Fergal Keane, a Dubliner, is one of the most skilled and incisive proponents of journalism the industry has to offer.

In his 16 years with the BBC he has reported from some of the world's worst trouble spots, from Northern Ireland to Rwanda, Zimbabwe and South Africa.

Listing his awards since 1989 would take up the rest of this review but there surely can have been no piece of reportage more moving or worthy of a Bafta than his documentary on Rwanda, Valentina's Story. But this talk was not about travelling around the world.

What the audience got was Keane's rather more personal journey from a childhood marred by his father's drunkenness, his own descent into the depths of alcoholism and final redemption.

Keane, who is perhaps more a man of letters than many of his contemporary broadcast journalists, writes uncomplicated but elegant prose.

His rich Irish brogue is perfectly suited to public speaking and I found myself disappearing in the narrative as he read from his newly-published memoir, All Of These People.

The book's big secret is that when he was at the height of his powers reporting from conflicts across the world and winning countless awards, Keane was in the grip of alcoholism.

He has been clean since the birth of his son, Daniel, in 1996. He talked about his father, Eamonn, a successful actor dogged by a lifelong drink habit which wrecked his marriage and caused a 20-year rift with his son.

I found myself making these notes as he read excerpts: "...alcoholism, vomit, loneliness, breakdown".

But this was an evening of light and shade and his candour and sincerity were matched by a twinkle in his eye when he talked about the laughs he has had in his life. (Indeed, he came on stage like a stand-up comedian with a joke about his gratitude to Bush and Blair for holding off on invading any countries just long enough for him to get to Brighton.)

Keane has a lot to say about the world and about his own life but he is not a preacher. Alcohol was bad for him but he doesn't begrudge the next man a good night on the ale.

What he does offer is brutal honesty about his experience of the world, about the war correspondent's oeuvre and the insight that the boy's rough childhood may always have had the man marked out for the front line.

Yet one gets the impression that the process of writing these memoirs, of reconciling himself with his father's alcoholism, required more bravery than any of his assignments in the world's many war zones.