A multi-millionaire's secret worries

London: If Nick Leslau were still running a public company - as he was, aged only 23 - he would be a household name. Some would love, some loathe, this ebullient, outspoken man who comes across as business's answer to Boris Johnson - but we would all know about his part-ownership of the Saracens rugby club and the collection of sporting memorabilia that adorns his double-height office near Oxford Circus.

"I'm a sucker for toys," he says as I goggle at the glass-roofed space where W.G. Grace's cricket bat vies with the bonnet of a Mini signed by the 2003 rugby World Cup team, plus a poster of Mohammad Ali in his glory days.

By association, these possessions endorse the view that their owner is also "the greatest" - which in his view in the world of property he is. Prestbury Group, the private company of which he is chairman and chief executive, has assets of £3 billion (Dh20.5 billion), including hotels, hospitals, Madame Tussauds and Alton Towers.

Big yacht

But despite owning a Citation jet and a big yacht, currently tootling around the South of France with his family on board, Leslau is insecure. That's not because he's afraid of losing the £15 million (Dh102 million) Mayfair home, complete with cinema, swimming pool, and steam room that he shares with wife Maxine, and three sons, aged 20, 16 and 10.

With the company "only" £2.4 billion (Dh16.4 billion) in debt, he reckons he can weather the crunch: recently he gambled £230 million (Dh1.6 billion) on the housing market rising over the next 10 years.

Being rich does, however, lie at the heart of his insecurity. "People tell me all the time that I am wonderful," he says, running his hand through the flowing locks that once won him modelling assignments, "but I'm a client. Teams of lawyers and surveyors earn money from me... but do they like me?"

Even more to the point, the man who describes himself as being "an a*** for 48 weeks of the year" wonders whether he really likes himself.

That explains why, two months ago, he took off his A Lange & Söhne watch and went to Possilpark in Glasgow. Posing as Nick, a trainee social worker (albeit one with a suspiciously deep tan and camera in tow) he wanted to see if he could get on with people who don't know he's worth at least £200 million (Dh1.37 billion).

"I was scared that I had lost the ability to talk to people about anything except business."

As one of Channel 4's Secret Millionaires, he spent 10 uncomfortable days experiencing life at the other end of the spectrum, leading up to a finale of tears and redemption when the millionaires hand over fat cheques to worthy causes. The series offers the priceless pleasure of seeing pampered people reduced to cleaning loos, but it also has a serious purpose: to get a mainstream audience to consider what deprivation is like.

"My immediate reaction when I was asked to take part was that I didn't want to be seen giving away money on TV, but it did bring to my attention some social issues," says Leslau.

It also offered him the chance to be on television for a full hour. But let's not be cynical about Leslau, who comes across on the programme as a thoroughly good sort who does his best to jolly along people stuck in unspeakably bleak circumstances.

Among the "horror stories" he related to his family on his return was that of a frail, undernourished elderly lady who hadn't left her flat for two years since her best friend died. When delivering her a hot meal, Leslau finds her bedsit so coated in cat excrement that he volunteers to heave sacks of it out to the bins.

Further tear-jerking moments arise when he leads a pony for a girl with only one leg, the result of a botched Caesarian. The grandmother who cares for her as well as a violent schizophrenic relative is visibly shaking from the strain. Leslau is appalled as he hears the story.

"Everyone I met there seems to have been to prison, have stab wounds or be a reformed drug addict," he says. "They were third-generation unemployed."

Moving from one voluntary organisation to another he wrestled with the question of what can be done to break the cycle of deprivation - alongside his worries about whether he was really a nice guy.

No politics

Perhaps he could go into politics? He looks horrified. "Politics is a business for men with small penises," he says. "Maybe politicians were once altruistic, but now they are egocentric people who would mostly do very badly in the real world." Maybe not if he keeps the promise to devote the later years of his life to charitable work. "There's nothing more enjoyable than giving," he affirms. But first he has to join his family on their yacht in the Med.