Hugh Reilly: Good luck to Sir Tom at the chalk face

Andrew Carnegie famously said: “The man who dies rich, dies in disgrace.” As someone who now survives on a gold-plated, pre-tax pension of 11k and is legally obliged to give 15 per cent of his disposable income in child support, there is absolutely no danger of me suffering a shameful demise.

Tom Hunter, the country’s richest man, is also less likely to leave this mortal coil with a sullied reputation. Once a proud billionaire, he is, thanks to the credit crunch, a hairshirt-wearing, humble three-quarter billionaire.

To be fair, many a multi-millionaire would have crawled under the electronic security gate of his mansion to escape the public’s schadenfreude at watching a rich man fall into relative penury, but that is not Hunter’s style. Instead, he has decided to become a lecturer, teaching apprentice business students how to be successful.

Tom (we who choose not to die in disgrace are on first name terms) and I have much in common. He is bald and, like me, attended Strathclyde University. Sir Tom (my knighthood is stuck in the “pending” tray, it seems) does a great deal of work for charity – I once gave 50p and a can of Pedigree Chum to a homeless man with a destitute dog (it still haunts me that the mutt may have gone hungry that evening). And now we are both teachers.

Cynics in the teaching profession – yes, we do have them – will watch with interest to see how Hunter performs in the lecture theatre. In 2009, he called for teachers to be paid according to exam results and demanded that poorly performing teachers be sacked.

I sincerely hope he is not a classroom dud because, in my opinion, he is on the side of the angels. In a recent interview, he stated that he wished to assist budding entrepreneurs, not humiliate them as happens in Dragons Den.

A classic example of the car-crash television genre, the show invites enthusiastic individuals to walk up a flight of stairs to be serially sneered at by an ex-ice-cream van driver, a Greek-Cypriot Del-Boy and someone who resembles a pre-op transgender businessman/woman. From the fear in the eyes of the victims, stepping up to the gallows would hold more allure. The ideas of the poor sods are ripped apart although, like World War One privates facing barbed wire, a few do get through.

This is where humiliation is taken to a new level. When an idea chimes with Mr Whippy and his co-panellists, they “negotiate” a cut of the fledgling company. The viewers put chortle on standby as the desperate innovator cringingly requests a better deal. But it’s inevitably a take-it-or-leave-it offer – I imagine the German High Command at Versailles enjoyed more wiggle room.

It’s all smiles and handshakes as the new entrepreneur walks down the spiral staircase, taking care not to drop the horse’s head given to him by the kindly dragons. As if this weren’t enough, he is met by a smug bloke with eyes that suggest he spent too much time as a kid staring at a finger and slowly bringing it closer to his nose.

There is great irony that while schoolteachers are encouraged to use praise, the sky-high viewing figures of The X-Factor hint that the hoi polloi love nothing better than watching young people’s hopes being publicly crushed. Contestants are left isolated on stage as Louis Walsh et al make a decision, then the judge pauses before announcing his verdict, as if he is either speaking via a satellite link or having a senior moment.

It would be a tad hypocritical of me not to mention that there is an extra beat of joy in my heart when a singer who employs emotional blackmail is booted off. Tugging at the heart strings by mentioning a dead grannie and stating she is watching from Heaven appals me. How arrogant! It could be the case that a stricken grandmother is looking up from Hell with flames licking at her bahookie.

So, Sir Tom Hunter – entrepreneur, philanthropist and, now, chalkie – I salute you.