Branson. Tom Bower

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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