Indeed, more than four years after his surreal experience was taken up as one of those dismaying parables of our age, the world is still not finished with Chris Jefferies. Important people want his opinion on the tortuous aftermath of the Leveson Inquiry, and the question of a suspect's right to anonymity; in a few months, ITV will screen a two-part drama about his experience by Peter Morgan, peerless chronicler of the most remarkable lives of the era; and then there are lectures such as this one. He even has an agent. "It is not," he says drily, "the retirement I intended."
The funny thing is: despite all the trauma of his experience, these days, Mr Jefferies rather seems to be enjoying himself. For one thing, he is steeped in his subject, with an intimidating range of reference and a crusader's conviction that the press's worst excesses must be reined in. For another, he is a bit of an orator, making me think, paradoxically enough, of a High Court judge. I'm told that his lecture will be an hour, but in the event he speaks fluently for nearly 90 minutes.
People remain shocked and fascinated by his experience, and the auditorium is packed. Taking questions at the end, Mr Jefferies ranges enthusiastically around the floor like the teacher he was. If his manner has a certain peevish formality, he nonetheless makes the students laugh.
After a resounding round of applause and the fervent thanks of the criminology department, Mr Jefferies weighs up his strange new life in a meeting room. That, I suggest, was quite fun.
Perhaps the way his life has changed is a silver lining as well as a cross to bear. "It certainly is interesting," he agrees. "But people occasionally say, well, are you glad it happened? And the answer to that is no, of course I'm not. I certainly wouldn't want to go through that again. But on the other hand, if some good does emerge from it all, then yes, I shall be extremely pleased."
His fluency - he speaks in paragraphs, albeit rather stiff ones - and commitment make me wonder if he has ever thought of a more formal sort of political engagement, perhaps as one of those idiosyncratic independent MPs who act as Westminster's occasional conscience.
"I don't think so," he says. "The problem is that there would be so much that goes on in Parliament and constituency business that I would not really be interested in."
It's rather a shame, I remark: his anger is still a source of energy. He smiles faintly.
"Well, I'm not unhappy if that is what has come over."
That self-propulsion is what has made him a sort of folk hero, really: the sense that people have of his having fought back against powerful forces that might have left many of us paralysed. "One or two people did say to me at the time that they thought that, if it had happened to them, they might have just crawled away and tried to forget it."
His peculiar good fortune, of course, was to be subjected to such obviously outrageous treatment that his vindication was as big a news story as his vilification had been. "There are many, many, many cases where that isn't the case," he says. "So the police have a responsibility as a public body to highlight somebody's exoneration where there's been adverse coverage and the person has been shown to be entirely innocent."
This doesn't come naturally, even in a case as blatant as that of Mr Jefferies. Astonishingly, his bail wasn't lifted until six weeks after Vincent Tabak, the neighbour who subsequently confessed to killing Joanna Yeates, had been charged.
Mr Jefferies is quietly proud of his determination. He uses the Peter Morgan drama - he has read and approved the script, and talked to Mr Morgan at length - to make a point about what it took to fight back. "There are things in the film which happen in a way that very closely resembles reality," he says, "and then there are things which happened but in a different way, and there are things that didn't happen at all.
"But there's one particularly striking difference to me. In the film, I have to be persuaded by various people to take action. Whereas, in fact, my very first words to the solicitor when he was driving me away from the police station were: somebody has got to be sued for this. That was absolutely my determination from the start."
I wonder if he learned anything new about himself from it all. He reflects for a moment. "I suppose," he says matter-of-factly, "that I did discover a certain resilience."
So what about now? Does he have any sense that anyone has learned anything from what happened to him? I'm sure the tendency of some parts of the press to rush in with premature - and possibly illegal - reporting on suspects has faded a bit. He agrees, but only up to a point. "One would be aghast if that wasn't the case," he says. He is not convinced that any such change is permanent, and he believes the Independent Press Standards Organisation (Ipso), the body replacing the PCC, to be inadequate.
So there is much that he remains determined to fight for. But at some point - if not yet - the questions that animate him will be settled.
What will he do then? It sounds like his agent may ultimately have a bit less to do. "What I want," he says, "is to do what I intended when I retired, which is why I started to read for a degree in French: I want to spend more of my time there."
His experience has taught him some distaste for the British way of doing things. "There is something about the puritan element in Britain's past which is responsible for our sort of secret prurience. That's the role of the popular press, who reflect on the one hand a moral censoriousness, and on the other this salacious, sensational prying."
- Independent
