Kitabı oku: «Memoirs of a Fruitcake», sayfa 2
TOP 10 THINGS A PROPRIETOR SHOULD NEVER DO
10 Get drunk with the staff
9 Think an employee is ever having a natural conversation with them
8 Park a big posh car right outside the building
7 Have more meetings
6 Become involved in personal issues
5 Trust anyone
4 Be swayed from your core beliefs
3 Employ pals
2 Employ beautiful secretaries
1 Incentivise the workforce: reward – yes; dangle carrot – no. One day you will run out of carrots
WITH THE PURCHASE OF VIRGIN RADIO, unbeknown to me, the seeds of what was to become a lonely and almost fatal madness had also been sown. The aforementioned artistic freedom was there, for sure, but this came hand in hand with corporate responsibility, and these two components, yoked together, were never going to happily coexist. Something I would unfortunately have to discover the hard way.
I should have spotted the signs. I remember turning up for work at Golden Square in Soho one morning, no more than a month into my tenure. It was the middle of winter, when early mornings are painful to the touch. No sooner had I entered the building than I was confronted with what must have been fifty or sixty boxes piled on the ground floor, taking up so much room they almost made the corridor impassable. Upon inspection I discovered that inside each of these boxes was a brand new computer.
‘What do we need all these computers for?’ I remember asking myself. ‘What’s wrong with the ones we already have? Who is cleared to sign cheques for such large orders and shouldn’t I know about purchases of such bulk?’
Not the most colourful of thoughts with which to start one’s day.
For ownership – see headaches. Lord, why did I not realise? Lots of people (OK, men, mostly) like the idea of owning their local pub, or golf course, or restaurant, but it’s far better just to go there, have some fun, pay the bill and leave the mowing of the fairways and cleaning of the dirty pots to someone else.
Worse than managing things, though, is managing people.
I will never forget my first encounter with a group of my new employees, when I organised for all the DJs to meet up at the local pub for a bonding session. I thought they would be a like-minded bunch to start with; my fellow presenters in a world full of padded walls, soundproof glass and overblown egos. In contrast to other stations – where off air, the DJs barely ever see or speak to each other – I was determined that at my radio station things would be different. We would be one big happy family, like the Monkees on telly, or the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. I thought a regular get together would give my guys a voice, a feeling of inclusiveness – nothing too cute or touchy-feely, merely a line of communication to each other and to me, their boss. I thought the best plan would be to organise a lunchtime meeting in a pub round the corner from the studio.
Wrong!
The morning meeting I had across town that day overran and, as a result, I found myself having to sprint the mile or so back to base to make it on time for our DJ summit. I eventually arrived at the pub a few minutes after one o’clock, puffed out and red in the face but nonetheless excited about the prospect of meeting my elite guard all together for the first time. I was looking forward to a few beers and getting down to the business of encouraging the guys to spring forth their opinions and visions for our future together.
Wrong! Again.
There they were, my all-star line-up, stood somewhat lacklustre to say the least, at the bar, barely saying a word to each other.
What on earth were they thinking? Did they have it in their minds that I was going to fire them on the spot?
Looking back, perhaps they did. Perhaps it was exactly that, their lack of cheery chat may well have been terror-induced, but they were not to know my motive was one of unification, not suppression.
Already I could sense that this wasn’t going to plan and they were getting the wrong end of the stick. I was definitely one of them but in danger now of being perceived as a potential enemy – as having crossed over to the dark side.
Sure DJs did fall by the wayside as a result of my proprietorship. The management of people is a huge and complicated task and one that takes a very special talent, a talent not to be underrated.
‘Show me the money,’ Tom Cruise famously said in Jerry Maguire. Tom, you were wrong.
‘Show me the manager,’ any day of the week.
