Incandescent phone rants, pushing me to the ground.. then a quiet, generous handshake at dawn. Prezza was always undeniably decent, and the very spirit of our native Hull

It was an encounter that will remain with me for the rest of my life. I first met John Prescott as a wide-eyed cub reporter in my hometown of Hull, where I worked for the local paper in the heart of his constituency.

- Christopher Bucktin

In 1999, I'd been sent to cover the opening of a school and there was John cutting the ribbon and probably scaring the life out of the scissors.

Not only was I alongside him, but there were also journalists from the national papers who, to me at the time, were like Bryan Robson to an aspiring footballer.

After he was asked a mountain of questions covering every aspect of this new Victoria Dock School from these idols of mine, there was nothing else left to say.

But as a sense of fear and panic washed over me over returning to the office empty-handed, being young and inexperienced, I asked him how he would respond to the recent criticism he had received over taking taxpayer-funded helicopter flights for relatively short journeys across the UK. He was furious. Incandescent with rage. As I skulked back to my car - a thirdhand 3 Series silver BMW that was my pride and joy - I was spun around with more force than a spin on Strictly. It was John.

"What is the big f***ing idea," he asked.

"Who the f*** do you think you are," he blasted.

For the next 10 minutes or so, even as his aides kept pulling at his sleeve like overworked mothers trying to drag their children out of a sweet shop, he ripped into me.

However, after about 20 minutes - which seemed like 20 hours - we ended with a handshake, and I left thinking I'd met the very spirit of Hull itself. Fast-forward six months, and I found myself covering the former Hull trawlermen's campaign to get justice for the collapse of the fishing industry.