We read Michael Caine’s autobiography years ago when it came out and was big enough news to get him a spot on The Late Late Show (alright, our Mum got it for Christmas) and it was pretty poor consisting mostly of stories that finished in the manner of “…and I never stayed at a YMCA/fought in an international conflict/ate at Danny Kaye’s House/drank Nescafe ever again” as if any of these things mattered to anyone. We’ve always had a problem with Caine, of course, as he is one of that tribe that likes to complain that he doesn’t get enough recognition in Britain and is going to America instead. Millions of pounds an army of fans and a knighthood? Yes, unpopularity is a heavy burden to bear. And we recall as well how in, oooooh, about 1990 there was a TV show called The Trouble With Michael Caine and in that he said, in front of an invited audience of fans, friends and sycophants, that being a struggling actor is so hard that no-one else could begin to understand that level of frustration. Not the homeless or handicapped or anyone, seemingly. None of this has anything to do with why we asked you here, of course, but you know what this Harry Palmer ‘working class spy’ bobbins is about by now, surely?