Читать книгу Branson - Tom Bower - Страница 11

‘I can’t find the bathroom,’ explained Richard Branson. ‘Could you come to my bedroom and help me find it?’ At about 2 a.m. in early February 1982 in the Hotel Esmeralda in Paris, Branson had just telephoned the nearby bedroom occupied by Suzie McKenzie. The married journalist was puzzled. After all, Branson had occupied the same room for two nights and over dinner at Juliens, a fish restaurant, he had boasted, while noisily slurping a bowl of mussels, ‘I’ve never lost a night’s sleep in my life.’ She paused. Branson’s breathing was suggestive. He had not been as much fun as she had imagined. Certainly he was exceptional – levering each mussel out of its shell with a soup spoon was bizarre – but he remained enigmatic rather than engaging. ‘I’ll be right over,’ she said.

‘Here it is,’ she announced. ‘It’s behind this door.’ McKenzie smiled. Branson, she decided, was certainly not her type. She walked out. Branson was irked. Poaching McKenzie, he had thought, would be no different from the capture of Kristen and Joan. But attracting intelligent women, he regretted, was difficult. Sophisticated women like McKenzie castigated him as unimpressive and sexually unenticing. ‘A vacuum,’ she later declared. Branson found McKenzie’s disdain inexplicable since admiring secretaries and rock groupies swooned about ‘Richard’s genius’, and more journalists than ever were calling for interviews.

Branson had spotted McKenzie at a party which he hosted in early 1981 at his parents’ new house in Surrey. His guests were the staff of Event, a new London listings magazine which he had launched to compete with Time Out. Ignoring Joan’s reprimands about eating with his fingers, drinking other people’s wine and pulling cigarettes from guests for a puff, he tried especially hard to ingratiate himself with his new employees. Dressed elegantly, McKenzie had been standing near the pool. Branson manoeuvred himself nearby. Her splash was loud and his laughter was electrifying. Pulling her outstretched hand, he helped his victim on to the side. Fiercely, he rubbed the woman dry. Some would even swear that he screamed, ‘Oh you are saucy!’ as he joyfully rubbed her breasts and thighs.

Ignoring her embarrassment, Branson had invited the journalist to co-host business lunches on the houseboat. As she served lumpy minced meat and warm Hock, Branson encouraged his visitors dressed in suits to believe that McKenzie was his girlfriend, if only to deflect attention from their demands for money and their complaints about his business ethics. Branson had received writs from Mike Oldfield and Sting, and was embroiled in an acrimonious dispute with Carol Wilson, Virgin’s successful director of a music company, who accused Branson of not signing an agreed employment contract. ‘I don’t like this Sting litigation,’ Branson confessed to McKenzie. ‘I feel bad about it.’ He was baffled, he continued, why Dire Straits, the Boomtown Rats and Bob Geldof had all rejected Virgin’s contracts. Surely, he asked rhetorically, they should have been susceptible because he was the amiable alternative to the dull suits. But if Branson’s admissions of failure were designed to inspire McKenzie’s sympathy he was to be disappointed. McKenzie felt she was the target of Branson’s manipulation. But she had misjudged the man. Despite the setbacks, Branson could still conjure success.

Branson’s rejection of Nik Powell’s arguments one year earlier had proved justified. Virgin’s profits in 1981, after selling over two million albums of Phil Collins and the Human League, were £1.5 million compared to the previous year’s £900,000 loss. His reviving fortunes encouraged the very self-confidence which alienated many of the journalists whom he had hired for Event.

‘You’re all bluster, and you don’t listen,’ Pearce Marchbank accused Branson. The anger of Event’s editor caused the Duende to pitch on the motionless canal. ‘You’re a rock and roll egomaniac who doesn’t understand that magazines take time.’ Six weeks after the launch of the new London listings magazine, Event’s circulation was declining. Branson’s reductions of the budget had reduced the magazine’s size and consequently advertisers were deserting. Branson was unwilling to concede defeat. ‘You’re bringing Virgin down,’ Branson griped to Marchbank. ‘Fire forty staff. Now.’ His second attempt to publish a magazine as a prelude to becoming a media tycoon was souring.