TOP 10 CRAZY THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR MONEY
10 Spend it on people you have never met before
9 Spend it on people you don’t like
8 Spend it on people you suspect don’t like you
7 Spend it on really expensive wine, when everyone is too far gone to appreciate it
6 Spend it on holidays you don’t want to go on
5 Lend it to idiots
4 Invest in businesses run by idiots
3 Play the stock market (the big boys have the rest of us by the balls)
2 Think for one second it can ever buy you happiness
1 Forget how hard you worked to earn it
ULTIMATELY, MY OWNERSHIP OF THE GINGER MEDIA GROUP (GMG) would last no longer than two years, thank God, after which my brief and bizarre run as a rookie media mogul would morph into my becoming a multi-millionaire part-time DJ, with too much time on his hands and a bank account burning a hole in his pocket. Sounds fabulous, doesn’t it?
So why, then, is such coveted good fortune all too often the downfall of the people who come to experience it?
Perhaps it’s something to do with the paradise syndrome – a recognised psychological condition in which people imagine things are too good to be true, and so end up sabotaging them until they return once again to the shitty bad old days.
Was this what happened to me? I suspect it was. But before I get to the part where it all went wrong, let me cut to the chase and tell you how all this money ended up coming my way in the first place.
It was my job as proprietor of GMG, along with my CEO, David Campbell – DC, as I’ve always known him – and my agent Michael, to grow our new business from day one, just as we had promised our investors we would do. We had claimed to be able to at least double the £87 million we had originally paid, within three to five years. If and when this was achieved, we had agreed to sell it again and all retire to the Bahamas – or as it turned out in my case, Guildford.
Our initial plan for the ‘growing’ part was based around building up our already established television and radio business, whilst at the same time diversifying into becoming a more broad-based media company. The internet had just been born, and digital television and radio-broadcast platforms were taking their first steps as toddlers. In short, we were witnessing the beginnings of a communications and technological revolution, and rarely, if ever, had there been a better time for expansion.
GMG’s growth was, however, about to be stunted.
There was a problem, you see, a very simple problem – we were too successful, too quickly, without really doing very much at all. The ratings and revenue from the radio station increased at such an unexpected rate after we had taken over that the business almost immediately doubled and then almost tripled in value. Suddenly there was very little for us to do, over and above turning up for work every day. There was no need to push ourselves, there was no need to look for new opportunities and, most importantly of all, there was no need for us to take any risks.
So what was the problem, you may ask?
Well, it was like this. I had a very ambitious management team consisting of several natural entrepreneurs whose very DNA dictated they had to take any money-making heat they could get their hands on and turn it into a full-blown volcano – whether it was needed or not. Unfortunately at this juncture, because of our premature success in reaching and exceeding all our financial targets, these same guys soon found themselves at direct loggerheads with the boys and girls in our boardroom.
The management wanted to stick to the original brief of expansion, whereas our investors only cared about extracting the added value. As this point had already been reached, the investors understandably didn’t want any further and unnecessary throws of the dice.
Here’s what happened next:
Everyone knew we were worth millions more than just a few months before, maybe even as much as a hundred million more, maybe even more than that. In short, we were very good for credit, almost fireproof. Not surprisingly the management team decided the time was ripe for taking on bigger challenges – like buying a national newspaper for example, specifically the Daily Star.
If you want to make money, never buy a gleaming champion for sale at the top of the market, go instead for a leaky old boat that no one wants or cares about anymore.
The Daily Star was that boat; it was losing money hand over fist, had problems with its printing and distribution, and had become a predictable one-trick pony of gossip, girls and sport done on the cheap. However it was still also enjoying half-decent circulation figures and, with a little love and affection both behind the scenes and on the page, my trusty CEO, DC, reckoned it could be polished up and be back in the black within a year. He had investigated alternative ways of printing and the sharing of distribution facilities to help cut costs, and he and I had even had a clandestine lunch with Piers Morgan who, in principle, had agreed to be our editor.
Our thinking was something along the lines of radio stations being very similar to newspapers in so many ways. Why couldn’t our millions of new listeners become millions of new readers, and vice versa?
As momentum around Project Star gathered pace, the frisson of our second big deal was well and truly in the air – especially when we discovered we could snap up this ailing daily for the knock-down price of just £25 million, a snip at the time for a UK national newspaper title.
Alas, though, it was not to be.
The board rejected our request for permission to buy the Daily Star hands down. We had the deal in the bag, but they were insistent we didn’t need it. Their exact phrase was ‘Why do we need to bet the ranch anymore?’
