Who is the best-known business person in Britain? The one whose surname we can use without any introduction, the way Americans say "Trump"? The only one of all the people I've ever written about and met, my kids have heard of and want to meet? Branson.
He once phoned my house. They were younger then. My elder son took the call. "Who is it?" I shouted. "Richard," he answered. "Richard who?" "Daddy says Richard who?" "Richard Branson," said my son. His mouth was wide open. The house fell silent. Everyone looked at me. For the first time, I'd earned their respect: Richard Branson rang my Dad.
Yesterday, he was on the phone again, not at home, but in the office. But my children, who have now reached an age when they're thinking about careers and the world of work, were still agog. He'd made almost £700 million from one deal, from selling Virgin Mobile to NTL. He gets £120 million in cash and about £570 million in shares. Oh, and while you do the Lottery every week, he receives a minimum of £8.5 million a year for the next 30 years that should take care of his pension.
"Including the money we got at flotation, we've got over £1 billion out of Virgin Mobile. The original Virgin Records deal [in 1992] was for $1 billion. So this is the biggest yet," he said. Forget the teenagers nobody could fail to be impressed. In just six-and-a-half years, he's turned an initial outlay of £50 million into £1 billion.
It was a typical Branson play: he put in not very much; a partner in this case T-Mobile had already paid billions of pounds for the licensing and technology; the network was stamped Virgin; and more than five million customers, many of them young, were attracted to its hip image. Same with the airline, where Singapore Airlines owns 49 per cent of Virgin Atlantic. Likewise with the trains, where the Virgin logo appears everywhere but the state-of-the-art tilting carriages are leased from Angel Trains, which no one has ever heard of.
Proving a point
The greatest marketing man on earth is on the line. "Maybe I finally proved a point," he says of critics who maintain he's nowhere near as brilliant as he's cracked up to be, that he's very good at taking other people's ideas and using other companies' cash; and that much of what he does turns to dust (and we rarely hear about those).
Listening to Branson's soft tones, I have to pinch myself. It's the same sensation I've experienced whenever I've been to his houses in Holland Park and in Kidlington, near Oxford, whenever I've heard him speak in public or even, as on one occasion, witnessed him pinning badges on the chests of his attractive new stewardesses. How does he do it?
Branson is the very antithesis of what we're taught about winning in business. He isn't charismatic Donald Trump, no less, whose reality TV show in the US was challenged by a rival Branson offering, described him as having "zero personality". He doesn't wear a pinstripe or power suit, certainly never a tie. His hair is always long, his beard has become a trademark.
At school, he took only one A-level in ancient history and cheated in the exam by hiding crib notes in his pockets and under his watchstrap. He left at 17 and, needless to say, didn't go to university. Neither, later, did he do the traditional aspirational managers' MBA.
He doesn't run Virgin from a skyscraper with the brand emblazoned on the roof. He doesn't ride in a chauffeur-driven limousine. Neither does he employ vast phalanxes of executives or management consultants. His relationship with City money men is rocky.
All this and more would suggest Branson shouldn't succeed. But he does. Partly it's down to luck. He was very fortunate when, early on, his parents put up the cash for an out-of-court settlement with Customs and Excise. He would otherwise have gone to jail, but he emerged free even of a criminal record.
He was blessed when John Peel played Tubular Bells by the unknown Mike Oldfield, an artist signed to Virgin, in its entirety on his radio show, and then described it as a "breakthrough into history". And again, when it was chosen as the soundtrack for The Exorcist. He struck gold when he met the private, down-to-earth Joan, who had two children by him, married him and has been a hugely solid influence.
He hit the jackpot when a young US lawyer, Randolph Fields, turned to him, a record producer, and asked if he'd like to invest in a new airline. Branson said no Fields was proposing an all-business-class service from London to New York but the germ of an idea was born. Struck it again, when British Airways, instead of raising its game to match and better his offering, succumbed to paranoia and gave him acres of publicity as the David to its Goliath.
This is by no means an exhaustive list. But against that are things that aren't down to chance. He has natural marketing flair, never missing an opportunity to promote himself and the Virgin brand. He has no shame, so thinks nothing of doing stunts that would make others recoil. He is adept at picking senior managers. "Richard's skill is in finding people to do things for him," said Will Whitehorn, one of his key lieutenants. Branson isn't afraid, either, to delegate.
While his public image is that of a hippie entrepreneur, in private he's well-organised, noting everything down, and supported by an office that ensures his time is strictly managed. In recent years, too, the Virgin group has behind the scenes come to more closely resemble a large corporation, with divisional managers and tight reporting lines. He's also deliberately calculating. "Stelios [of easyJet fame] has tried to duplicate it," he said of Virgin's success yesterday, "but it's difficult if you start downmarket then go upmarket.
Advantages
"One of the advantages Virgin has had is that I've always determined to go for the best, so we have Virgin Upper Class. Similarly, a TV company such as NTL can adopt our brand because it's a quality brand."
Equally, while Branson has enjoyed a love-hate affair with the City it's sceptical of him, he can't stand its interfering he's made sure his deputies smooth the bumps. "I leave that to others," he acknowledges. And he adds, of the Virgin Mobile sale: "I think there's been a fair acquittal in under two years [since the Virgin Mobile flotation] we've produced a 90 per cent return for the City."
For all his laidback manner, he is a perfectionist, prone to blowing a gasket if something isn't just so and the cameras aren't watching. He never stops working; in London in the evenings, in the country at weekends or on holiday on Necker, his private island, he never totally switches off. He has no intention of doing so now, even after pocketing £700 million. His aim is to establish Virgin as a global brand.
"I enjoy it too much to think of stepping back," he laughs. "There's lots more I can do with Virgin I'm determined to create the most respected brand in the world."
Looking back, he says, "I never set out to do it. I suppose I was inquisitive and I loved new challenges. We've been quite fortunate we've been on the edge of our seats a lot of the time."
The looming date in his diary is in two-and-a-half years' time, when Virgin Galactic blasts off with space flights.
"I couldn't change a spark plug and I started Virgin Atlantic," he chortles at the wonder of it all, "and I definitely haven't got a clue about spaceships."
When he left school, his headmaster's parting shot was: "Congratulations, Branson. I predict that you will either go to prison or become a millionaire." He just avoided the former and of course, became the latter. But try explaining it to the kids.