Like so many publicity-seeking businessmen, Branson had hoped that Event would bestow glamour, status and influence. Money, he believed, could buy power. A vicious strike in 1981 at Time Out, a unique London listings magazine owned and edited by Tony Elliott, a former friend, had prompted Branson to launch Event to both improve his fortune and social status.

Tony Elliott’s staff, anti-Establishment journalists resentful of the proprietor’s right to manage, had for weeks in early 1981 successfully prevented Time Out’s publication. Branson, still irritated by the failure of Student magazine, welcomed Elliott’s predicament as his good fortune. Elliott had been invited to lunch at Mill End, Branson’s new country home near the manor in Oxfordshire. As the lunch drifted into the afternoon and then into the evening, Branson tried to lull his target into a false sense of security. His clumsy social performance, scruffy clothes and appalling table manners, he hoped, would lure Elliott to underestimate his intentions. ‘Let me buy 50 per cent of Time Out,’ Branson offered. Elliott smiled weakly. The predator, he sighed, did not understand. Time Out’s staff would dislike Branson even more than him. Branson was suburban. He was no rebel. His pride was to be the anti-intellectual, a trader in the market and a hero for the aspiring working class. He would make matters worse. ‘No thanks,’ replied Elliott later that night. ‘Bollocks,’ muttered Branson, unable to conceal the hurt. In his mind, business was like the game of Monopoly he played as a child where he customarily placed, against the rules, two hotels on both Mayfair and Park Lane. Any opponent landing on his property was compelled to surrender immediately. Similarly, the pleasure of Elliott’s pain was desired immediately.

‘If he won’t join me, I’ll beat him,’ Branson decided. Copying Elliott’s idea was effortless and enticing Time Out’s staff was the most obvious way to crash fast into the market. There was no hesitation. Pearce Marchbank, Time Out’s designer, was his first recruit. ‘I want to be editor,’ stipulated Marchbank. Since Marchbank could hasten the recruitment of other Time Out staff, Branson agreed. ‘I want Event ready to go in twelve weeks,’ Marchbank was ordered. The only hint of interference during those weeks, Marchbank acknowledged, was the prudent delivery of cocaine to keep the staff awake, albeit without Branson’s knowledge.

Ten weeks later, on 18 September 1981, Branson was puzzled. Elliott’s fox had outsmarted Branson’s lumbering hounds. After locking out the strikers, Time Out was relaunched with Mel Brooks on the cover, identical to Event’s planned first edition due to appear a few days later. ‘He’s stolen our idea,’ moaned the advocate of competition, before rallying to tell John Varnom, ‘Fuck. We’re going to win.’

Without warning, on publication day, two weeks later, Branson arrived in Event’s editorial offices in Portobello Road with television crews and his growing entourage. Event was not simply another magazine to earn money for a businessman but Branson’s celebrity launch pad. ‘Here’s my editor,’ he beamed. ‘My magazine will be Number One this week,’ he purred holding up the slick, hundred-page colour magazine. Repeating his predictions on countless radio and TV programmes during the day, he believed, would guarantee fulfilment of his desires. After all, Event looked better than Time Out and the media had, thanks to his ceaseless encouragement, warmed to its birth. In the mindset created by his mother, Ricky always got what Ricky wanted.

Every launch, every anniversary in Branson’s world, required a party. Event’s birth was celebrated at Heaven, his nightclub. ‘It’ll send the wrong signals,’ Marchbank complained. Branson was dismissive. Using Heaven saved money and marketing was his speciality. ‘We’ll be Number One,’ he repeated. ‘I know.’ Having persuaded ITV to broadcast the launch party live, the fun-loving millionaire – selling to his generation – had conceived an appropriate stunt.

