These days, most people remember Harold Wilson only by the cliches: the pipe, the Gannex mac, the nuanced Huddersfield accent and the beer and sandwiches with union leaders in Downing Street.

But Labour’s most electorally-succesful leader was a much more complex person than the media stereotype.

A man “with many layers” in the view of a close political colleague.

Away from the cameras he smoked cigars, and he preferred brandy to bitter. And he was in many ways an old-fashioned Liberal rather than a dyed-in-the-wool socialist, dismissing ideology as “theology.”

It was said of Harold that he almost totally lacked passion and could not understand those who did feel passionately about issues.

Yet he was also the cleverest man to grace the office of Prime Minister in modern times.

He had a staggering memory, and could think his rivals under the table.

I first came into contact with him – at a distance, in the press gallery in the House of Commons – reporting Prime Minister’s Questions in the late 1960’s.

Paul Routledge

He spoke at frightening speed, at least 180 words to the minute.

Harold liked the company of hacks, or at any rate gave the appearance of so doing, which is much the same thing.

He occasionally entertained Fleet Street industrial correspondents in Number Ten, and he was a damn fine host.

On 16 March 1976, I was standing by a teleprinter in The Times when it chattered through a message in red ink – a sure sign of nationally-important news.

It said simply “Harold Wilson resigns.”

There was pandemonium.

Not just in the newsroom, but at Westminster where virtually everyone was taken by surprise. Harold was Labour’s Houdini, and he’d done it again.

The truth was that he’d long pencilled in this date for his retirement, and the early onset of dementia simply confirmed it.

A lifetime in politics had taken its toll.

As Speaker George Thomas was to say in his moving funeral eulogy: “He burnt himself out for Britain.”

Young Harold was brought up in a classic northern non-conformist home, Both parents were Congegationalists and he married the daughter of a Congregational minister.

Harold Wilson

Mary Wilson recently celebrated her 100th birthday, only weeks before the centenary of Harold’s birth.

His adviser in Downing Street, Bernard (now Lord) Donohue recalled that throughout his career, Harold remained authentically provincial, non-conformist, lower middle class and always retaining his Yorkshire accent.

He was brought up to respect striving for self-improvement, discipline, orderliness, thrift and educational achievement.

“In that background there was little sexual liberation, arty culture or social climbing,” observed Donohue.

“It was very Gilbert and Sullivan and not Benjamin Britten or Bach.

“He stuck to those roots and values and it was very much to his credit that he was not seduced by metropolitan glitz.”

In a long career at the top of politics, Harold survived various plots to oust him, telling his rebellious ministers on one occasion: ”I know what’s going on, I’m going on.”

But going on was what he couldn’t do beyond the age of 60. By then, the workaholic who fought his way from Huddersfield to Downing Street wanted a quiet life – and to give the British people one, too.

Prime Minister Harold Wilson at the height of his powers relaxes on a sofa with wife Mary and their two sons

Harold’s own private life was quiet indeed. He and Mary had two sons, Giles, who became a teacher and Robin, a maths professor, but they didn’t push the family into the limelight. Indeed it was said that Mary – a published poet – hated “living over the shop” in Number Ten.

Hence their retreat to a holiday home in the Scilly Isles whenever they could.

Barry Sheerman, Labour MP for Huddersfield who knew Harold in his last years and is now leading a Parliamentary campaign to celebrate his memory, says “This very much neglected man was a great Prime Minister.”

I can only say “Amen” to that.