Losing My Virginity: How I Survived, Had Fun, and Made a Fortune Doing Business My Way Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Praise

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  ‘Screw it. Let’s do it.’

  1 ‘A family that would have killed for each other.’

  1950–1963

  2 ‘You will either go to prison or become a millionaire.’

  1963–1967

  3 Virgins at business

  1967–1970

  4 ‘I am prepared to try anything once.’

  1970–1971

  5 Learning a lesson

  1971

  6 ‘Simon made Virgin the hippest place to be.’

  1971–1972

  7 ‘It’s called Tubular Bells. I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  1972–1973

  8 ‘To be second choice means nothing.’

  1974–1976

  9 Never mind the bollocks

  1976–1977

  10 ‘“I thought I’d move in,” Joan said.’

  1976–1978

  11 Living on the edge

  1978–1980

  12 ‘Success can take off without warning.’

  1980–1982

  13 ‘You go ahead with this over my dead body.’

  1983–1984

  14 Laker’s children

  1984

  15 ‘It was like being strapped to the blade of a vast pneumatic drill.’

  1984–1986

  16 The world’s biggest balloon

  1986–1987

  17 ‘I was almost certainly going to die.’

  1987–1988

  18 ‘Everything was up for sale.’

  1988–1989

  19 Preparing to jump

  1989–1990

  20 ‘Who the hell does Richard Branson think he is?’

  August–October 1990

  21 ‘We would have about two seconds to say our last prayers.’

  November 1990–January 1991

  22 Flying into turbulence

  January–February 1991

  23 Dirty tricks

  February–April 1991

  24 The kick boxer in the first room

  April–July 1991

  25 ‘Sue the bastards.’

  September–October 1991

  26 Barbarians at the departure gate

  October–November 1991

  27 ‘They’re calling me a liar.’

  November 1991–March 1992

  28 Victory

  March 1992–January 1993

  29 Virgin territory

  1993–1998

  30 Diversity and adversity

  1998–2005

  31 Changes

  2006

  32 Flying High

  2007

  Index

  Picture Section

  Picture Credits

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Much more than just a memoir, this is Richard Branson’s own take on his extraordinary life so far – and a definitive business guide that reveals his unique philosophy on commerce, success and life.

  Richard looks back on how Virgin grew from a mail-order music business into the global brand it is today, and how, rather like his balloon flights, the years have been as much about endurance and survival as they have been about runaway success. He shares the inside story of his latest projects in the areas of health, the environment and the media, as well as his reflections on his own intrepid adventures and family life.

  From the $25 million Virgin Earth Challenge to the launch of Virgin Galactic, this is a powerful and unique inside look into the life of an iconic global entrepreneur.

  About the Author

  Richard Branson is chairman of the Virgin Group. He was born in 1950 and educated at Stowe School, where he set up Student magazine when he was sixteen years old. In 1970 he founded Virgin as a mail order record retailer, and shortly afterwards opened a record shop on London’s Oxford Street. Two years later the company built a recording studio and Virgin Records went on to become one of the top six record companies in the world.

  Since then the Virgin Group has expanded to encompass around two hundred companies in over thirty countries. Richard is the only person in the world to have built eight billion-dollar companies from scratch in eight different sectors. He recently established the $25 million Virgin Earth Challenge and has pledged £200 million for renewable energy projects. Through the Virgin Group’s charitable arm, Unite, Richard is working to develop new approaches to social and environmental problems.

  Richard’s autobiography, Losing My Virginity, and his books on business, Screw It, Let’s Do It and Business Stripped Bare, are all international bestsellers. He lives on Necker Island in the British Virgin Islands and is married with two grown-up children.

  www.richardbranson.com

  Praise

  ‘Grabs you on page one and never lets go … read what makes this brilliant and hardworking man tick’ Spectator

  ‘Candid and humorous’ The Times

  ‘An incredible man, and this is an incredible autobiography … a great read – sex, balloons, intrigue and money’ Sunday Business

  ‘For anyone burning with entrepreneurial zeal, his reminiscences are akin to a sacred text’ Mail on Sunday

  ‘Branson bares his soul – and everything else – in a non-fiction blockbuster … a must-read’ Business Age

  RICHARD

  BRANSON

  LOSING MY VIRGINITY

  THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  Dedicated to Alex Ritchie and his family

  A special thank-you to Edward Whitley for helping me pull this project together. Edward spent two years in my company, practically lived in my house, waded through 25 years of scribbled notebooks and helped bring them to life.

  Prologue

  ‘Screw it. Let’s do it.’

  Tuesday 7 January 1997, Morocco

  5.30a.m.

  I WOKE BEFORE JOAN and sat up in bed. From across Marrakech I heard the wavering cry of the muezzins calling people to prayer over the loudspeakers. I still hadn’t written to Holly and Sam, so I tore a page out of my notebook and wrote them a letter in case I didn’t return.

