academically brilliant, for a start, and without even having to study. He just sailed through. He was a brilliant accountant, of course, and an even more brilliant record-company entrepreneur; he was brilliant - and undervalued by many - in advising the prime minister on all manner of things and he would probably have solved the Middle East crisis if people had listened to him more. He was also brilliant at football and swimming and tennis (he always beat Blair at tennis, he points out wryly) and, indeed, table tennis. If I have one criticism of this book it is that its author does not give us enough detail about his table-tennis prowess. I could have done with a run through of some of his more crucial matches, and whether he was strongest on backspin or forehand. But never mind.

Sometimes, Levy reveals directly to us that he is absolutely brilliant, at other times (on almost every page, in fact) there is testimony from famous people, statesmen, intellectuals, that he is absolutely brilliant. Blair, Bill Clinton, Chris Meyer, Robin Cook, Ariel Sharon, President Assad, and so on. “You're bloody brilliant, Michael,” they all tell him and Michael is kind enough to record each encomium for us. But because this is such an honest book, he also reveals when people have been critical of him, such as when Jack Straw said sternly: “You give so much to other people that it seems to me that sometimes you don't have much for yourself.” How true, how true.

Levy got himself involved in politics because he wanted to give something back. Even if he had not done so, there would be reason enough to be enormously grateful to him, not least for the extraordinarily gifted musicians he introduced to the world. Alvin Stardust, Susan Cadogan and “the hugely talented band, Bad Manners”, who you may happily remember from their scorching hit,Lip Up Fatty. But luckily for us, he did get involved in politics, although it took some trying. John Smith's office would have pretty much nothing to do with him - unaccountably, they seemed suspicious - and even when he'd gained the trust of Blair, there were some renegades who regarded him with outright hostility - Alastair Campbell, for example, and Gordon Brown, and the rest of the Labour party. (Brown knew exactly what was going on in the cash for peerages business, by the way, Levy informs us in a typically even-handed and equitable manner. Not that anything was going on, of course. And he tells us that Brown shouted angrily at him in a restaurant “I'm not gay!”) The people he got on best with, though, were those two most sincere and trustworthy politicians, Blair and Peter Mandelson. He once fixed it for Peter to meet his number-one idol, George Michael.

He endured a year of “living hell”, did Levy, when the cash for peerages stuff broke. But even in his dealings with the grandstanding police he was unfailingly helpful and honest. Asked a total of 170 questions down the nick, he replied to every one with the open and candid: “You have my statement. I do not wish to make any further comment at this time.”

Nor me, Mike: your record speaks for itself. Having read this fabulous autobiography, I found myself wandering around the house, singing to an invisible Levy, those wholly apposite words from his protégé Alvin Stardust: “Tom Cat! Y'know where it's at!/Come on! Let's go to my flat/Lay down 'n groove on the mat/A-you can be my coo ca choo.”

A Question of Honour by Lord Michael Levy
Simon and Schuster £18.99 pp310

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