Branson. Tom Bower

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СКАЧАТЬ speed boats refuelling at sea. But unable to pay New York advertising rates, and planning to defray the costs by finding other sponsors, the opportunity of attracting free attention to himself was too important to miss. The moment of metamorphosis had arrived. The actor’s performance, until then restricted to a handful of spectators, was to be offered to a worldwide audience. Insiders did not spot any hesitation or reflection. After trading for eighteen years, Branson understood all the aspects of his gamble to become a star. The downside made it risk free.

      ‘We’ll use the 747,’ Branson told Hugh Band, the airline’s marketing director. One hundred journalists were flown on 7 February 1985 above the Scilly Isles to witness, while eating and drinking at Virgin’s hospitality, the finishing line for the crossing. Later, limping into a press conference dressed as a pirate, with a black eye patch and a stuffed parrot on his shoulder, Branson wallowed in the attention of his guests. His easygoing manner and availability encouraged newspapers to repeat his self-description as a ‘daredevil’ for whom ‘a race across the Atlantic is all in a day’s fun for Her Majesty’s wackiest tycoon’. Although the misdescription as ‘the son of a judge and a ballet dancer [who] doesn’t drink much and doesn’t smoke at all’ was mystifying, Virgin’s active press office, primed to demand swift corrections, was grateful that Branson’s occasional collapse into drunkenness at parties and his smoking passed unmentioned. The only casualty was Ted Toleman who was discovering the undeclared price for Branson’s co-operation as he was cast into the shadows.

      By 10 August 1985, as the catamaran bobbed in the sunlight by a Manhattan quay on the eve of departure, Branson, despite his technical and navigational ignorance, was fêted in the media as the expedition’s captain. Four days later, after a trip refreshed by refuelling stops, the first ‘race’ ended in disaster. The boat hit some flotsam and sank just two hours from the finishing line. It was an ignominious end to what Chay Blyth described as ‘An easy trip. Not life threatening.’

      Stepping from the sinking catamaran into a life vessel, Branson was inspiring his publicity machine by radio to twist his flop into success: ‘Branson – the hero who bravely escaped from the clutches of death.’ Conveniently, Branson’s son Sam had been born during the first day of the journey and a publicist had arranged for Joan to tastefully pose for photographs which were published by newspapers on the front page reporting how the ‘daredevil’ father toasted his new born. He was lionised for his bravery. The thirty-five-year-old Branson could chortle about millions of pounds of free advertising. Even disasters could be presented as a success. Many Britons were entranced. Reservations for Virgin Atlantic increased. ‘Virgin is worth over £150 million,’ he preened to a television audience, notwithstanding that it still owned just one plane flying one route.

      His greater bravado was to complete his cosseted transatlantic crossing while disguising his latest financial crisis, during which Coutts had threatened to dishonour Virgin’s next cheque. Branson’s business, employing 1,100 people, was again on the brink of chaos. Financial crisis had become a normal part of life, but the stakes on each occasion were higher. His knee-jerk entry into new ventures – first the airline, then computer games, television and holidays – had sucked cash from the record business. Buying rock groups had become more expensive, costing millions before any profits were earned. Without organisation or accountability, Virgin’s casually managed finances had obscured the losses caused by bad management. Although the company’s pre-tax losses in 1981 of £1.3 million had improved to profits of £12 million in 1985, and turnover had risen in the same period from £30 million to £152 million, the company had pressing debts of £7.6 million, tax debts of £7 million and owed in total £22 million, mostly on the aircraft’s lease. Branson’s optimism about Virgin Communications, managed by Robert Devereux, seemed misplaced despite his annual report’s reference to an ‘excellent year with turnover more than doubled, with pre-tax profits rising five fold’. As a recent founder of British Satellite Broadcasting, Virgin would be, he proclaimed, ‘in the leading position in the television market in the nineties’ despite offering European viewers old English language television programmes. To fulfil his ambition to own Britain’s biggest international entertainment group, Branson and Devereux required money, creative talent and the respect of the industry regulators. They failed on all the requirements.

      His salvation appeared to be Roger Seelig, a confident, talented and aggressive merchant banker at Morgan Grenfell. ‘You’re lucky that you can take advantage of lax accounting standards,’ the banker told Branson, surveying a company on the verge of disaster. The best solution, advised Seelig, was to borrow money in the City by floating the company on the stock exchange. The first step was to appoint professional managers. Branson’s instinctive reaction was negative. Outside scrutiny and participation in his secret business was loathsome. But necessity dictated his agreement. At least a flotation would provide money for expansion, settle unpaid taxes and debts, and provide another opportunity to transfer his wealth to offshore trusts to avoid future taxation.

      Terry Baughan, Virgin’s finance director, was the first casualty. ‘He’s no good,’ Branson was told. On Seelig’s recommendation, in August 1984, Don Cruickshank, a forty-three-year-old accountant formerly employed by Thomson Newspapers and Pearson, was appointed Virgin’s managing director. In April 1985, Cruickshank recruited Trevor Abbott, a thirty-five-year-old accountant employed at MAM, a diversified entertainment company, as finance director. Both were attracted by the glamour of Branson and Virgin. Branson offered something special, even unique, to some professional businessmen. His ‘can-do’ enthusiasm attracted those stultified by business’s traditional hierarchies. ‘He’s a man,’ Abbott soon after remarked, ‘who can turn stone into money.’ At the end of that year, twenty-five City institutions loaned Virgin £20 million.

      Suddenly free of immediate financial pressure, Branson focused again on his self-promotional campaign. Only a successful speedboat crossing of the Atlantic satisfied his requirement. The publicity for the failure had been substantial. Success would be a bigger prize. He marvelled at its simplicity. Thanks to the media uncritically reproducing his own comparison of himself with Scott of the Antarctic, the public believed the venture was dangerous. But the crossing on a new boat, refuelled by Esso tankers as his crew were fed hot Irish stew, with the promised support of the Royal Air Force and other rescue organisations, would be safer than a drive along the M4 motorway.

      Branson’s priority was a better boat, not one built by Ted Toleman. Delivering the message was painful – for Toleman. In Branson’s customary manner, the bad news was drip fed. Not only did Toleman lose the contract for building the new craft, but Chay Blyth was hired by Branson and three of Toleman’s best staff were poached by Virgin, although Branson would suggest that each had asked for the job. Toleman was ‘on his way’.

      ‘How can we describe Richard?’ Chris Moss, the marketing expert snared by Branson, asked Blyth, the captain of the crossing.

      ‘Call him skipper,’ replied Blyth, understanding Branson’s vanity. ‘After all, he’s paying the bills. Just call me Number One.’

      On 12 August 1986, Virgin’s publicity machine corralled dozens of journalists and TV cameras into New York harbour. Since the single purpose of the trip was to publicise Virgin Atlantic, Branson spoke ceaselessly. ‘We are like Scott of the Antarctic,’ he repeated. ‘We’re proud to follow in his footsteps’. Branson’s generosity towards the media silenced the cynics who had noted the absurdity of the comparison.

      Linked by radio to Virgin’s control centre in Britain, Branson set off not on a nautical but a journalistic marathon. During the four days, he ceaselessly gave interviews, endlessly repeating the same thoughts of bravery and derring-do. To enliven an unexpectedly dull voyage, the man who was determined not to be forgotten even invented a passing whale to suggest danger. ‘It was just as safe as the first trip,’ Blyth grunted, contradicting Branson’s on-the-verge-of-death accounts.

      With just two hours to spare, the boat crossed the finishing line. Branson’s luck was extraordinary. Millions were СКАЧАТЬ