  Dear Holly and Sam,

  Life can seem rather unreal at times. Alive and well and loving one day. No longer there the next.

  As you both know I always had an urge to live life to its full. That meant I was lucky enough to live the life of many people during my 46 years. I loved every minute of it and I especially loved every second of my time with both of you and Mum.

  I know that many people thought us foolish for embarking on this latest adventure. I was convinced they were wrong. I felt that everything we had learnt from our Atlantic and Pacific adventures would mean that we’d have a safe flight. I thought that the risks were acceptable. Obviously I’ve been proved wrong.

  However, I regret nothing about my life except not being with Joan to finally help you grow up. By the ages of twelve and fifteen your characters have already developed. We’re both so proud of you. Joan and I couldn’t have had two more delightful kids. You are both kind, considerate, full of life (even witty!). What more could we both want?

  Be strong. I know it won’t be easy. But we’ve had a wonderful life together and you’ll never forget all the good times we’ve had.

  Live life to its full yourselves. Enjoy every minute of it. Love and look after Mum as if she’s both of us.

  I love
you,

  Dad

  I folded the letter into a small square and put it in my pocket. Fully clothed and ready, I lay down beside Joan and hugged her. While I felt wide awake and nervous, she felt warm and sleepy in my arms. Holly and Sam came into our room and cuddled into bed between us. Then Sam slipped off with his cousins to go to the launch site and see the balloon in which I hoped shortly to fly round the world. Joan and Holly stayed with me while I spoke to Martin, the meteorologist. The flight, he said, was definitely on – we had the best weather conditions for five years. I then called Tim Evans, our doctor. He had just been with Rory McCarthy, our third pilot, and had bad news: Rory couldn’t fly. He had mild pneumonia, and if he was in a capsule for three weeks it could get much worse. I immediately called up Rory and commiserated with him.

  ‘See you in the dining room,’ I said. ‘Let’s have breakfast.’

  6.20a.m.

  By the time Rory and I met in the hotel dining room, it was deserted. The journalists who had been following the preparations for the launch over the previous 24 hours had already left for the launch site.

  Rory and I met and hugged each other. We both cried. As well as becoming a close friend as our third pilot on the balloon flight, Rory and I had been joining forces recently on a number of business deals. Just before we had come out to Morocco, he had bought a share in our new record label, V2, and had invested in Virgin Clothes and Virgin Vie, our new cosmetics company.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m letting you down,’ Rory said. ‘I’m never ill – never, ever.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I assured him. ‘It happens. We’ve got Alex, who weighs half what you do. We’ll fly far further with him on board.’

  ‘Seriously, if you don’t come back,’ Rory said, ‘I’ll carry on where you left off.’

  ‘Well, thanks!’ I said, laughing nervously.

  Alex Ritchie was already out at the launch site supervising the mad dash to get the capsule ready with Per Lindstrand, the veteran hot-air balloonist who had introduced me to the sport. Alex was the brilliant engineer who had designed the capsule. Until then, nobody had succeeded in building a system that sustained balloon flights at jet-stream levels. Although it was he who had built both our Atlantic and Pacific capsules, I didn’t know him well, and it was too late to find out much about him now. Despite having no flight training, Alex had bravely made the decision to come with us. If all went well with the flight, we’d have about three weeks to get to know each other. About as intimately as any of us would want.

  Unlike my crossings with Per of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans by hot-air balloon, on this trip we would not heat air until we needed to: the balloon had an inner core of helium which would take us up. Per’s plan was to heat the air around that core during the night, which in turn would heat the helium, which would otherwise contract, grow heavy and sink.

  Joan, Holly and I held hands and the three of us embraced. It was time to go.

  8.30a.m.

  We all saw it at the same time. As we drove along the dirt road out to the Moroccan air base, it looked as if a new mosque had sprouted overnight. Above the bending, dusty palm trees, a stunning white orb rose up like a mother-of-pearl dome. It was the balloon. Men on horseback galloped along the side of the road, guns slung over their shoulders, heading for the air base. Everyone was drawn to this huge, gleaming white balloon hanging in the air, tall and slender.

  9.15a.m.

  The balloon was cordoned off, and round the perimeter railing was an amazing collection of people. The entire complement of the air base stood off to one side in serried ranks, dressed in smart navy-blue uniforms. In front of them was the traditional Moroccan collection of dancing women in white shawls, hollering, wailing and whooping. Then a group of horsemen dressed in Berber costume and brandishing antique muskets galloped into view and lined up in front of the balloon. For an awful moment, I thought they would fire a celebratory salvo and puncture the balloon. Per, Alex and I gathered in the capsule and did a final check of all the systems. The sun was rising rapidly and the helium was beginning to expand.

  10.15a.m.