Pranks were often Branson’s cure to fill the embarrassing vacuum left by his lack of substantial conversation, especially when he felt under pressure. Branson fulfilled his mother’s stricture – ‘Ricky do something’ – by often vulgar, sometimes hilarious contrivances. Dressing up or undressing completely, screaming from the top of a tent or standing naked in a street covered with raspberry jam, Ricky begged to be the life and soul of his party. To attract attention at Event’s launch celebration he contrived a ‘drama’. Unsuspecting, Marchbank obeyed Branson’s summons to come nearer the television camera. Handsome, witty and sophisticated, the editor possessed qualities which Branson envied. With a huge laugh, the proprietor pushed a cream cake into Marchbank’s face. ‘Live on TV,’ Branson laughed, convinced of the audience’s appreciation. Marchbank’s reaction was irrelevant.

‘Sales are not much good,’ Branson complained three weeks later. Marchbank urged patience. ‘Magazines aren’t records,’ he replied. ‘You’ve got to haemorrhage money to make it work.’

Haemorrhaging money, however, was unacceptable. Branson was irritated. In the rock world, a big hit guaranteed an immediate avalanche of profits. The mathematics of profits in publishing required careful calculation and an attention to detail which bored Branson. Keeping budgets tight, ‘protecting the downside’, was his philosophy. Innovation was anathema because he eschewed unquantifiable risks. His formula was to pick someone else’s idea and muscle noisily into the market with a fixed sum of money. His gambles, he believed, were carefully controlled. In the launch of Event, his plan had been to replace Time Out, not to compete. Gradual development was not an option. He wanted, even expected, immediate success. He had grown to dislike journalists. They were a breed who enjoyed high living at their proprietor’s expense.

Branson’s solution was shock. Publishing embarrassing exposés about the famous, he hoped, would attract readers. After recruiting staff from Private Eye, whose regular ridicules of himself as ‘The Boy Genius’ he condemned as ‘spiteful’ and ‘slurs’, he ordered Al Clark to publish an account about two senior Fleet Street journalists found copulating in public behind a bush. ‘But they’re the parents of a friend,’ protested Clark. Branson was impervious. Most journalists, he assumed, were pliable. ‘It’s part of life,’ he smiled. Intrusion would sell. Clark resigned rather than become involved in unnecessary vilification.

Stepping into the gutter did not rescue sales. Nor did the dispatch of Vanessa, his sister, with her husband Robert Devereux on a horse-drawn coach through London throwing copies of Event to passers-by attract any attention. To succeed, Event required clarity of purpose and originality. Branson offered neither. ‘The budget’s cut,’ he announced after six weeks, pleased that his crude solution stunned Pearce Marchbank. The following week the editor was fired. A man cleverer than him had been decisively humiliated. The blame for any mistakes was heaped on to others. Accepting his personal responsibility for errors was strenuously avoided by Branson. A succession of editors and declining numbers of staff became the pattern at Event. After eight months Branson pondered surrender. As a final throw, he telephoned Elliott late in the evening. ‘I’ll keep pouring money in until you’re finished,’ he threatened. ‘Will you sell Time Out?’

‘You don’t understand,’ replied a slightly drunk Elliott. ‘If you bought Time Out, the staff wouldn’t respect you. It would signal us going down market.’

Soon after, in September 1982, Event was abandoned. Branson’s ambition had cost nearly £1 million.

The legacy was worse than wounded pride and a pile of debts. Disloyalty, he cursed, had caused the failure. Those deemed by Branson to be culpable were classified as traitors to be punished socially and financially. When they next met at a party, Branson ignored Suzie McKenzie. John Varnom, a loyal founder of the family, was similarly dismissed. ‘We’ll have to find a new home for you,’ Varnom was unceremoniously told as the two men drove together through London. ‘Bugger you,’ scoffed ‘Rasputin’ and jumped from Branson’s moving car to be practically forgotten by the indifferent driver. Martin Tomkinson, recruited from Private Eye, recovered part of his wages only after arriving unexpectedly on Branson’s houseboat and refusing to depart unpaid. Pearce Marchbank issued a writ for £7,000 for unpaid wages. Refusing to compromise, Branson arrived in court with an army of lawyers. By the end of the first day’s hearing, Marchbank surrendered in the face of unaffordable costs. ‘Virgin’s hierarchy is a laughably primitive tribe,’ moaned Jonathan Meades, another disillusioned ex-recruit, into the wilderness. Branson had purged his organisation but at some cost. After fifteen years of business, he had for the first time created a group of intelligent critics. ‘He’s always harassing folk to win the best deal,’ that scattered group complained. But the army of still-loyal admirers agreed with Branson’s self-assessment: ‘he doesn’t cheat his friends and is generous with employees’. Branson the star, most agreed, was only protecting his reputation. Virgin Music’s fortunes continued to soar.

