to capitulate. The Irishman’s refusal had been galling and Branson hoped to settle the dispute over a round of golf near his country house. Robinson, reputedly, was a poor player.
Their dispute centred on a three-year agreement that Virgin’s salesmen would represent Stiff Records for an annual payment of £120,000. Branson had contracted not to represent any other record label without Robinson’s agreement. But in 1980, unknown to Robinson, Branson had signed an agreement to also sell Island Records. ‘I’m not surprised about Richard,’ sighed Robinson after unexpectedly discovering the secret. ‘He’s a greedy bastard.’ Weeks later, on 2 February 1981, during his negotiations with Robinson’s two managers to renew the contract, Branson formally revealed his agreement with Island Records. ‘You can pay less if you sign a new contract for another two years,’ Branson offered. Robinson’s managers said nothing.
Branson was annoyed. Normally, even the most stubborn were persuaded to understand the virtues of his proposals but Robinson refused to sign the new agreement. Branson pondered an alternative plan: he would simply act as if Robinson had agreed to his offer. The attitudes, the morals and the methods of the bazaar had become part of his nature.
After an inconsequential exchange of letters disagreeing with Branson’s conduct, Robinson terminated his agreement with Virgin and established Stiff’s own sales force. ‘That’s a breach of contract,’ declared Branson, nettled that his lucrative new plan was endangered. ‘I’ll sue you,’ he threatened. Normally his threats induced surrender but Robinson was stubborn. ‘You’re threatening because you’ve been stupid and lost face,’ retorted Robinson. ‘My managers never agreed to your offer and my letters prove that.’ To try to settle the argument in his favour, Branson had invited the Irishman for a game of golf and lunch.
Branson fully intended to win the game. Early on the Saturday morning, he covered the course with the club professional and was still practising when Robinson arrived. ‘Bad luck,’ smiled Robinson on the first tee. Branson’s ball had disappeared into the undergrowth. By the fourteenth hole, Branson was trailing and his ball was lost again. Both men searched through the long grass. ‘Found it,’ shouted Branson smirking in a sandy bunker. Branson swung and clubbed the ball against a tree. Robinson smiled and drove his best shot of the game. At the end of the game, Branson blurted, ‘We’ve never settled our dispute.’ Robinson, victorious on and off the course had been classified as an enemy.
Two weeks later, Branson’s writ arrived. ‘I should have let him win the game,’ Robinson lamented. Fighting Branson would risk £600,000. But the quietly spoken Irishman, puzzled by Branson’s attitude, resolved not to avoid the legal challenge.
Breezily, in late 1983, Branson arrived at the High Court in the Strand, in a white, open-necked shirt, bronzed from a holiday on Necker Island. Proudly he stood in the witness box, the only man in the room without a tie. ‘I own sixty companies,’ he boasted to emphasise his substance and reliability, ‘and spend most of my time on the telephone.’ Although he would claim, ‘I never took anyone to court in seventeen years of business’, he did not conceal how much he enjoyed trampling on obstacles.
In the relaxed manner of a man accustomed to court proceedings, Branson testified that his case relied on a conversation, an exchange of letters and his hand-written notes scribbled in a large book. To prove his contention that a new agreement had been concluded on his houseboat on 2 February 1981, Branson quoted from his notebook the ‘very favourable’ reaction to his offer. ‘There was never any question of Stiff being unhappy … There was a clear agreement.’ Branson’s contemporaneous, hand-written notes and his interpretation of the letters and conversations appeared to have sealed the dispute. His performance did not encourage any doubts about his accuracy. To his surprise, Robinson was undeterred.
Branson froze as the lawyer’s accusation resounded across the wood panelled courtroom. ‘You are fabricating!’ Robinson’s lawyer alleged that Branson was inventing conversations which had not occurred in order to strengthen his case. Earlier, Branson had insisted, ‘I have no motive to fabricate’ but Robinson’s lawyers contended that Branson was ‘fabricating’ evidence. This was not the first occasion that Branson’s veracity while under oath had been challenged. At the Old Bailey, his oral evidence had not been accepted. But this challenge attacked the heart of Branson’s credibility. Robinson’s lawyers were suggesting that Branson fabricated notes after the event to sustain his complaint, an allegation which Branson strongly denied.
As his recollection about the conversations was subjected to intense scrutiny, Branson began to contradict himself and deny the credibility of several letters. Suddenly, he paused, searching for answers. ‘I can’t remember,’ he blustered and began to cry. On the knife-edge, the gambler was terrified about the possibility of defeat. At lunchtime, grabbing a pencil, he scribbled a message on a piece of scrap brown cardboard to Robinson: ‘David, you’re a horse-betting man. Spare us the afternoon. Pay up now and we’ll agree to pay our lawyers’ costs. Regards Richard.’ As the court resumed, the cardboard was passed to Robinson. The Irishman shook his head. Branson was incorrigible. He was the same man who would later drool, ‘I was just brought up to behave in a decent way to people. So if someone waves at you, you smile back; if someone says hello, you have a chat. You don’t have to be a complete shit to be a success.’
On the second day of the trial, Branson arrived looking sombre, dressed in a suit and tie. As Robinson’s lawyer pressed to embarrass Branson further, he was halted by Sir Douglas Franks, the judge: ‘I think you’ve made your point.’ The judgement was damning. Branson’s notes, decided the judge, were unreliable. His case was rejected. Robinson was awarded costs. As the appeal court agreed, ‘At business meetings [Branson] does most of the talking and usually gets what he wants.’ But said the judge, even if Branson thought he had achieved what he wanted, ‘I am … certain he was wrong.’ Branson left the court visibly shaking.
‘Something terrible is going to happen,’ Branson confessed shortly afterwards. ‘I just feel it’s all going to blow up.’ Among those witnessing Branson’s unease was Al Clark, unusually welcomed back to the Virgin family. During the eleven years the two had worked together, Clark had watched Branson develop from a stammering youth into an orchestrator of events and people. The Australian, developing Virgin’s investment in feature films, was not the only employee to notice Branson’s jitters. The unreported humiliation in the courtroom could not explain Branson’s nervousness, yet the millionaire repeated, ‘I just don’t see where I’m going.’ Contrary to the image he cultivated of never contemplating failure or fearing the consequences – and contrary to his mother’s self-assuring boast, ‘He’s addicted to danger, of pitting himself against the unknown’ – Branson appeared unexpectedly terrified by life’s fragility. Everything could collapse if he stumbled or missed the next step. The void had to be filled. Constant activity, he hoped, would eventually generate an idea. Thanks to tenacity, skill and opportunism his activity had over fourteen years transformed a failed student magazine into a successful record business. But no magic or new formula had emerged, other than the shameless vulgarity deployed by a trader to outwit conventional competitors. Branson had tried many other businesses during those fourteen years and had often failed. Now, momentarily, he felt blind. The entourage that had produced new ideas was depleted by so many rancorous departures that no one remained to brainstorm for ideas. But, out of the blue, the void was filled by an excitable, fat American lawyer, Randolph Fields.
Richard Branson prided himself on judging within one minute whether he liked or disliked a stranger. Fat Americans were unlikely to pass his aesthetic test but Branson’s cultivated ambiguity and awkward hesitations disguised his prejudices, especially if an interesting offer was on the table.
The thirty-one-year-old American Jew was proposing joint ownership of an all-business-class airline flying between Britain and the United States. In the wake of Laker Airways’ collapse in 1982 and the popularity of People Express, a discount airline, Fields was following the instincts of many regular air travellers entranced