  We had done all the checks, and were ready to go. I hugged Joan, Holly and Sam one last time. I was amazed at Joan’s strength. Holly had been by my side for the last four days, and she too appeared to be totally in control of the situation. I thought that Sam was as well, but then he burst into tears and pulled me towards him, refusing to let go. I almost started crying with him. I will never forget the anguished strength of his hug. Then he kissed me, let go and hugged Joan. I ran across to kiss Mum and Dad goodbye. Mum pressed a letter into my hand. ‘Open it after six days,’ she said. I silently hoped we would last that long.

  10.50a.m.

  There was nothing left to do except climb up the steel steps into the capsule. For a second I hesitated and wondered when and where I would put my feet back on solid ground – or water. There was no time to think ahead. I stepped in through the hatch. Per was by the main controls; I sat by the camera equipment and Alex sat in the seat by the trap door.

  11.19a.m.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five … Per counted down and I concentrated on working the cameras. My hand kept darting down to check my parachute buckle. I tried not to think about the huge balloon above us, and the six vast fuel tanks strapped round our capsule. Four, three, two, one … and Per threw the lever which fired the bolts which severed the anchor cables and we lifted silently and swiftly into the sky. There was no roar of the burners: our ascent was like that of a child’s party balloon. We just rose up, up and away and then, as we caught the morning breeze, we headed over Marrakech.

  The emergency door was still open as we soared up, and we waved down at the, by now, little people. Every detail of Marrakech, its square pink walls, the large town square, the green courtyards and fountains hidden behind high walls, was laid out below us. By 10,000 feet it became cold and the air grew thin. We shut the trap door. From now on we were on our own. We were pressurised, and the pressure would mount.

  Our first fax came through the machine just after midday.

  ‘Oh God!’ Per handed it over. ‘Look at this.’

  ‘Please be aware that the connectors on the fuel tanks are locked on,’ I read.

  This was our first mistake. The connectors should have been locked off so that, if we got into trouble and started falling, we could jettison a one-ton fuel tank by way of ballast.

  ‘If that’s our only mistake, we’re not doing badly,’ I said, in an attempt to cheer Per up.

  ‘We need to get down to 5,000 feet and then I’ll climb out and unlock them,’ Alex said. ‘It’s not a problem.’

  It was impossible to lose height during the day because the sun was heating the helium. The only immediate solution was to release helium, which, once released, would be impossible to regain. We couldn’t afford to lose any helium. So we agreed to wait for nightfall to bring the balloon down. It was a nagging worry. We didn’t know how this balloon would fly at night, and with our fuel tanks locked on our ability to escape trouble was limited.

  Although Alex and I tried to brush off the problem of the locked canisters, it sent Per into a fierce depression. He sat slumped by the controls in a furious silence, speaking only when we asked him a direct question.

  We flew serenely for the rest of the day. The views over the Atlas Mountains were exhilarating, their jagged peaks capped with snow gleaming up at us in the glorious sunshine. The capsule was cramped, full of supplies to last us eighteen days. It emerged that failing to lock off the connectors was not the only thing we’d forgotten. We’d also neglected to pack any lavatory paper, so we had to wait to receive faxes before we could go down the tiny spiral staircase to the loo. And my Moroccan stomach was in need of a lot of faxes. Per maintained his glowering silence, but Alex and I were just grateful that we knew about the canisters then rather than finding out the hard way.

  As we approached the Algerian border we had a second shock when the Algerian
s informed us that we were heading straight for Béchar, their top military base. They told us that we could not fly over it: ‘You are not, repeat not, authorised to enter this area,’ said the fax.

  We had no choice.

  I spent about two hours on the satellite phone to Mike Kendrick, our flight controller, and tried various British ministers. Eventually André Azoulay, the Moroccan minister who had ironed out all our problems for the launch in Morocco, came to the rescue again. He explained to the Algerians that we could not change our direction and that we did not have powerful cameras on board. They accepted this, and relented.

  As the good news came through, I scribbled down notes in my logbook. As I turned over another page, there was a handwritten note from Sam, in thick black ink and Sellotaped to the page: ‘To Dad, I hope you have a great time. Safe journey. Lots and lots of love, your son Sam.’ I recalled that he’d slipped into the capsule without me the previous night, and now I knew why.

  By 5p.m. we were still flying at 30,000 feet. Per started firing the burners to heat the air inside the envelope. Although we burnt for an hour, just after 6p.m. the balloon started losing height steadily.

  ‘Something’s wrong with the theory here,’ Per said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Per was firing the burners continuously, but the balloon was still heading down. We lost 1,000 feet, and then another 500 feet. It was getting colder all the time as the sun disappeared. It was clear that the helium was rapidly contracting, becoming a dead weight on top of us.

  ‘We’ve got to dump ballast,’ Per said. He was frightened. We all were.

  We pulled levers to dump the lead weights which were on the bottom of the capsule. These were meant to be held in reserve for about two weeks. They fell away from the capsule and I saw them on my video screen dropping like bombs. I had a horrible feeling that this was just the start of a disaster. The capsule was bigger than the Atlantic and Pacific ones, but it was still a metal box hanging off a giant balloon, at the mercy of the winds and weather.