With Steve Lewis’s encouragement, Virgin Music’s deputy managing director, the company had signed Boy George and Culture Club, the world’s latest superstars. As a result, the projection of Virgin’s profits for 1983 was £11.4 million on turnover heading towards £94 million. Emboldened by the rash of new Virgin offices across the world and his growing fame, Branson’s braggadocio emboldened him to crush any challenge to his veracity.

Over one year earlier, he had become embroiled in an argument with Dave Robinson, a rival producer owning Stiff Records. Like Pearce Marchbank, Branson had expected Robinson to capitulate. The Irishman’s refusal had been galling and Branson hoped to settle the dispute over a round of golf near his country house. Robinson, reputedly, was a poor player.

Their dispute centred on a three-year agreement that Virgin’s salesmen would represent Stiff Records for an annual payment of £120,000. Branson had contracted not to represent any other record label without Robinson’s agreement. But in 1980, unknown to Robinson, Branson had signed an agreement to also sell Island Records. ‘I’m not surprised about Richard,’ sighed Robinson after unexpectedly discovering the secret. ‘He’s a greedy bastard.’ Weeks later, on 2 February 1981, during his negotiations with Robinson’s two managers to renew the contract, Branson formally revealed his agreement with Island Records. ‘You can pay less if you sign a new contract for another two years,’ Branson offered. Robinson’s managers said nothing.

Branson was annoyed. Normally, even the most stubborn were persuaded to understand the virtues of his proposals but Robinson refused to sign the new agreement. Branson pondered an alternative plan: he would simply act as if Robinson had agreed to his offer. The attitudes, the morals and the methods of the bazaar had become part of his nature.

After an inconsequential exchange of letters disagreeing with Branson’s conduct, Robinson terminated his agreement with Virgin and established Stiff’s own sales force. ‘That’s a breach of contract,’ declared Branson, nettled that his lucrative new plan was endangered. ‘I’ll sue you,’ he threatened. Normally his threats induced surrender but Robinson was stubborn. ‘You’re threatening because you’ve been stupid and lost face,’ retorted Robinson. ‘My managers never agreed to your offer and my letters prove that.’ To try to settle the argument in his favour, Branson had invited the Irishman for a game of golf and lunch.

Branson fully intended to win the game. Early on the Saturday morning, he covered the course with the club professional and was still practising when Robinson arrived. ‘Bad luck,’ smiled Robinson on the first tee. Branson’s ball had disappeared into the undergrowth. By the fourteenth hole, Branson was trailing and his ball was lost again. Both men searched through the long grass. ‘Found it,’ shouted Branson smirking in a sandy bunker. Branson swung and clubbed the ball against a tree. Robinson smiled and drove his best shot of the game. At the end of the game, Branson blurted, ‘We’ve never settled our dispute.’ Robinson, victorious on and off the course had been classified as an enemy.

Two weeks later, Branson’s writ arrived. ‘I should have let him win the game,’ Robinson lamented. Fighting Branson would risk £600,000. But the quietly spoken Irishman, puzzled by Branson’s attitude, resolved not to avoid the legal challenge.

Breezily, in late 1983, Branson arrived at the High Court in the Strand, in a white, open-necked shirt, bronzed from a holiday on Necker Island. Proudly he stood in the witness box, the only man in the room without a tie. ‘I own sixty companies,’ he boasted to emphasise his substance and reliability, ‘and spend most of my time on the telephone.’ Although he would claim, ‘I never took anyone to court in seventeen years of business’, he did not conceal how much he enjoyed trampling on obstacles.