The board left us in no doubt that they were more than happy with things as they stood. My management team, on the other hand, could not have been less satisfied with the situation. In fact they were about to throw their toys, along with their immense talent, right out of our company pram.
As soon as they were informed of the board’s decision, all three of them – the chief executive officer, the financial officer and the managing director – walked straight out of the building.
I couldn’t believe it.
Here was I, a radio DJ, former newsagent, kiss-o-gram and forklift-truck driver, now alone at the head of a £200 million company with close to two hundred employees and hundreds of thousands of pounds flowing in and out of our accounts on a daily basis.
I needed my boys back and I needed them back bloody quickly. I summoned the board to an emergency meeting scheduled for the second I came off the air the next day.
‘The management feel they can no longer work with you and have left,’ I offered up as a starter.
‘They have what?’ said one of the board.
‘They’ve gone, they’re no longer here, I am on my own and I am just a DJ, I have no idea what really goes on here and we need to get them back.’
‘Oh dear,’ said another member of the board.
‘Precisely,’ I concurred.
‘Well, this is not good, not good at all,’ said a third.
‘I agree wholeheartedly,’ I whimpered. By now they could see I was distressed.
‘What exactly is their issue?’ said the guy who had spoken first.
‘Growing the company is what they do, they identified a perfectly valid opportunity and you have refused point blank to support them.’
The board were sympathetic to their case but immovable when it came to taking any risk. I have to say they had a perfectly sound argument and one with which I was finding it very difficult to disagree. However, I still had a problem.
‘That may be the case,’ I bleated, increasingly desperate, ‘but I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I am on my own on this side of the table and all our employees are about to arrive at work and wonder where the hell the three blokes who run this place have disappeared to.’
‘So what do you want us to do?’ said the first one.
I hadn’t actually thought about the answer to this question. I just presumed the board would know what to do. I opened my mouth and hoped something half-sensible might come out.
‘You need to reassure them that it’s because of their efforts that we find ourselves in the position of having to do nothing.’ So far so good. ‘And then you need to tell them how good they are and … er … give them some more money.’
I have no idea where this last bit came from.
‘You want us to give the management a bonus for walking out?’
I wasn’t sure if I did or not but I wasn’t about to stop now.
‘Yes, more money, they’re businessmen after all, that’s what they’re about. We need to get them back in the door and re-incentivise them at the same time. A cheque each is the only way.’
Now this, dear friends, is me being extremely bad at business but extremely good at selling. Let’s face it, this was a terrible idea. People often say what a great businessman I am but there is nothing further from the truth. I am many things, but I am not, never have been and never will be a great businessman.
Although the management had an almost justifiable beef, there’s no way they should have deserted me in the first place, let alone been rewarded for doing so.
Indeed, when I foolishly tried a similar stunt a couple of years down the line, the whole episode ended up costing me £13 million and I didn’t work for the next three years.
But I must have been very convincing on the day because the board actually agreed to my suggestion, authorising me to dish out some new share options in the direction of my management team – if they deigned to return to work, that is.
I skipped off to the restaurant where they were waiting, happy to be the bearer of good news and confident they would see sense.
When I turned up they looked like three naughty schoolboys hoping to high heaven they weren’t going to get caned. If I’m totally honest, they looked like they thought they might be about to get fired. I suspect that they’d had time to reflect on their impetuousness and were perhaps beginning to think better of it. No need, though, for I only brought glad tidings of great joy.
‘You are all bonused up and back in business’, I declared to three visibly relieved and frankly somewhat surprised faces.
I only wish someone had been able to say the same to me later when, as I’ve said, I tried a similar stunt, but there I go, jumping the gun again.
Now, houses next and how to buy a really big one that you definitely can’t afford.
TOP 10 MUST HAVES WHEN I BUILT MY DREAM HOUSE
10 Helipad
9 Trout lake
8 Hot tub (wooden – outdoor)
7 Village shop in the kitchen
6 Library
5 Waterfall in the library
4 Identical replica of my local pub
3 Steam room
2 Cinema
1 Space
WITH THE ROCK-STAR LIFESTYLE COMES THE ROCK-STAR MANSION and all that goes with it. It’s all so unoriginal, I know, but nobody teaches you how to be rich and I fell for every cliché in the book.
