Branson. Tom Bower

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      His admirers in the audience sought from Branson an inspiring vision for his personal and Britain’s future prosperity. ‘What,’ one asked, ‘is your major ambition in the new millennium?’ The hero paused. Bill Gates would have anticipated the next generation of developments of the computer and the internet. Rupert Murdoch, whom Branson once aspired to overtake, would have expounded the future of global communication. But Branson avoided such complicated speculations. The icon’s face assumed the countenance of destiny as he intoned his reply: ‘To run the national lottery.’ Branson gazed thoughtfully across the hundreds of placid faces, unaware of the frisson of disappointment which enveloped his audience.

      Aspiring tycoons in the hall, regarding Branson as a model for ‘shaking up industries and offering a better product’, were fed a simplistic, reductive homily from Britain’s greatest entrepreneur. To create real wealth, they were urged by the acceptable face of capitalism, rely on a label. Ignore education, ignore expertise and ignore technology. In a citadel of academic excellence, Branson had preached anti-knowledge. The new generation, he urged, should believe that sustainable businesses could be created without ‘a great business plan or strategy. Just instinct.’

      The generational division among those inside the Examination Hall was blatantly evident. To those dozens of students, eager to shake their hero’s hand, proffering scraps of paper for his autograph, Branson’s self-generated image of a buccaneer bestriding his own world was laudable. They admired the champion of the underdog who advertised himself as a product. He was the admirable, fun-loving millionaire.

      The older, more sceptical members of the audience, as they slipped out of the hall for a glass of sherry in the Master’s lodgings, mentioned a fallacy. Unlike Bill Gates, they murmured, Branson’s fortune was forged on old ideas that ignored innovation. The result was, they sniffed, self-evident. While Bill Gates’s fortune was valued at $100 billion and constantly rising, Richard Branson’s wealth was a disputed $3 billion and possibly falling.

      

      Three days later, on 11 November 1999, in Leicester Square, London, Branson was sitting on a bright red sofa in a huge Perspex container fixed on a trailer. Six naked young girls were grouped around the master of self-promotion. His latest extension of the brand was Virgin Mobile, a belated bid to join the New Economy developed and dominated for some years by Vodafone, Cellnet and others. Branson never paused to contemplate the relevance of six naked girls clutching mobile telephones to herald his entry into the New Age. Nor was he concerned that his latest marketing stunt technically broke the law. Securing free advertising in the following day’s tabloid newspapers was his sole ambition. ‘Public relations is an important part of running our business,’ Branson once explained. ‘About 20 to 25 per cent of my time is spent on PR.’ No one sold Branson like Branson. His business skills included the publicity skills of a salesman unafraid to yell for attention in a market even if, as he had confided to his Oxford admirers, he lacked any presence or expertise.

      Seeing a policeman striding across Leicester Square, Branson abruptly abandoned the naked girls and scurried to a waiting taxi. While the girls were ordered to dress, Branson had time to reflect that it was just another ordinary day, promoting himself and his ambitions.

      ‘We intend to sell 100,000 telephones by Christmas,’ he pledged that morning, emphasising Virgin’s core values of quality and fun. ‘And one million by Christmas next year.’ By January 2000, just over 100,000 telephones had indeed been sold, although the figure included 20,000 offered at a discount to Virgin employees and their families, but four weeks later Virgin’s telephone network temporarily collapsed. The Virgin brand, promoted by himself as a ‘global business’, was limping. Anti-knowledge, balanced on the edge of a financial precipice, was an uncertain guarantee for success.

      Later on the same day as the launch of the Virgin Mobile, Branson was swigging a bottle of beer at a good humoured promotion party for one thousand young men and women advertised as ‘Very Sexy. Very Decadent.’ A constant flow of admirers sought a few minutes in his company and the opportunity for a photograph. All were attracted by his courage, his blokeishness and his social conscience. The ‘daredevil’s’ oft repeated ambition to ‘make the world a better place’ appealed to those attracted by a pleasant, friendly and unthreatening superstar. Calmly, he stood beside his wife, Joan, personifying the Virgin Dream. At 10.15 p.m., his wife signalled their departure. Outside, a car waited to drive the Bransons to their two adjoining houses in Holland Park worth £10 million. One house, after a recent fire, was for sale. A portent, some unkind observers carped, of the fate of a man who, after thirty years within the warm embrace of tabloid headlines, had become unexpectedly imperilled.

      

      Opportunism, luck, energy and genius created Sir Richard Branson, a man of the people, a man of conscience and a courageous adventurer. The same qualities also produced a man of controversy and cunning. Wilfully and repeatedly thrusting himself into the spotlight, the hero seeks public approval but complains about criticism. Proud to be a tycoon of our time, his appetite for profit and power created a conglomerate which he assumed empowered him to write his epitaph in his own lifetime. Instead, his future is jeopardised by his weaknesses. Almost forty years of self-glorification have taken a toll of a man seeking everlasting fame while occupying the shadows. The self-promoting blueprint for Britain’s economic regeneration offers a tawdry example of mixed blessings and unhelpful lessons. Those prying beyond his veil of secrecy find an entrepreneur unexpectedly contemplating an uncertain future. In a juggler’s career, a moment of reckoning periodically re-emerges. There was one in 2000, and another could be glimpsed on the horizon in 2008.

       1 The crime

      Back in 1969, money was a singular obsession although mention of the subject was impolite. The floppy haired, nineteen-year-old youth wearing black rimmed glasses held together by a plaster, was hunting for profitable ideas.

      ‘What can we do?’ groaned Richard Branson. Three teenagers sat in the smoke-filled basement of a shabby house in Bayswater, London. ‘We need some bread.’ His audience drew hard on their cigarettes. John Varnom and Tony Mellor regarded the younger man as a friend, host and employer. Living with Branson, a benign sovereign, was an enjoyable self-indulgence.

      ‘What about records?’ suggested Varnom desultorily. The twenty-four-year-old-writer and publicist was Branson’s Rasputin and jester.

      ‘We could try mail order,’ sighed Mellor, a hippie with a passion for music.

      Branson jerked excitedly, his imagination racing. Mail order records: the idea would fill a gap in the market, a trader’s dream. There was also an angle. ‘They’ve dropped Resale Price Maintenance,’ he said.

      ‘What’s that?’ asked Mellor admiringly.

      ‘The record companies can’t fix the shops’ prices any more,’ gurgled Branson. ‘Costs nothing to put an ad in a newspaper,’ he continued, ‘and we could sell them cheaper than the shops.’

      The Beatles, the Rolling Stones and the Kinks were just a blur of noise to Branson. Tone deaf and knowing little about music, he rarely listened to records. He was a doer, not a person to wait and listen. But selling cut-price records sounded as exquisite as Cliff Richard singing ‘Bachelor Boy’, his favourite.

      The idea had been sequestrated. A new business shimmered. ‘We’ll put an ad in Student,’ he announced. His beloved magazine, tottering towards extinction, might beget his next enterprise. Readers of Student would be offered any rock record at 10 or 15 per cent less than the shop price.

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