It's Not What You Think (30 page)

10 Cleaning out their pet’s cage or fish tank

  9 Homework

  8 Doing their expenses

  7 Getting out of bed

  6 Going to the gym

  5 Breaking up with a partner

  4 Going to the doctors (mostly men, admittedly)

  3 Wrapping Christmas presents (alright, men again)

  2 Saying sorry (‘hey look everyone—it’s a hat trick for the guys!’)

  1 Making that awkward phone call…

The next day I was alone in my third-floor office
at Ginger Productions in Great Titchfield Street. I was alternating between staring out of the window and staring down at the telephone number on the beer mat as if it were daring me to make the call. I looked out of the window one more time, after which I had promised myself I would pick up the receiver. After a few more hesitant moments I started to count from sixty to zero to give myself one more minute—something I do a lot though I have no idea why.

As I counted I began rehearsing what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it before taking a deep breath and beginning to dial the number.

‘This should be fun,’ I said out loud, almost trying to convince myself that it might be. Obviously I was completely wrong.

I heard the ring tone and after no more than two rings the line cracked open.

KEN: ‘Hello.’

ME: ‘Hello, is this Kenneth Ibbett?’

KEN: ‘Yes.’

With just three letters this response told me, ‘I don’t care who you are, I haven’t got time for this phone call or anything you might have to say to me. In fact I already wish I hadn’t picked up, now will you please get on with it—you’re wasting my life.’ And why is it that these people always have the most perfectly quiet offices to make their silence seem even louder? I decided I needed to throw my ace card in immediately.

ME: ‘It’s Chris Evans here.’

This is what I heard next:

Nothing.

Not a single word.

It was like the line had gone dead except I could tell it was still there by the deafening ambience humming in my ear. I was crushed. This guy Kenneth didn’t give two shits who I was, or that I was the current host of the breakfast show on his radio station—or even that I had just bagged a whole month of national free publicity for him and his boss, Mr Branson.

Oh come on you ungrateful bastard say something to me.

Still nothing.

ME: ‘I was phoning about the radio station.’

Still nothing—not a word, not even a breath.

At this point I felt a swelling of anger. Now he was just being plain rude. ‘I don’t need this,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just ask him what I want to know and either he’ll tell me or he won’t and that’ll be that—apart from if I ever see him in a bar when I’ll chin the miserable ****.’

This change of mindset was making me feel better, I’d only been in the corporate world for a few seconds and already I had learnt that real businessmen just get on with it. If you’re the one with something for sale and somebody wants it then you’re not the one who has to do most of the talking—or in Kenneth’s case, any talking at all.

I was about to state my reason for bothering him when, just as I went to speak, another thought simultaneously shot into my head. I realised that this man, this living and breathing sponsored silence, had no idea that I was calling about the potential purchase of his radio station—why would he?

ME: ‘Er…’ (
er…fucking er…what the fuck was that…er—no more ‘er’s’, mental note: do not say ‘er’—for the rest of your life
) ‘…I was calling about the radio station?’

Now as you can see I have placed a question mark on the end of that sentence because in my mind I was desperately hoping that in some way this would constitute a question and that Kenneth might now somehow respond.

KEN:
Nothing.

ME: (
Shit, fuck, wank, bastard, bastard, bastard.
) ‘Er…’ (
No, God, please not another er…What am I—Er-man all of a sudden?
)

But worse was to come…

Now let’s just take a time out here for a moment. Let’s get one thing straight. The only other thing I’d ever bought over the phone of any real value was a car. So it was obviously to this ‘model’ that my stupid ginger brain was applying itself when it caused my mouth to utter these next five words.

ME: (
whispering
) ‘Is it still for sale?’

What in God’s name was I thinking? I sounded like a no life who was sat at home with nothing better to do than flicking through the small ads of the local paper and making a few random phone calls to see if I could pick up a bargain—
and why was I whispering?

I was also by now, I might add, literally pouring with sweat. I felt so out of my depth. What was I doing phoning this man up as if I were Donald Trump or J.R. bloody Ewing and asking him if his radio station was ‘still for sale’? It was
£90 million
for crying out loud and I didn’t have any of the money or the first idea how to get
any
of the money.

I was about to pass out when Kenneth spoke his next the words to me.

KEN: ‘Yes it is.’

Result!
Kenneth had spoken to me for a second time—I could have danced, I really could—and moreover, in what was now the most focused conversation I had ever been involved with in my life, I was almost certain I could hear the faintest suggestion of warmth in his voice. My whole being jerked back into action. I decided to go for it, what did I have to lose? It was time to talk turkey.

ME: ‘So, if I had to write you a cheque out today—to buy the radio station, how much would that cheque have to be for?’

KEN: ‘Eighty-seven million pounds and that would be without paper.’

I had no idea what this last phrase ‘without paper’ meant. I had never heard the expression before in my life but no matter, I was on a roll.

ME: ‘Of course Kenneth, paper was never in my thinking. Thank you for your time.’

KEN: ‘Not at all.’

And with those three brief final words Ken was gone, as concisely and efficiently as he had appeared.

Word score for the conversation: KEN 17—CHRIS 66—with two ‘ers’—but no passes. It was several hours before I began to feel normal again.

I had made the call but I had no idea what to do next, so I did what I always do in such circumstances—I called my agent Michael.

I told him about the exchange I had just had with Kenneth and he began to laugh—a lot. Michael doesn’t laugh very often so he must have found the idea of me trying to cut it with one of the big boys absolutely rib-tickling.

‘Well, at least you discovered one thing,’ he sympathised. ‘We only have to find £87 million—not ninety—ha ha.’ He was right—discount for cash, I had forgotten about that bit.