I’d been looking for a place ‘out of town’, as they say, for a year or two and as the millennium was looming I still hadn’t seen anything that remotely took my fancy. Not for want of trying, I might add, as I spent most weekends viewing properties from the east coast of Kent all the way down to the sand dunes of Dorset.
If there was a big house with land for sale, I wanted to see it. I looked at castles, farms, lighthouses, windmills – I even looked at one place that had its own airstrip where the chap who owned it said I could have his Fokker thrown in for free!
So far, though, for one reason or another, nowhere had quite clicked. In fact it was getting to the point where I had just about exhausted all combinations of commutable counties and different types of dwellings therein. I needed something to happen to help me change my mindset, and it did, on a skiing holiday to Whistler in Canada, of all places.
This holiday was a freebie and, like most freebies, was probably more trouble than it was worth. After all who would travel several thousand miles to another continent for a skiing holiday that lasted just four days? Me and my old pal Johnny Boy Revell, that’s who. We were both from council estates and still hadn’t quite got over the fact that people were willing to give us stuff for free.
We almost felt like we had to go, despite the immense jetlag and the fact that by now we were both well off enough to pay for ourselves to go first class practically anywhere in the world. But a bargain was a bargain and so off we trotted deep into the snowy peaks of the Canadian Rockies.
Barely able to keep our eyes open when we arrived, we just about managed to hire a Chevrolet Silverado 4x4 pickup truck, throw our gear in the back and get on our way. We were soon to discover there are some things that can blow the cobwebs of jetlag clean out of the water.
Almost the second we hit the mountain road we became overwhelmed by what lay before us. In less than half an hour we were in a wilderness of calm and serenity, a world away from the hubbub of the tempestuous media rat race. There really was nothing but a blanket of white for as far as our tired eyes could see. Truly spellbinding.
As we continued on our way, we passed countless expanses of icy blue water, one of which was so breath-takingly beautiful we just had to stop, get out and stare at it for a few minutes.
As the wonder of the Rockies continued to astound, a newfound sense of peace slowly began washing over the pair of us but, where I was concerned, I could also feel a slight trace of anger beginning to gnaw at its heels.
‘Where is this anger coming from?’ I thought. ‘This isn’t right, I was about to be really content. Please leave me alone.’
But it wasn’t going anywhere. It wanted a word.
‘Why on earth haven’t you sorted out a house in the country back in the UK yet?’ it snorted. ‘You spend every weekend cooped up in your flat in London crawling from one ugly watering hole to the next when you could be out and about feeling the way you do now. You have the money, go get a life!’
I had to concede this anger had a point. I made a private deal with it to do two things when I returned back home.
1. I would buy a Chevrolet Silverado 4x4.
2. I would buy a house in the country within a month.
True to my word, I ordered the Chevy immediately upon my return, to be delivered on Christmas Day 1998. As for the house, I concluded that because I had looked at well over a hundred in the last year, at least one of which must have been suitable, it could only be reluctance on my part to commit to a big move out of the city that was the problem, rather than not having found a suitable property.
So here’s what I decided to do:
I would simply instruct an estate agent to take me to look at the five best houses currently for sale in the south-east of England, regardless of cost. After seeing all five, I would then undertake to buy the one that I liked the most, even if I didn’t really like it that much at all. This way I was forcing myself into a ‘yes’ situation.
I know this philosophy is a little extreme, especially for a boy who started life on a council estate with little more than his pocket money, his push bike and a paper round, but this is where I now found myself and I was determined to make the most of it.
There was more drastic action to come.
Because these houses were likely to be tens of miles apart, maybe even hundreds, it was going to be quite difficult to compare and contrast them. I therefore informed the agent to arrange all five viewings consecutively on one single day and to meet me that morning at Battersea heliport. I also kindly requested he seek permission from the vendors concerned for us to land in their gardens. We were about to have the viewing trip of a lifetime.
When we climbed up above Richmond Park on the Wednesday morning in question the rest of the world was at work. I don’t know who had to try the hardest to play it cool, the agent or myself. We were both grinning from ear to ear.