In the relaxed manner of a man accustomed to court proceedings, Branson testified that his case relied on a conversation, an exchange of letters and his hand-written notes scribbled in a large book. To prove his contention that a new agreement had been concluded on his houseboat on 2 February 1981, Branson quoted from his notebook the ‘very favourable’ reaction to his offer. ‘There was never any question of Stiff being unhappy … There was a clear agreement.’ Branson’s contemporaneous, hand-written notes and his interpretation of the letters and conversations appeared to have sealed the dispute. His performance did not encourage any doubts about his accuracy. To his surprise, Robinson was undeterred.

Branson froze as the lawyer’s accusation resounded across the wood panelled courtroom. ‘You are fabricating!’ Robinson’s lawyer alleged that Branson was inventing conversations which had not occurred in order to strengthen his case. Earlier, Branson had insisted, ‘I have no motive to fabricate’ but Robinson’s lawyers contended that Branson was ‘fabricating’ evidence. This was not the first occasion that Branson’s veracity while under oath had been challenged. At the Old Bailey, his oral evidence had not been accepted. But this challenge attacked the heart of Branson’s credibility. Robinson’s lawyers were suggesting that Branson fabricated notes after the event to sustain his complaint, an allegation which Branson strongly denied.

As his recollection about the conversations was subjected to intense scrutiny, Branson began to contradict himself and deny the credibility of several letters. Suddenly, he paused, searching for answers. ‘I can’t remember,’ he blustered and began to cry. On the knife-edge, the gambler was terrified about the possibility of defeat. At lunchtime, grabbing a pencil, he scribbled a message on a piece of scrap brown cardboard to Robinson: ‘David, you’re a horse-betting man. Spare us the afternoon. Pay up now and we’ll agree to pay our lawyers’ costs. Regards Richard.’ As the court resumed, the cardboard was passed to Robinson. The Irishman shook his head. Branson was incorrigible. He was the same man who would later drool, ‘I was just brought up to behave in a decent way to people. So if someone waves at you, you smile back; if someone says hello, you have a chat. You don’t have to be a complete shit to be a success.’

On the second day of the trial, Branson arrived looking sombre, dressed in a suit and tie. As Robinson’s lawyer pressed to embarrass Branson further, he was halted by Sir Douglas Franks, the judge: ‘I think you’ve made your point.’ The judgement was damning. Branson’s notes, decided the judge, were unreliable. His case was rejected. Robinson was awarded costs. As the appeal court agreed, ‘At business meetings [Branson] does most of the talking and usually gets what he wants.’ But said the judge, even if Branson thought he had achieved what he wanted, ‘I am … certain he was wrong.’ Branson left the court visibly shaking.

‘Something terrible is going to happen,’ Branson confessed shortly afterwards. ‘I just feel it’s all going to blow up.’ Among those witnessing Branson’s unease was Al Clark, unusually welcomed back to the Virgin family. During the eleven years the two had worked together, Clark had watched Branson develop from a stammering youth into an orchestrator of events and people. The Australian, developing Virgin’s investment in feature films, was not the only employee to notice Branson’s jitters. The unreported humiliation in the courtroom could not explain Branson’s nervousness, yet the millionaire repeated, ‘I just don’t see where I’m going.’ Contrary to the image he cultivated of never contemplating failure or fearing the consequences – and contrary to his mother’s self-assuring boast, ‘He’s addicted to danger, of pitting himself against the unknown’ – Branson appeared unexpectedly terrified by life’s fragility. Everything could collapse if he stumbled or missed the next step. The void had to be filled. Constant activity, he hoped, would eventually generate an idea. Thanks to tenacity, skill and opportunism his activity had over fourteen years transformed a failed student magazine into a successful record business. But no magic or new formula had emerged, other than the shameless vulgarity deployed by a trader to outwit conventional competitors. Branson had tried many other businesses during those fourteen years and had often failed. Now, momentarily, he felt blind. The entourage that had produced new ideas was depleted by so many rancorous departures that no one remained to brainstorm for ideas. But, out of the blue, the void was filled by an excitable, fat American lawyer, Randolph Fields.