The £90 million price tag, it transpired, was the price that Capital had agreed to pay for Virgin but that included the aforementioned mysterious ‘paper’. This, Michael informed me, was a term referring to Capital paying partly with cash and partly by giving Branson some shares in their own company, it was these shares that were the ‘paper’. Virgin were not prepared to take paper off anyone other than Capital as part of the deal but they were willing to give a £3 million discount to anyone prepared to write out a cheque—bargain eh?

‘I’ll make a few calls,’ Michael went on. He always says this phrase—it sounds so cool, like he’s in a movie. I’ve never had cause to use such a phrase. It is my ambition that one day someone will ask me about something and I too will say, ‘I’ll make a few calls.’

After I put the phone down to Michael I went back to staring out of the window. Things looked exactly as they had done just a few moments before, but the call to Kenneth had set off a chain of events that would catapult me into a whole new world.

Preparation, preparation, preparation.

We had six weeks to get the deal done—that was it, that was when the Monopolies and Mergers Commission were due to clear the way for Capital to proceed with their purchase.

David got to work on the money men—the banks and venture capitalists—whilst Michael concentrated on hiring a team of lawyers.

If you’re going to hire a lawyer, hire the best because if you don’t and the other guys do, then you are sunk. This is exactly what Michael did: he signed up the services of a wise old goat called Simon Olswang. He was cool, very experienced, smooth as silk and very Jewish. He would eventually head our team of twenty-four solicitors!

Meanwhile D.C. had gone back to a company by the name of Apax Partners who were very much involved in the setting up of Virgin Radio at its inception. During this period David had the good fortune to work with a charming American lady by the name of Barbara Manfrey. Barbara was very attractive, tall with that classic combination of dark hair and pale skin. She was slim, almost always wore red lipstick and had a penchant for pearls. She always dressed immaculately and was a very influential member of the senior management there.

Barbara’s belief in David and Michael and her readiness to take me at face value would prove to be the glue that would stick our deal together. In the course of the next month and a half, she would shed tears, take risks, suffer unnecessary abuse and put her reputation on the line, all to help us achieve our goal.

I think it was very much to do with Barbara’s presence and the fact that she was a woman that we were able to accomplish our task within such a limited time frame. Barbara’s ego was far smaller than those of any of the men involved and you may not be surprised to learn that it is the existence of such huge male egos that often stops some of the best things in life happening. When Barbara was in the room, however, the boys knew they had to behave.

Each conscript to our cause brought their own set of tools and skills to the table but Barbara brought a whole workshop full. Her practical approach to getting things done, her skill in the financial world, her powers of persuasion along with her talent and patience when it came to sensitive negotiation, and her all-round diplomacy were absolutely essential in pulling together what was quickly becoming a delicate web of personalities and priorities. Within only a matter of days Barbara agreed we had a strong enough proposal to make a formal request to her superiors for a loan of £20 million. She set up a meeting with her boss—what a guy.

When he arrived in the boardroom to see us he looked like a movie star from the fifties. He was taller than me at well over six foot two, broad shouldered, chiselled good looks with tanned skin and silver hair swept back. He was dressed in a sharp pin-striped suit that looked like it had never been sat down in. He hadn’t said a word yet but he was already my hero.

This was just one of the many meetings I would attend that I considered it an entire privilege to be at. I had stumbled into this exciting world of high finance and was now witnessing these guys at the top of their game and all in the name of helping make my dream come true.

The film-star guy was called Ronald, and as a venture capitalist it was his brief to provide his clients with at least a 33 per cent return on their capital within three years. If you wanted him to invest in you—you had to prove you could deliver.

Our business plan required total funding of £87 million, which we then predicted would be worth between £175 million and £300 million within five years. We explained to Ronald that we were confident that should he want to exit after the usual three years, he would indeed be able to expect his usual required return—if not more.

He listened intently, thanked us when we had finished, wished us good luck and said he’d be in touch.

The next day I received a call from Michael.

‘Ronald says he’s in!’ he screamed down the phone.

‘You are joking me!’ I screamed back, but Ronald was not joking, Ronald does not joke. That’s why Ronald is Ronald.

Ronald was one of the biggest players in town and he had now agreed to be on our team.

With Ronald and his £20 million in the bank, we were still £67 million shy of what we needed to buy the radio station but we now had a real big grown-up financial firm that believed in us which could only serve to further our cause. With the help of Apax we began to find people more willing to take us seriously. This was further aided by the fact that Barbara had now joined forces with Michael and David full time on the fund-raising front.

It was only a few days later when their funding trail led them to an extremely ornate private dining room in Paris, where a highly secretive meeting was to take place.

There was a bank, you see, a very nice French bank, who favoured investment in media businesses. They had heard of our plans and were keen to talk. We were running out of time so decided to gamble on asking them for a sizable chunk of the rest of the money—£45 million was the figure we would propose.

At this point I suppose I should explain what it was we were saying to these people.

It was simple really. David and Michael explained where radio as a business was now and where they believed it was going whilst I explained how I might make the audience grow. The key to the financial argument was that Capital were paying a fair price for what the radio station was worth today but with a more dynamic and exciting breakfast show driving the ratings it could easily be worth double that almost overnight.

Their one main concern was my reliability. How did they know I was going to stick around and put the hours in for the number of years required to make a real difference to the value of the station after my disastrous ego-fuelled exit from Radio 1?

I spared no pains to assure them that I privately considered this the biggest mistake of my career thus far and one that I did not want to repeat any time soon. Furthermore, I went on that it was in fact the righting of this wrong that was now driving me to buy my own radio station so I could get back to doing what I loved.

‘Alright,’ they said, ‘if you really mean that—and we think you do, otherwise we wouldn’t be here—we need you to tell us how much money you have in your personal bank account and we then want you to withdraw every penny of that money and put it into the deal.’