"I don't suppose you're interested in reality because you've got a story to write," said Britain's most notorious PR man when I visited his office in 1995. "That's not being cynical," he added, "just realistic." I said I was keen to meet the real Maxwell Frank Clifford.

I'd brought along my toddler daughter – who was bemused by his client Freddie Starr having eaten a hamster – and he kindly arranged orange squash and biscuits for all. When my daughter stumbled towards Clifford's favourite plant he exclaimed "No-oooo-ooo!", then settled down again. He spoke vividly about his childhood, admitted his mother had always sensed when he was telling a porky, and recalled how he'd embarrass his sister by "running in naked when she was entertaining her boyfriend in the front room".

He thought it ironic that he'd become famous for associations with scandals, as he had spent decades keeping stories out of the papers.

"For example, for the man who doesn't want it known he's gay, I create a false identity – scenarios with a woman who's gay herself or just wanting publicity."

Do you think your phone's bugged, I asked? "I would be totally amazed if it wasn't. I've had it checked a few times and every time it has been."

Becoming more and more boyish, he told how he'd tease one of his secretaries – who was seeing two men – by telling her they were both coming up the stairs. "At my aunt's funeral recently I told mourners the sandwiches were 50p each. There was total chaos and everybody was going around with a different story. It was priceless."