Extravagant as this strategy may seem, there was more than a grain of sanity in what we were doing. After all, we were dealing with houses worth several million pounds each, and if it took a one-day lease of a Twin Squirrel to secure the right one, then it would be money well spent. The fact that it was a tonne of fun in the process was merely a bonus, albeit a pretty big one. Plus it meant I could also get to spy into the gardens of any potential new neighbours whilst we were at it.
The first property we looked at was in Windsor, right on the River Thames. It was huge, Georgian, white and stunning. After a quick scoot round, enough to gain a mental picture, we were back on board and up and away again. Next stop Chichester, to look at a renovated castle. This was also very nice. Protected by its own moat, with fabulous lawns, the present owners had spent a small fortune renovating their home by blending ultra-modern with genuinely ancient. As a result there was lots of new glass, mixed in with old stone – a real wow house, but just a bit too far away from London to make it practical.
Two landings completed, two houses down and Windsor was still winning. Time then for number three. The pilot tracked back over the South Downs, overflying Goodwood and Midhurst, before landing on the lawn of a fabulous house just off the A3, complete with its own lake, working water-mill and state-of-the-art recording studio.
‘Who lives in a house like this?’ I could hear the voice in my head say.
‘Roger Taylor from Queen’s place,’ whispered the agent, as if he’d heard me.
The story goes that when Queen had their first hit album, Roger went straight out and bought this house. It didn’t occur to him that they might not have another one; Roger told me this story himself. He also told me about the first time Freddie Mercury came over to visit. He said that Freddie couldn’t believe how audacious the band’s drummer had been with his recent purchase, so much so that he immediately felt compelled to return to London to buy a brand-new white Rolls-Royce from Jack Barclays. Having achieved this in no more than a couple of hours, Freddie was back at Roger’s in his new wheels in time for tea.
Roger couldn’t have been more welcoming that day and his house was to die for; so fabulous, in fact, that he ended up withdrawing it from the market and staying there himself, though not before adding a new library wing – all 7,000 square feet of it.
Time then for house number four.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Hascombe Court, a turn-of-the-century manor house set in forty-seven acres of Gertrude Jekyll gardens, situated a few miles south of Guildford. This house was heaven on earth, sitting atop a hill overlooking the quaint little village from which it took its name.
No more than fifteen minutes after we landed there I made a call to my long-suffering accountant.
‘Kirit, I would like to buy a house.’
‘OK, that’s fine, where is it and how much?’
‘It’s near Guildford and it’s £4 million, which is a bargain because it was £5.5 million.’ This was true; it had been on the market for over a year. I couldn’t believe no one had snapped it up.
‘Chris, you don’t have £4 million.’ ‘I know that, but can we get it?’
Poor Kirit – who actually isn’t poor at all but you know what I mean – he’s had to cope with several telephone calls like this over the years, the most recent being when I bought a car I couldn’t afford at an auction in Italy in 2007. That phone call followed exactly the same lines and both times I’m happy to say he came up with the funds required to indulge my desires.
I never ask how he does it – I think it’s probably best I don’t know – but following such episodes I try not to call him again about anything for as long as I possibly can.
On this occasion I would have to call Kirit back sooner rather than later as it transpired that Hascombe Court and its forty-seven acres turned out to be only the half of it – literally.
After the phone call I discovered that over the road was the second half of the estate which was made up of a farm, three cottages and another hundred and twenty-seven acres which was also up for sale.
‘Kirit, I need a further £1.5 million, there’s more of the estate to be bought.’
‘I see,’ he sighed.
I was so sure about Hascombe Court that I didn’t even bother going to look at house number five, asking the pilot to return us safely and swiftly to London.
Within four weeks I had completed the purchase of both lots for a total purchase price just shy of £6 million. I suddenly had an idea how Roger may have felt all those years before, wondering where his band’s next hit might come from, but you know what? I really didn’t care. Besides, I could always sell it again if I had to, which was a bloody good job because that’s precisely what was destined to happen.
They say one of the best ways to go about making a small fortune is to start with a big one and lose most of it. That is exactly what the stars had lined up for me but I was yet to do the losing bit. So, let’s find out how that happened first, shall we?
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